In A Word

It’s been quiet here for a while. I’ve started to tell about my Spring multiple times but it doesn’t come out quite right.

In the first or second week of May, we were forced to decide Jeff wouldn’t be able to walk at graduation. He has his diploma. But I was looking forward to the event. To the celebration, where he would walk among friends and shake hands with professors after so.much.hard.work. But it’s a little tough to celebrate when just getting to the rehearsal and ceremony would require more than your budget can handle these days and eating ham sandwiches on the drive home would be your lunch that day. So, we decided to stay home on that Saturday.

The day we decided this had to happen, something in my heart snapped. I’ve had a hard time putting it to words. But it doesn’t stop the thoughts of “If only…” from coming. Because he was really supposed to graduate last May. But, as you know, we went to Kansas.

And Kansas took. It took more than I had to give from the day we arrived. It took and took and left pain in its wake. My brain is still trying to make sense of it all, even when I’m asleep. Nearly every Saturday I dream about that place again and wake up in a panic on Sunday morning.

You can call it resistance. You can call it spiritual warfare. Whatever you want to label it. You can give up on me. You can even scold me for being overly optimistic about the end of seminary and for being idealistic. Fine. Whatever. All I wanted to do was see my husband graduate.

The closest I’ve come to a definition is what Emily Freeman says about cynicism—it comes when she’s frustrated and passionate without hope. Oh, yes, passion mixed with frustration. Only for the last four damn years. Most days none of what we’ve walked through seems worth it.

I am simply at my end. We are on to new endeavors. I am cautiously excited about them. Praying through each step and begging God not to allow these to be taken from us too.

Because I can’t take anymore. I can’t.

And we can say that all this frustration is working out strength in me. We can quote verses about perseverance and God never giving us more than us can handle.

But I don’t feel that strength is being worked out in me. I feel incredibly weak and hurt. And tired. Mostly tired. I can’t even express myself in many words anymore.

So, I’m going to close this post now. I’ll return to the blog when I can. Sorry I can’t be my usual God-will-work-it-all-out self. I’m not saying He won’t. This is just where I am these days.

Serves and Songs of Love

“My song is love, love to the loveless shown. And it goes on, you don't have to be alone.” –Coldplay, A Message



“Mommy, I signed up to sing in the talent show. The auditions are April 23rd,” Kyla announced when I arrived home the other day.

I gave my daughter a hug. She grinned from the excitement. We talked about what song she might sing, about memorizing lyrics, and on and on.

But then the next morning came, and she spoke up on the way to school.

“Mommy, I feel nervous. I don’t know if I can sing in front of lots of people. And what if I don’t get picked after auditions?”

“I understand why you might feel that way,” I replied.

You see, in my teen years, I tried out for Varsity volleyball. The tryouts were held on a Wednesday night and so I had to miss youth group to attend. Since my friends would be aware of my absence, I told them to come over to the school after church.

I played hard in tryouts and when the rosters were posted, my name wasn’t anywhere. Not even on Junior Varsity, which is what I had played the previous year. I mean, I had wanted to play Varsity with my teammates but I also just loved volleyball. JV would have been okay too.

My heart beat faster. As more people looked at the list, they began to notice I was not on there. I felt embarrassed, especially because my friends from church had come over to see me and celebrate by this time.

The coach called me into her office. Her words: “We cut you because of your serves. You can’t do them, and you never will be able to.”

You can’t, and you never will be able to.

Those words have played over and over in my head for so many years.

I relayed some of this story to Kyla as we talked about fear of disappointment. “But that’s mean!” she exclaimed. “Coaches shouldn’t talk like that to kids. They should want to help them.”

“I know,” I answered. “That is true. But I didn’t give up either just because someone said those things.”

“What happened?”

Oh, what happened…well, I worked hard. Played on a club team in the spring, came back to play Varsity the next fall, and ended up being the only freshman to start on my collegiate team. Why? Because of my damn good serves.

