The hardest part of this way God made me is opening up and using spoken words to express, share, and acknowledge. It creates so many struggles where there needn’t be any. I feel awkward voicing my thoughts and most of the time, my thoughts aren’t even pure, distilled feelings unless I have been allowing them to steep for a while.
I hate talking- I hate the process of taking thoughts in my brain and using my lungs, tongue, and lips to create words, pushing them from vague soul stirrings to these very defined things that go out and shape my world. Words are weighty things- I love them and I struggle against them. Even with my writing, words only come out of me in a beautiful flow when my soul is in turmoil. Pain is the churn that brings my watery thoughts to more substantial feelings.
We were in church a few weeks ago when we began singing a worship song about God searching our hearts and nothing being hidden from Him. My heart and my soul sighed in complete unison as I sang those words because bless-ed relief.
We (I) usually think of those part of our souls we want to keep hidden as something of which we are ashamed- things we don’t want the light to touch, to be seen or talked about. We try to hide from God because it’s easier- but for me, that day, I knew it meant less struggle, less talking, less thoughts-forming-into-words energy I would have to expend.
Because God sees me. Even the hidden, the buried deep, the still-not-steeped. And that means I don’t have to do anything to be known by Him. He knows me. I can find rest in His omniscience.
It’s hard for me to explain this kind of rest- and it’s something I’ve never understood or experienced before. Perhaps, if you’re an introvert with fewer words like me, you’ll understand the peace that overtook me when I felt Father say, “Be still. I know it all.”
The struggle has ceased. The agonizing over proper words and true expression and honest discourse- it has been indefinitely paused.
Ugh, this. To be honest, I’ve never really felt like a failure at parenting. I always thought I was doing a pretty good job at keeping my little humans alive and fairly unscathed.
But this year has been so challenging for me. I constantly feel pushed to the max; overstimulated, over touched, exhausted, and generally just not able to keep up with everything. I find myself stealing away with scraps of food I no longer want to share or drinks I just don’t want contaminated with floaties..
… only to be hit with a wave of guilt. Why does it matter if I share my food? Is it really a big deal if my drink has backwash that I can’t even really see but I know is there? Remember, that meme on Facebook? The one that reminds me to cherish these moments because some day I won’t have anyone to love me?
It’s such a stormy cloud over my life as a mother. That threat in my face whispering lonliness and abandonment. I want my children to love me and they do; right now they looovvve me soo much. With all of their little, needy, sticky, clingy hands hearts. They love me so much that I literally cannot sit down and rest for more than five minutes at a time before I’m called on to find a crown, slice an apple, watch a trick on the trampoline, wipe a butt, fill a glass with water, make a sandwich, and a million other requests that come one.at.a.time.
One. at. a. time.
But that picture up there? The one that reminds me my children were not only created from me, they were created for me, specifically. Their needs are perfectly matched to my ability to provide. It gives me new energy. Not enough to stop writing this blog and wipe the snot dripping from my daughter’s nose, but enough to do it before it reaches her mouth, I suppose.
So, yeah, I will take that chocolate bar from World Market and eat it in the freaking shower. And I will have that glass of whiskey after I put the kids to bed a little earlier than normal. Because I am tired. And I deserve to treat myself with anything that my kids aren’t allowed to have gives me a new energy for tomorrow.
Because tomorrow will come with another set of demands that just happen to be woven into the fabric of motherhood that adorns me. It’s a nice fabric that nicely conceals snot and maybe the toddler’s breakfast.
I’m 11% Irish, I don’t know if I’ve told you that.
I know because I’ve been somewhat obsessed with finding out about the generations of culture and heritage before me. I want to know where I come from and what mysteries my blood houses; I need to know to which tradition and ceremony I refer.
But I can’t exactly tell you why I need to know this information. Or, well, I couldn’t, until about two weeks ago. It dawned on me one Sunday morning during worship and now I can’t think about it without emotions spilling over my nicely private cup and threatening to reveal my insides to outsiders.
I want to belong.
I desperately want to be part of something bigger and older and more mysterious than me. It’s why I’ve pursued so many things in my life and why I seek out connection to the point of exhaustion. Belonging is why we form groups and clasp hands in the name of common goals, purposes or convictions, isn’t it? It’s why we get married; why we place such emphasis on unity; why we spend our lives creating a world around us that has our own unique shape in which we fit our souls.
I always get the feeling that I don’t quite fit, not precisely. I have one bent corner that doesn’t settle very well or the color of my piece doesn’t match the one next to me and so I must not quite belong where I have found myself.
But I want to. I so desperately want to walk into a room and hear, “Oh, there you are!”
Because that would mean there is a place where I belong- where my presence has had a marked absence until I fill it and someone has been expectantly waiting for me because I am valued.
And, so, in church on Sunday when I was fighting the battle of a coffeeless and wandering mind, I distinctly felt Father answer to that desire to belong.
“When everything temporary is broken down and gone; when cultures, clubs, groups and teams, and all the things you think you belong to… when they are gone, you will still belong to Me.”
I belong like a seed in the center of an apple. My position, my belonging as a daughter of the Creator is permanent and unconditional. I belong in Him, in His heart and with Him. I am accepted and wanted and pursued.
Hazel is 89 days old. In these 89 days, I have managed to feel like superwoman half of the time and superfailwoman the rest of the time.
Through my tears, while dealing with the frustration and fear of adequately providing nourishment for my tongue-tied baby and at the same time figuring out what being a mother to two kids looks like, I have had two overarching thoughts:
I am not God.
-and-
God trusts me.
They seem to clash, those two thoughts, don’t they? If I were a perfect being, would I trust me? If I could laugh in my own face at such a ridiculous question, I would. NO. I would most certainly not trust me. I fail daily and in such absurd ways.
Yet, God does. He has trusted me with two precious souls- little humans who make this earth more vibrant with their every glance in my direction. Two sets of eyes who brighten at the sight of mine; two smiles who could not make happier the spirit of a free man who hasn’t seen the sun in a decade of years. These precious beings who are more valuable than gold, He trusts me with them. He has given them to me as gifts, for safe keeping.
Me. A flawed, impatient and easily-overwhelmed woman. I do not have within me, on my own strength, the ability to be a flawless mom; it seems as if the harder I try, the more apt I am to miss the Super Mother bull’s eye completely.
My best days are like dirty rags compared to His everlasting character. Perfection stooped down to deficiency. A king giving audience to a beggar.
Have I made my point clear? In comparison to His faultlessness, I am below the lowest. And He chooses to trust me.
Found on Tumblr
So why do I have such a hard time trusting Him?
Oh, how thankful I am for God’s perfection! As I have cried because I cannot figure out why my baby is fussy, completely ignorant of very easy solutions… As I have torn through my neighborhood, looking for my son and desperate for knowledge beyond my limited own…
This definition of motherhood has taken on a bit of a new image, for me. I see so clearly the areas of my weakness and, in contrast, where He is strong. I want to take those times of hands upturned in frustration, a cry of exhaustion brimming at my lips, and instead turn it into acknowledging how needy I am for His intervention. And accepting the help which comes straight from His endless source fulfillment to fill in and uplift where I am lacking.
i looked and looked but couldn’t find the source for this image!
I thank God for never not knowing the solution to my pain; for never losing track of me; for never being ignorant of my hurt. I am not God. I can trust God because He IS perfection. And even beyond the degree of my imperfection, is God’s goodness, love, mercy, peace- His superior knowledge of things to come, things hidden, and things behind. I am never lost. I am never forgotten. MY CHILDREN will never fall between the cracks.
It’s February 7th and I haven’t heard a peep about New Year resolutions from anyone on my Facebook newsfeed.
Why is that? Maybe because resolutions are just a last ditch attempt to make the previous year worth something? Because it’s sooo harrrrd to come up with a definite plan of action when you have no idea what a whole 365-day trip around the sun will bring.
“I vow to work-out three days per week.” “I will write every day.” “I will not eat donuts.”
But then you get sick, miss your workout days, feel too blurry-eyed and uninspired to write, and really only want a Krispy Kreme to make every thing feel better, right? Or am I the only person that has ever happened to?
Anyway, this idea of a yearly theme has entered my life by way of Pastor Mark Batterson of our church, National Community Church. He picks a word every year, to be the theme of his year. The word will be something he looks for, practices, and/or applies to daily life.