I continue to learn the value of evaluating harmful messages that have been handed down to so many of us from the most terrible of places. The lines and lies we believe about ourselves. The ones that somehow work their way into our believing that God thinks the same of us.

And there have been so many others. So many twisted phrases and broken beliefs that came from leaders, and other Christians, and my youth pastor (who made an assumption that volleyball was my idol and told me God would make me break my ankle if I didn’t quit).

I have played hard. I have tried hard, and I have loved hard.

The thing is that in spite of the fact that I have tried to serve and obey and love God to my fullest, He loves me harder. And His love comes with no conditions. He would love me if I had done nothing at all. That is the message I want played over and over in my heart and in my head and in my life.

It is the same message I hope to play for my daughters. It’s the message I hope they hear loud and clear as God meets them in their own confusing and difficult moments, where the words from those they respect, and also those they don’t respect, try to become an overplayed loop of accusation.

As our conversation in the van continued, I told Kyla, “If you don’t make tryouts for the talent show, you aren’t a bad person. It doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough. It doesn’t mean that you aren’t loved. You won’t disappoint mommy and daddy and you won’t disappoint God. You can never be a disappointment God. You are His daughter. He made you, and He loves you.”

I said those last few words with a lump in my throat. I type them today with a lump in my throat. They are still hard to believe sometimes, especially for those of us who grew up in a works-based faith environment.*

But that is the truth. And it doesn’t matter whatever else I model and share with my children. This song of Love is the foundation I will use. We will work from that belief first. In every conversation about modesty and faith and friendship in the coming years, we will begin here. As the beloved of God.

May all of us always hear and know our God loves us with an everlasting love that holds no prerequisites, no criteria to meet in order to receive acceptance, and no stupid tryouts.

Now that’s a message worth playing. And worth singing about too.


*I can't even read this Huffington Post article without a mix of emotions. Perhaps you have "brought the best of yourself" too?

The Betrayal

Sting of betrayal.

You took my hand and then yanked yours away.

Fickle liar and swift to let me go. More lies to cover your deceit.

Where is the Love?

My only comfort: the One who held the hands and touched the feet of those who denied their own.

Wet floor. Muddy towel.

“What you are about to do, do quickly.”

He did. They did. Quickly.

Wine still on lips, a kiss, and coins spilled on the ground.

A trail of blood from that red room down the dusty road that bore the grooves of tired feet and a heavy cross.

Pierced hands and side accompanied a pierced heart.

He never spoke of their denial, their hatred, their mockery,

or their sheer ignorance at murdering the Son of God.

He only said, “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” And the blood continued to flow.

His wounds became their healing. Just as they became mine.

Healing for today. Healing for years past.

Healing for when those times collide. Again.

I try to lock it away in an Upper Room. But I bleed. Sometimes I gush instead. My own painful road to the cross.

Darkness overtakes. I stand in silence.

Incredulous response to what is happening.

I look around. Fear.

How will they react when they find out I know Him,

that I loved Him all these years?

I am the one who betrays. I am the one who runs when I want to stand. I am the one who put the nails in the hands that offered me comfort.

Sharing My Dream

“You tell us, Lord, that some shall see visions and others shall dream dreams. Give us courage to share our visions and our dreams with one another. Amen.”  —Enuma Okoro, Reluctant Pilgrim

Tonight I finished reading Enuma Okoro’s memoir. I finished it in five days and am sorry to the Pikes Peak Public Library because I make some small marks in it with a pencil. I promise to go through and erase each one after I write down the quote on that page.

The reason I had to mark this book was because I found myself relating, not only to Enuma’s story, but to her longings and to her ability to weave so many of her thoughts and dreams and doubts into one place.

I have wanted to do this for a long time. Too long. Earlier today I randomly found an old e-mail where I told a friend I needed to write a memoir. For my girls primarily. (Anyone remember I had that thought a few weeks ago?)

The e-mail was dated over two years ago. And I can say the compulsion to put my life onto the page has been there a lot longer than that. I think since 2006. Seven years. Seven!