Bruce suggested to me a word for our life, together and individually.
I love words. Words are my pillows at the end of a long day, when I need something on which I can rest. They are my daily nourishment- I soak in each opportunity to experience a batch of freshly baked, sweet-smelling words. So this idea seemed like a pretty sweet deal and something I could easily apply to my year.
And then I just dropped the ball- having no idea which word to choose. Until January 29 when I opened my Jesus Calling devotional for a desperate word from God.
Since Hazel has been in this big world, I have been overcome with anxiety. I felt as if her wellbeing were precariously teetering on the edge of disaster and any little mistake I made would send her over the edge. I am worried about her weight gain, immune system, tongue-tie, sleep habits, my milk supply. Everything has me wrapped in a ball of foreboding and on the edge of tears, constantly. I do apply some responsibility to our first pediatrician; I feel as if he gladly fear mongered and guilted us into a place of paranoia, but I let that voice of fear have more attention than the voice of peace.
I began to look over the chronology of my life and slowly realized I have given fear a megaphone for most of my adult years. Why?? Why do I listen to fear so closely and dismiss any other voices? I often become paralyzed and practically huddled in a fetal position as fear beats my heart relentlessly.
And I have asked myself this question more than once in regards to both of my children: If God trusted me enough to give me these beautiful souls- He has TRUSTED me with their lives and their spirits- why can’t I trust Him in the same way??
My Jesus Calling devotional spelled it it for me:
“My Peace is the treasure of treasures: the pearl of great price. It is an exquisitely costly gift, both for the Giver and the receiver. I purchased this Peace for you with My blood. You receive this gift by trusting Me in the midst of life’s storms. If you have the world’s peace—everything going your way—you don’t seek My unfathomable Peace. Thank Me when things do not go your way, because spiritual blessings come wrapped in trials. Adverse circumstances are normal in a fallen world. Expect them each day. Rejoice in the face of hardship, for I have overcome the world.”
If you are thinking, at this point, that peace is the word I chose, then you’d be wrong.
Brave.
This is the word I’ve chosen to be the theme of my 2015. I want to be brave in the face of fear because I now know the difference between superficial peace and real peace.
Bravery doesn’t just make the problem go away- which is something with which I’ve really struggled. I know life is filled with trials and bad days. I know I’m not an exception and I shouldn’t expect everything to go my way- but I REALLY WANT TO. It’s a pipe dream, I know. What kind of person would I be if I never had to deal with hardship? A spoiled, shallow person. Yes.
In 2015 I will not necessarily welcome bad days or fearful situations. I will not pray for God to take away the pain or the disappointment or the hardships. Instead, I will ask Him to make me Brave enough to make it through and, hopefully, on the other side, I will find myself with a new shiny aspect of character, reflecting what God has shown me.
Once upon a summer camp, in my early teen years, I responded to a preacher’s offer for prayer. Along with a dozen other tanned campers, I waited until it was my turn to be prayed for. I can’t tell you for sure what prayer might have been mumbled over me because, like most teens there, I had been to countless services and prayed for countless times.
This time, though, the moment before the prayer was unlike I’ve ever experienced. It was so impactful, I have remembered it in pretty awesome detail ever since.
Eyes closed, sensing all the remaining eyes on my back, I waited for whatever holy moment I needed.
A hand on my shoulder, “Keep writing.”
And it came out before I could stop it, “Whaaaaat?”
Preacher Guy looked me in the eyes and said it again, “God wants you to keep writing.”
World. ROCKED, you guys. How did this guy know I had brought my writing binder with me? How did he know I wanted to write but never felt the need to keep writing?!
Those very words have stuck with me, so close to my heart, for 15 years. Yet, I feel as if they would have rolled off my back and into oblivion but for two words, “God wants”.
God WANTS me to keep writing? As in, He LIKES it when it write? He wants MORE writing to come from me? In the same way I want more writing to come from my favorite author?
The Creator of all the authors over all time (you guys, C. .S Lewis, J. K. Rowling, Steinbeck), Who could enjoy and recall any story or inspirational essay wants ME to keep writing?
WHY?? I have no special words untold by another human. I’m not published or original with my ideas. There is nothing unique about my pencil or paper.
And it wasn’t until this very year, 2015, that I figured out exactly why He wants me to keep writing.
My writing is my altar.
In all the really big moments in the Bible, when God really showed Himself to whomever needed His help, there was always an instruction (or at the very least, a prompting in the heart of the recipient) to build an altar in rememberance of whatever happened.
Abram is promised to have as many descendants as the stars by way of his barren wife. Altar.
God rescued the Israelites by parting the Red Sea. Altar.
Noah survives a bumpy boat ride and a really dramatic flood. Altar.
The Bible is filled with examples of men who built altars to God after they had a significant event in their life. And why? To remember what God had done for them.
Otherwise they would forget. And when that happens, the slope into cynicism and bitterness becomes super slippery. I know, I’ve recently had to trudge back up that incline.
I’ve forgotten a lot of the amazing acts of God in my 30 years. I should have kept writing.
A few weeks ago, as I was sitting in church, I felt God reminding me of that day at summer camp.
“Keep writing.”
To remember what He has done for me. To remain in this place of gratitude and faith. It’s how I can protect my faith.
By building an altar. Something tangible I can return to when I feel the weight of life squeezing me, leaving no room for all the things I have learned.
So, with the help of the One I follow, this blog will be my altar. Come see the things Jesus has done for me.
This birth story can’t begin with a gush of fluids in the wee hours of a Wednesday morning.
It has to begin 18 months previous, when Bruce and I made the decision to actively try for a baby. This birth story has deep roots, deeper in time than just nine months and deeper in my heart than I could ever begin to type into frivolous words. God knew us even before the world began so our birth stories even go far beyond the day we emerged into this world. It’s a beautiful thought: how much God has planned and placed into action before the thought of a thought were even a seed in the conscious.
But, I digress. Let’s just call the beginning somewhere around April 2012. When Bruce felt sure God would not only give us a baby, but give us our hearts’ desperate desire: a baby girl.
Skipping through a lot of soul-sucking difficulties and just summing it up with one word, doubt, I will let you know the path of faith in what he felt God told him/us was not an easy one for me to walk. I am Sarah and, for a season, I was Sarai. Laughing at these supposed “promises” we had, even though the tangible evidence of fulfillment seemed as if a mirage.
Bruce had his vasectomy from 13 years previous reversed so we could get pregnant. And I began devouring every bit of information about fertility, my cycle, and conceiving I could find. Hoping informational osmosis were as potent as the recovering sperm of my husband and pregnancy would just find me.
Pregnancy, in fact, did not find me. For 18 months. Eighteen two-week-waits; eighteen roller-coaster rides of emotion- desperation, hope, confidence, doubt, reality, discouragement and, eventually, anger and bitterness; eighteen months of hiding Facebook announcements, suspending my doula training, and avoiding newborns like the plague. I sunk into serious denial about God’s faithfulness, about my worthiness, about anything I had ever based any faith on, ever.
Fast forward to my 38th week of pregnancy and a God-timed meeting with a wonderful woman who agreed to meet me and discuss home birth. What I thought would be a gab session, of tips and suggestions I’d already read in a dozen books, turned into one of the most soul-charging and faith-building encounters I think I’ve ever had. You never really know how the pains in your past are like sticky tar until you realize they are the exact hurts which need to be worked through to allow a rising from the ashes.
One thing I know God has spoken to me about my pregnancy with Hazel, about Hazel herself, and about who He is, is this: redemption.
Before my heart was ever hurt, before my desires deteriorated into doubt and doubt into bitterness, God had planned the most beautiful redemption story possible. The literal birth of my crying out and fulfillment of all He promised me. He is faithful even when I am not. He follows through with His gracious gifting even when I second-guess Him at every opportunity. And long before my heart began to crumble, He had a plan to restore it.
“God has plans to redeem your pain before you even experience it.”
Enter this gorgeous, healthy, prayed-for girl we named Hazel. This perfect embodiment of God’s goodness. And not only did He take my soul and fill it with new hope, He redeemed the pain of past experience and feelings of abandonment by giving me the most amazing birth I could have asked for.