I think it’s now gotten to the point where I am disobeying God by not at least starting—by not showing up to this particular project. I have been putting it aside because I was afraid of appearing arrogant or something by at least writing it all down. Do you hear that word afraid?

What have I spent the last few years doing if not getting over my fear of the blank page? I know that there will always be a little fear when that cursor blinks but I have also found the courage to discipline myself beyond that point. I think. For crying out loud I regularly encourage others to do the same.

And the beginning of Lent this week provided some much needed space by my choosing to give up a particular aspect of my life that has kept me looking at other people’s stories instead of writing out my own. Yes, I know we’re only two days past Ash Wednesday. God is working quickly on me this year, I guess. I wonder what the next six weeks will bring….(I’d say I’m scared but we’ve already been over this fear thing, and I did survive a full year in Kansas.)

Adding to my belief that this project needs to happen is the fact that I have been going through The Artist’s Way. I’m about a third of the way through and find that her words affirm many things that I have wrestled with and even maybe some aspects I’ve overcome. I say that in the sense that God has walked me through a path of overcoming, when I wasn’t even aware that I had taken that many steps within the creative life.

So, it’s time. It’s the season. The blank page beckons. And I know that is no small thing. For usually it mocks me.

I will answer and remain open to the movement of the One who calls, the One who is faithful to help me at least start.

“It’s not brave if you’re not scared.” –Bounce

“…I don’t like people telling other people they shouldn’t write about their life. All of us earn that right by being born; one of the deepest human impulses is to leave a record of what we did and what we thought and felt on our journey.” –William Zinsser, “The Right to Write”

The Broken And The Beautiful

"Hurt people hurt people.” -Florence Marr, Greenberg

“We are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys.” –Ingrid Michaelson

Last night I attended my favorite worship service ever.

There were clergy from all over the United States and overseas, sections of worshippers from other Anglican churches in town, and a whole host of other individuals from our city. Every row from the front to the back was filled with a patchwork of broken and beautiful believers.

How do I know we were both broken and beautiful? Because among this group gathered to worship and celebrate were people whom have both hurt me and offered me healing.

Yet, I love them all.

I love them even though they are the crazy uncles Donald Miller wrote about last week. They are the people who hold my hands up when I can’t go on anymore. They are the ones who help me know that forgiveness is a real and possible thing, even if that realization comes by what they have done to me. They are the ones who lead me in worship. They are the ones didn’t give up on me. They didn’t give up on the church in North America. They are the ones who turn me to Jesus.

Let me tell you, we are broken and beautiful bunch.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how I have experienced spiritual abuse. When I stepped out of mainstream evangelicalism and fundamentalism, I vowed that I would never, and I mean never, put myself or my family back in a place where we would experience abuse at the hand of people who said they were believers.

Well, that did not turn out to be the case. I was exposed to such along the Canterbury Trail too. There is no right or wrong denomination. We are all susceptible to sustaining hurt at the hands of others.

Hurt people hurt people.

And among us are leaders who are wolves rather than shepherds. Among us are leaders who struggle with narcissism and probably have other personality disorders. Among us are people who live in denial rather than reality. I have been the victim of their contradictions, their manipulation, their delusions of grandeur, their lies, and their own hurt they are projecting among the flock. That is a fact.

The other side is that I have received healing from those among us who love Jesus with a love that can’t even be put into words. Some of them simply put their hands on theirs Bible, and they are moved to tears. They move me to tears.

We were all in that chapel last night.

During the sermon Bishop John Rucyahana, told our pastor (and now our Bishop), not to take the Gospel lightly. We can’t because we know there are these deep and dark places where the Gospel needs to penetrate. These places are among our own churches.

Dear people, we can’t take the Gospel lightly because we can’t take sin and hurt and abuse and denial of truth lightly. We can’t turn our back on what needs to be handled and forgiven and brought out into the open.

It must be dealt with. It must have The Light shined upon it. It must.

And I will not be silent about this.

This is a time when we need to turn ourselves inward and ask if we are taking the Gospel lightly. Are we? And, if so, why? Is it because we are afraid to admit that among us is brokenness—in our own families, our own churches, and in our own leadership?