On the morning of Thanksgiving Eve, I turn over in bed and feel a small gush come from me; nothing eventful, just something which catches my attention. I ignore it because, apparently, I still have 1,563 days left in my last month of pregnancy, but after waking up to get Malachi ready for school, I’m pretty sure I have begun to dribble amniotic fluid. I jostle Mal awake in his bed, my adrenaline kicking in, “Wake up, bud! Today is the day Hazel is going to be here!”
Teeth brushed, lunch made, towel shoved between legs, I’m ready to get the show on the road. I send Bruce a picture of the bloody show I passed with a simple text telling him to be on stand by. I call my midwife, describe everything I’m feeling- nothing, no cramps, no contractions- and am given a few instructions to get labor going: a nice long walk around and up the Mount Everest hill in our neighborhood, nipple stimulation, castor oil, orgasm.
I begin to feel a little pressured to get this baby out as soon as possible. Which is not what I wanted to be feeling! It’s the biggest reason I chose a home birth over a hospital birth- so things could be on my terms. So I call my birth assistant for her out-spoken opinion and am reminded of the 24 hours a hospital will give a woman after her waters prematurely rupture. My confidence is boosted after that conversation and I decide to enjoy the peace and excitement rather than turn it into worry and stress.
Bruce comes home early from work and we set to getting the rest of the house ready for labor and our new baby. White Christmas lights strung around the room so I can feel magical when I push new life into this world; thermostat raised to get the tub filled with warm water; after birth meal in the crock pot. We fill the next few hours with frantic waiting and trembling hands as we talk about all the things we are feeling and intend to hold against Hazel for the rest of her life.
Things like not waiting until Bruce is on salary pay to be born, waiting until the first snow fall to force me into walking around outside, kicking her bag of waters open instead of just hanging out inside her warm space. She has a lot to make up for, this girl.
Around 1:45pm I decide to take the castor oil- something I have always been warned against and have warned others against taking to induce labor. Silly me. The stuff is amazing! I mean, not in taste (I don’t find it all that appalling anyway) but in its effectiveness. After about two hours, I grab Bruce and some coconut oil to add nipple stimulation to the mix. Within half an hour, I begin having regular contractions and they are quickly increasing in intensity.
By 4:30 I announce my convincing argument for being in full-on, active labor. Any sort of still movement during a contraction makes me feel worse so I begin pacing and leaning against things around the basement to allow me to sway in place as the waves of each contraction sweep over me. Bruce calls our friends to come pick up Malachi and James so we can have the house to ourselves. Malachi comes to me during a particularly strong contraction and I am worried about how he sees me as I roll around on the exercise ball moaning and trying to go with the flow of the pain.
Image credit: Double Bubble Photography
My midwife calls to see how I am and decides to be on her way once she hears I have three contractions during our seven minute call.
Labor increases so, so quickly from here. I try different positions with each contraction as a trial-and-error way of finding out which is be best for my pain management. The error part of each contraction is not fun. Hanging on Bruce doesn’t work; leaning over the bathroom sink doesn’t work; hovering in a crawl stance on the stairs doesn’t work (even though I had imaged myself really appreciating that position). Nothing works. So I seek the comfort of the tub.
The weightlessness of the water is perfect for my ability to ride out the contractions which are now coming every minute and a half to two minutes- it has been pretty much this way since the nipple stimulation. The water feels good but doesn’t give relief to the pain with which I am trying to cope. I remember, with Malachi, the contractions wrapping around the largest part of my belly and going to my lower back. With Hazel, it’s almost as if someone has strapped an electric muscle stimulator, six inches across the area just above my pubic bone; the pressure I feel is incredible.
That trance-like state of active labor takes over and I can’t concentrate on anything but breathing through each minute of pressure and relaxing through each two minutes of relief. Even the verses I asked Bruce to read to me are too distracting and I have to ask him, in short half-words-half-hand-waves, to stop. I am aware of Bruce’s praying for me, but I don’t hear the music I had spent so much time arranging on “Hazel’s Day” playlist. I barely register when the midwife arrives with her student midwife. I don’t hear my birth assistant come downstairs; I don’t notice when our photographer arrives. All I think is, “If this is going to last ____ hours to get me fully dilated, I don’t know if I can do this.”
Each contraction is now forcing sounds from my throat I didn’t know I could make. I can’t find a comfortable position in the tub and all I really want is someone to apply counter pressure to my bottom- I’m pretty sure it will explode with the very next contraction, each contraction. Bruce asks me if I need anything and all I can think to respond is, “Yeah, I need you to take over and have this baby.” No such luck.
One particular contraction scares the holy hell out of me. The pressure and pain together scare me. There is this power which intricately intertwines our bodies and labor- it’s unearthly and it doesn’t take orders from anyone; it works on its own. That contraction makes me think something is changing in my body or I might not be strong enough for this home birth crap. I ask my midwife to check me because not knowing how dilated I am is causing more anxiety than peace and she exclaims, “Oh, her head is right there! This baby is coming soon!”
Image credit: Double Bubble Photography
And this I know, the room bursts into a frenzy of action.
At this point, I am whimpering through contractions, not practicing the peace I had amped myself up for over the past 9 months. I have no choice except to go with whatever my body is doing but I am consciously thinking, “I need to find a way to escape my body now. I need to escape this pain.”
Okay, just for a second, I want to address the term “pain”. I keep saying that word and I do not think you think it means what I’m saying it means. There are different pains- this pain is not like the I AM DYING PLEASE PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY pain. It’s a pain through a completely different lens so even though it didhurt, I wasn’t suffering and I don’t want you to be scared when you read this birth story. Keep in mind: different kind of pain.
{From here on to when I pull her out of the water, things are a little blurry for me. You can read Bruce’s side of things in his blogand it will fill in some gaps I have.}
My biggest, hugest, most overwhelming fear for the past nine months has been tearing again. I tore with Malachi from the episiotomy they gave me and ended up needing a blood transfusion because of how much of my own I lost. The trauma to my body and specifically perineum doesn’t stop there, but it’s not for this story. Suffice it to say, I am still worried, despite all the reassurances from my support, it will happen again.
I had planned on not pushing Hazel out; I want my body to do the work for me while I just breathe and zone. Ohhhh, such naive plans. My body knows what to do and at one point, though try as I might, I cannot not not push. This force so strong, so beyond me and my finite mental capacity, just took over and began to birth her. I cry out, “I’m pushing! I don’t want to push! I can’t help it! MY BODY IS PUSHING HER OUT.” And from then on I have only one job, to go with the flow of my body.
Image credit: Double Bubble Photography
Just before this, I’m asked if I want Bruce to be in the water with me. Ironically, it’s something I had given him a hard time about as we planned for a water birth but I need him so much. He climbs into the tub with me, clothes and all and I lean back against his chest and absorb the strength I need from him to get past this moment.
I put my hand down to my perineum to make sure it isn’t tearing because I can definitely feel the “ring of fire” they tell you about and I feel her head begin to crown. And through the pain, the only thing I can say is, “She has so much hair! Babe, feel it! I can feel her hair!”
Such incredible joy and anticipation propels me past the hard work- if only to see and feel and smell and nuzzle so much more than just her little tuft of hair announcing her way into the world. And maybe a small moment of weakness, “I’m so scared she’s a boy!”
Through no effort on my part, and yet, all the strength I’ve ever been able to muster for one task, I push her out. First, her head. Then, one shoulder at a time. And the midwives keep telling me, “Relax your legs, open them wide so she can come out.” I just need to say, following those instructions were almost as difficult as the pushing! Relax?! There is a human coming out of my body, splitting my soul and my heart and rocking my world and I need to relax?! But I guess I eventually do it because a few seconds later I see this little, squirming body underneath the surface of the water and I am involuntarily reaching out to her, my soul pouring out into the water, grasping her and bursting into a thousand rays of light as she emerges.
“Oh, thank you Jesus, I am not pregnant any more!”
Hazel doesn’t cry. I do. We’re both looking up, both in wonder. I’m thanking God for not letting me explode, even though my heart is exploding and she is looking up to see the pinpoint lights strung around the room.
“Babe,” I hear Bruce sobbing behind me, “She looking at you. Look! She’s looking at you!”
Image credit: Double Bubble Photography
There is such peace in the moment after Hazel is in our arms. I hear a lot of voices, I feel a lot of different sensations, I am aware of movement, but I can only see this beautiful creature in my arms, staring at me as if to say, “Hi, Mama. I’m here; we’re done now. That was fun, wasn’t it?”