What is to be done about the brokenness? For we cannot be effective in our charges to go and preach the Gospel among the nations if we have not been changed by the Gospel ourselves, right here in our own pews. If we have not been utterly undone by Jesus Himself in spite of the hurt we have sustained.

The work that God does in our life includes choosing to live into pain and hurt, just as Jesus did when He went to the cross. When He entered our world for that matter. It involves love and forgiveness, just like Jesus taught and just like He lived when He said, “Father, forgiven them. For they know not what they do.”

I want to be the first to say that God can work out love and forgiveness. He has done it for groups of people in Rwanda who murdered each other’s family members.

He is doing it for me in my own relationships.

I believe He grieves when we hurt one another. I believe He sits with me as I work out the wounds from the abuse. I can’t understand why He didn’t choose to stop it. But I can believe that He has never removed His hand from me or from any of His children all of these years.

That is why I can sing among the broken and the beautiful, just like I did last night. That is why I can walk forward to receive Eucharist with and among those whose actions played a difficult part in my life.

Hallelujah, glory be to our great God!

The Retreat: A Holy Battle

I am not supposed to be home in sweatpants right now.

In fact, just this morning, I was across town with a lovely group of women retreating in the upper level of a coffee shop. But the call came for me to pick up a sick little girl from school. So off I went.

Initially, I was very disappointed and frustrated about the turn of circumstances.

See, today is no ordinary day. Today is a day of celebration. Our pastor is becoming a bishop this evening, and there is a full schedule of activity planned for the clergy in our network.

For me to get our family ready to attend events today, there were babysitters to call, schedules to make, bags to pack, and work to push through so I could have one day off. I was so looking forward to being with other clergy and their spouses throughout the day.

But, as usual, life circumstances happened. I got sick earlier this week, which made working hard, and I finished a lesson at 4:57pm last night, instead of the 3pm I had hoped for. I was a bit frazzled as I shuffled off for a network dinner last evening.

Now poor Kyla is lying on our couch. She’s disappointed too because she was looking forward to having fun at a friend’s house while we were at the service tonight. I was able to find a relative to watch Kyla tonight so I will still be able to attend the service, which is good.

But here I am in sweatpants for the moment.

And I can’t help but reflect on the utter battle this week has felt like. I have been trying to faithfully pray for our pastor and our church during this transition. I just want to take a moment to say I have never been under a church leader like our pastor, Ken. He has no desire for control or manipulation. There is grace and freedom in the way he leads. I am so grateful for his leadership. I can’t even express it fully here in this post. And I think there is no small thing afoot now that he is taking over a whole network of churches. Really. No small thing.

I wasn’t much aware of spiritual warfare until these last couple of years. Now I can see it. I can sense it, and it is here this week. I am amazed at how quickly discouragement or frustration set in, and how the enemy can twist and destroy and steal.

Today kind of feels like it could be stolen easily. I’m tearful about missing the meetings this afternoon and wonder where the week went. All my careful planning feels like it was in vain. My selfishness is showing, I know. But it’s hard to be at home sitting when I want to be lunching with people I rarely get to see.

However, I think maybe this is exactly where I’m meant to be. Kyla is feeling better. At least emotionally. She’s not so sad anymore about leaving school or missing out on going to our friend’s. You should have seen her sitting in the office alone waiting for me to get here. My mommy heart felt so sad for her as I gave her a big hug and walked her to the car. Now she’s curled up on our couch, and I am serving her instead of being served.

Plus, now that I am home, I am not so concerned about details anymore. There are no more to take care of. I am going to use the time to just be. With my little girl. With my heart and with my God as I pray for tonight. For all involved. For the days ahead and for the work that is surely to take place among a group of people I am growing to love. At the dinner last night, we had a prayer time. The Holy Spirit was there. I could feel Him.

The sense of being exposed or vulnerable to attack was absent, at least for a little while. Those moments deserve to be cherished. For, we can’t stay in those places. We gain encouragement so we can be sent out to do the work that needs to be done in spite of likely and imminent attacks.