At 6:52pm on November 26th 2014, all 8 pounds, 4 ounces and 20″ of my dreams are resting in my arms and I feel more contentment than I ever have as Bruce and I stare at what we created together . I have never, ever felt this much safety and wholeness, that I can recall.
The midwives give me a few minutes to recoup and then we are being heaved out of the water to check over my body and make sure Hazel is thriving.
I DID NOT TEAR. Not one little fissure, not one stitch needed. This, this is the part of my whole birth experience I continue to roll around in my mind. I am dumbfounded that such a small prayer, small yet so important to me, has been heard and answered by the grace of God.
So, if you ask me what my second birth experience culminates to you, I will give you this one word: redemption.
God chose this birth, before it was even known, to redeem my hurt and my fear. He chose this man to be my husband so we could make this little girl and I would be able to trace back His plan for redemption before I even needed redeeming.
I’m going to go out on a limb here and offer a small observation: I don’t think, in our imperfect state, Christians were ever meant to be the way we are today. I don’t think we were ever meant to be so shiny and polished and…. not real.
Surely, when Jesus sent us into this tarnished and broken world, He knew some of the grime and brokenness would seep into us. Surely, He knew we would cry and shake our fist at Him and want to die before going through more pain; He actually told us we would have “tribulation and trials and distress and frustration”. So what do we do with this?
Do we just bury our heads in the sand and pretend like the world isn’t there? That doesn’t work, I can tell you. Do we refuse to go on until something changes? That doesn’t work, either. Do we misquote pretty scripture out of context and paint on a saccharine smile until it goes away? I can tell you that would be the worst way of dealing with it, ever.
I have had a rough season- it feels never-ending. Utterly disappointed by God’s way of doing things; fear, terror actually, of His will; pissed off and absolutely fed up with Christians and their Sunday school answers when all I really need is someone to tell me what I’m going through is acceptable. You know? Like it’s okay to be human. We’re meant to be real and, yet, we’ve avoided the topic, all together. Mostly, we just pretend like nothing ever happened. We open our Bibles and deny half of the issues it addresses: real life.
How can we possibly be a light to the world when we can’t even be a light to each other? If I, being a Jesus Follower for most of my life, am avoiding Christians and Bible studies like the plague, how much more so do others despair of any tangible reality in Christ? If non-feeling, cliche-quipping, fake Christians are all they see?!
I am telling you this: feel the pain, work through the doubt, forgive asinine Christians, and resolve in your heart that at the end of it you will still find yourself at the feet of Jesus. That’s eventually what I’ve come to; I’m working through some serious hate, anger, bitterness and I really, truly feel as if it’s isn’t worked through- if I just ignore it and make sure my Sunday clothes are properly pressed- it will just stay and fester.
I guess all this to tell you: we’ll be okay if we make the decision to be real. It will suck and we’ll have to fight through the fires and the darkness, I’m sure. But that’s LIFE. And because Jesus knew it was going to happen, He knows we’ll come out at the end of it all a hero. A victor. All through Him, of course, because the second thing I’m learning is that there’s no way any victory will happen by our human hands. But, in the end, being real is the only way of coming through to the other side
My heart is still on Jesus. I tell Him, “I do believe in you. I won’t leave you.” And I think He’s okay with that.
It has been a little quiet on the faith front, I know. This past year and a half has been probably the hardest of my life; I have been hit face-on with more crossroads, more obstacles, more challenges than I can ever remember encountering.
Through it all, there has been this internal indecision: do I lay my journey out there for everyone to see? Or do I trudge through it all, like the Pilgrim’s Progress, and hope I live to tell about it?
So, I decided a little of both.
You guys, among other feelings, I am so discontented with all things “Christian”. I’m not saying I don’t want to be a Jesus-Follower; I’m not saying I don’t believe or I don’t want it. I’m saying, I really feel as if, we have totally lost what it means to be Christians.
Since when did “accept Jesus” become code language? Since when did “put on Christ” become “put on a facade”? Since when did we decide being a Christian means being completely lost in this world of euphemisms, jargon, and perfect answers?
I am so tired of sitting among people of same belief, biting my tongue, because if I say what I really feel an awkward silence will follow. Surely, I am not the only one with pains, and questions, and serious issues?! Surely, I am not the only one who reads a scripture and thinks, “How the heck am I supposed to apply that?!”