So I pray for tonight. I pray for that same Holy Spirit soaking. I pray for God’s hand to be on our leadership. I pray for our hearts to be listening when He moves. I pray for us to be able to continue working in grace and freedom that comes from the True Source of all grace and freedom.

I don’t know what kind of prayer it might take for those things to be a reality. I am just one woman sitting in sweatpants on her couch. But I am also not called to be concerned about that. I am called to trust. I am called to believe He works good out of the sad and disappointing circumstances, whether big or small. Even if they involve leaving a retreat.

Choose Life

“Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life…” –Deuteronomy 30:19b-20

I’m going to speak plain.

Because I’m no Ann Voskamp or Sarah Bessey, and I have no desire to be.

I’ve been tripping over poetry and metaphors for the last few months. Sometimes I have enjoyed the craft. Other days, it has been frustrating because I want to say what I mean.

For reals, okay?

Last Sunday during communion (Yes, sometimes I still call it that instead of eucharist because I was raised in fundamental evangelicalism. Other times I feel all Anglicany and go with eucharist. You know what I mean…), I was startled.

Nothing major, other than I looked slightly to my left and spotted a little girl looking right at me. Piercing gaze. She was barely higher than the sixth pew, where we sat, and was ready to receive the bread with everything in her. I could tell. When it was almost her turn, her father had to pull her back because she almost jumped in front of the person just before her. Not once did she put her hands down. She held them out in receiving position.

I watched her with a lump in my throat.

See, there are many Christians, lots of them close to my age, talking about how they weren’t allowed to ask questions in church or to have doubts growing up and that’s what keeps them away now. Me? I just wanted to be with Jesus. I wanted to run to Him all the time. I wasn't so much worried about doubts. I think I knew that church was a bridge to God, that sacred place where I could receive, and I was ready to be there. Every. Single. Sunday.

I could have cared less about sports or school. I wanted church.

I don’t think I ever could have explained that to someone when I was in elementary school, and this was way before the age when guilt was handed out for missing youth group on a random Sunday. It wasn’t coercion.

It was a source of life.

My feelings about Sundays now come in waves. They vacillate between wanting to be there so much that I nearly run over people on my way in the doors to I can’t do it. I can’t even drive myself to the building. Sometimes, I can’t be in that place because it reminds me of broken promises and expectations and another life altogether that I thought might be what God had for me.

My days are similar. I waver between brief moments of delight and long spirals of regret. The last couple of weeks, I thought the feelings of lament might overtake me. That darkness and death of dreams and all that Satan wants for my life might be my complete undoing.

I prayed for a new outlook. For a source of life that would keep me going each day.

Then there was this about being weary and wounded.

Followed by my reading this beautiful expression of spiritual warfare.

And I remember using the word “defeated” and right at that moment a poster on Pinterest popped up that said, “Never be defeated. Never give up.” And I thought about laughing aloud at God’s sense of humor.

Apparently, You heard me? I chuckled under my breath.

There was this about godforsakeness.

And Kaelyn laughing for no apparent reason on the way to school and Kyla learning, ever so slowly, how to pack her own lunch. She beams when she’s finally accomplished this new feat each evening.

There was also the walk I took outside yesterday when I couldn’t stop staring at the mountains or the only-in-Colorado-could-it-be-that-shade-of-blue skies.

And Elizabeth Esther mustering up her courage to say this and this that made my heart grow wings.

And last but not least, I was reminded of this sitting on my shelf. Morning pages are saving my life right now.

Joshua told the Israelites to choose life. That is what I’m doing. In the midst of the dry and dead moments, I’m choosing life. I can do this because He is life. I can run to Him in those places of inspiration, inside and outside of the church walls, because He defeated death. He looked it right in the face and knocked it down on its ass.

No one has that kind of power to fight for life and to fight for me. No. one.

So, I think I get it. Maybe just a little more here and there, in the moments of my days that seem to be growing longer and more often. And I can say this today:

I choose life.