I want raw. I want real. And I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus wants, too.
There’s a guy in the Bible; we know his story. He’s living life- going to work, kissing the wife when he gets home, investing in his kids’ lives- and tragedy strikes. Real, hard-core, no-answers, tragedy. From out of nowhere. And he goes to God with BIG QUESTIONS. Questions his friends can’t answer; the sorts of questions which are almost always followed by cricket noises. Questions like:
WHY.
WHY do you say you will protect me and then bad things happen?
WHY do you tell me I can ask for anything and, when I ask, I get the opposite?
WHY did you do this to me?
WHY isn’t my life turning out like I thought it would?
WHAT is the point of you being with me if I still have to endure all this?
WHY.
I have a confession: those aren’t really the questions Job asked; they are actually the questions I have been asking for the past year and a half.
I have no answers, yet.
But I did realize one thing: in the beginning of Job’s story, God called him the most righteous person (someone who is on good terms with God) on the earth. On.the.earth. I think I know why: because Job wasn’t afraid to ask God the big questions. He wanted a real God and he wanted to be realwith God.
For most of my life, in any of my struggles, I thought, for some reason, I wasn’t allowed to ask those questions. It might be disrespectful to question God; I might make Him angry; I might offend Him.
But it really became too much and no person I went to could answer them for me.
Then one day during church, I thought maybe this might be something Jesus would ask me if we were talking, face-to-face, “Would you still follow me even if you had one-thousand unanswered WHYs?”
I didn’t answer. Because, really, what would I say and where else do I have to go?
So, this blog isn’t going to end on a happy, you-have-your-closure note. Sorry. I’m writing it to get it out and to let you know, if you’re having a harder time than you’re letting on, it’s okay to ask those big questions and be real. You might not get an answer or the answer you want, but you can ask them. I’m pretty sure because Jesus wants you to ask them; after all, He hung out with the raw and open; the hurting and angry; the blatant and brazen more than he hung out with the quiet and conventional.
I promise to be real, God. I promise to follow you even if I have one-thousand unanswered WHYs.
I really was losing hope in ever falling in love with Japan. I can tolerate it; there are times where I’m even enjoying it… but never in love with it.
Tonight, we chose to skip joining the masses as they walked toward the Tanabata Festival near our base and go somewhere a little less frequented by people.
From what I understand, in Japan, lanterns festivals are held to honor a loved one who had passed over. I know nothing else, but I’m happy to fill in the blanks with my own fanciful wishes:
The sun is just dipping below the mountainous horizon, casting a rosy glow over everything- the water, my skin, the sky. Quite appropriate, if you ask me. Men, women, and children gather, light their candles inside their lanterns, and stand in a line winding down toward the shallow, meandering river.
A group of men and women begin singing. Their melodies might as well be mixed right in with the water rushing over rocks in the river, they blend so perfectly together. Their voices rise and fall with the small waves and I don’t know what they’re singing about, but I think it must be a message of their love, their intent to always remember and tell stories.
I stand in the middle, eager to catch the best glimpse of the lanterns on their way toward me. Dragon flies dip and dive all around me; I count one, two, three, four, five… to many to keep track. And for a moment, I imagine they are kissing the little lights, offering their farewells, or small blessings upon each flickering memorial as it floats past.
I am perfectly happy in this place, in my element. Cool water cooling me off, feet first. My camera responding to my flexing finger, capturing images, keeping time with my eyes; little candles bumping against my legs as they travel downstream.
Men, volunteers, stand beside me watching over each lantern; they turn over rocks too large for a lantern to pass by; they upright the toppled ones, guide the lost ones. For a moment, I am half-tempted to abandon my camera and help keep the lights safe. They, each of them, are someone’s heart, someone’s memory. Someone’s friend.
Without warning or expectation, lanterns are gently offered to us. I communicate my gratitude as clearly as I am able as I take my place in the line, and I remember my Grandma. And my friend Cameron. They’re the only two people relatively close to me who are gone. I hope they’re in a good place, happy. This lantern festival draws out from me an appreciation I’ve never felt before. I wish I could always honor those I miss in the same way: sunsets, songs, and light.
