She felt the warmth under her bare feet as she took giant steps forward, careful not to step on the cracks in the pavement. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sunshine seemed to cheer everything in sight. With a fistful of wildflowers in one hand, she used the other to carefully pluck the flower petals from their respective stems. Finally in one grand motion, she throws the petals above her head and laughs as she watches them drift to the ground all around her.
Then, she counts them methodically to see which side of the sidewalk received the most abundant snowfall of petals.
Petals on the left? Kitten. Petals on the right? Puppy.
The left side has the most petals, so she shrugs her shoulders and began hunting for more flowers while she daydreams about the color and name of her kitten.
-
2:26pm. The soft pink curtains and horse stickers on the wall seem to be staring at her in a hostile way. It's been too many days in this room and it feels as if the bedroom itself is angry at her for overstaying her welcome. She looks at her feet, the lump in the blanket at the base of her bed. It's quiet, but not peaceful. The room feels empty in a tangible way.
Another cassette tape, another coloring book, another week of homework in bed.
And she's starting to lose the ability to care.
-
She grasps for the tangled, black mane of what she believes to be the best and most beautiful horse in the galaxy. In the other hand, she balances the green and white nylon reins between her fingers. On Kitty's bare-back, she can feel the excited energy under her seat and along the inside of her legs. As hooves pound the sod in the field beneath them, her own adrenaline surges to match the horse.
It's as if she is flying above reality for a few moments where nothing can touch her, and nothing compares to this feeling.
-
I don't particularly love vulnerability.
Ok, let's be honest, vulnerability terrifies me.
(If you can think of a more intense, fear related word, insert that).
Now, I can share my story. I can share personal details about myself. I can even share things that felt vulnerable at the time. Heck, I've written blogs that I promoted as "vulnerable." But here's the cache:
Vulnerability is not about what you are saying, it's about the state of being that you are in.
I can speak "vulnerable," without being vulnerable. Not to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at it. I know the art of faking vulnerability with my words without ever engaging my heart.
Vulnerability is looking you in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on your face and the tone in your voice when you see me. Really see me.
Disclaimer: Before you get excited about this post being "vulnerable" I want to tell you upfront that the most sensitive parts of me and this process will not be broadcasted on the internet. But I do want to share a piece of, you know, the less-authentically-vulnerable version.
(Later, we can talk about why I believe blogging, texting, emailing, etc. is a near impossible way to be vulnerable anyway).
Back to the blog post.
I think I grew up too fast.
There is a good chance you might have too.
Childhood can be stolen away too early by a great number of events: broken families, medical crisis, abuse, neglect, loss of a loved one, a major move, etc. Most things could be summed up in one word: Trauma. And newsflash, if you are reading this as a human on planet earth, you've experienced trauma.
Even the most ideal of transitions to adulthood is still quite jarring. For most of us, when we are young there are many things of which we are blissfully unaware and unconcerned. As we approach adulthood, it's as if the blinders come off and the world is suddenly, horrifyingly, not what it seemed. Even many children who experience trauma seem to wear rose colored glasses (or a full-on blindfold) to cope until they reach an age where they are able to digest the full implications of their experience. I believe this is a God-designed mercy.
Not everything about growing up is bad or painful. In fact, becoming an adult has a vast array of privileges. But...I'm not writing to talk about the joys of becoming an adult. I'm writing because something sad happened in my process and I want healing. Maybe you do too.
I'm learning that problem was not actually growing up little Joanna.
.
.
.
It was leaving behind little Joanna.
.
.
.
(I imagine that the mature and sophisticated crew just closed their browser to find more sensible reading material).
Here's the part that is sorta-vulnerable...
I was a really happy kid. I loved life, loved people, LOVED animals. Any disruption to my happy world triggered the use of my creative tool-box of child-like coping skills (AKA: strategies to pretend the disruption doesn't exist).
As I approached adulthood, my pretend-away-problems method started to breakdown. Cue shock, horror, devastation, etc. And instead of helping my young self grow up (which is not really possible to do when you are said young self), I resented myself for being just that: young, vulnerable, trusting, happy, etc.
I was angry with the little girl for laughing without fear.
I was angry with the little girl for dancing freely.
I was angry with the little girl for believing that the world was a safe place.
I was angry with the little girl for the stories she told herself to cover up reality.
I was angry with the little girl for trusting people with her tender heart.
So instead of helping her grow, I locked her away. Somewhere deep inside my heart there is a door to a room where the most vulnerable parts live and that is her home.
I thought that if I ignored her long enough she would wither away, disappear, or die.
But she's still there.
.
.
.
"Child."
He was subtle, but clear.
"I was there."
Unwanted images flashed through my mind, sensations in my body, and emotions flooding.
That's not me.
I could picture her, but it's almost as if my brain refused to acknowledge that it was a younger version of me. I felt a wave of disgust and knew that I had rejected this little girl. Though I would never say it to any other little girl, I wanted to call this one trash, worthless, hateful. And I wanted to forget.
"Child."
Please don't see me.
"I was there. I am here."
.
.
.
She stood at her bedroom window and stared at the grey clouds outside. She was so angry she could hardly contain it within her skin. She pounded a small fist on the dresser.
If You really exist, You need to prove it right now or I WON'T believe in You.
.
.
.
"Child, I was there."
Even though I have tried to abandon the child that I was, God has refused to abandon me. Even the most vulnerable parts of me that I locked deep in that room inside my heart.
.
This is wrecking me.
.
He is taking me on a journey in this season, one that I have kicked and screamed and fought against.
He is showing me how to unlock that door and invite the child He created to come out into the sunlight again. As painful as this is, I find myself feeling and experiences angles of life that I haven't in a very long time. I find myself packing up my camp in the land of denial so that I can stake my tent in the land of those who are truly living with their whole heart.
I cannot undo the trauma and the choices that carried me far away from that little girl. I will forever bear the scars of humanity and an understanding of evil that was not in my original blueprint. But someone else chose to share scars with me so that I can experience healing.
And He was there when mine were formed.
He is the only one who can say to the little girl who once trusted so easily, without fear,
"come out, come closer
it's ok to trust again
but you need to let Me keep you safe
and you need to let Me carry the pain
instead of pretending it away
the tenderness of your heart is not wrong
it is a piece of My own
so laugh, dance, grieve
and if you must, be afraid
but do not run back into the room to hide
for you belong in My arms, child."
It's exactly what she needs to hear.
So, I'm awkwardly, sorta, (and sometimes not) doing this state of being called "vulnerability."
It's looking Him in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on His face and the tone in His voice when He sees me.
Really sees me.
And then, I suppose, I might be able to let you see me too.
Then, she counts them methodically to see which side of the sidewalk received the most abundant snowfall of petals.
Petals on the left? Kitten. Petals on the right? Puppy.
The left side has the most petals, so she shrugs her shoulders and began hunting for more flowers while she daydreams about the color and name of her kitten.
-
2:26pm. The soft pink curtains and horse stickers on the wall seem to be staring at her in a hostile way. It's been too many days in this room and it feels as if the bedroom itself is angry at her for overstaying her welcome. She looks at her feet, the lump in the blanket at the base of her bed. It's quiet, but not peaceful. The room feels empty in a tangible way.
Another cassette tape, another coloring book, another week of homework in bed.
And she's starting to lose the ability to care.
-
She grasps for the tangled, black mane of what she believes to be the best and most beautiful horse in the galaxy. In the other hand, she balances the green and white nylon reins between her fingers. On Kitty's bare-back, she can feel the excited energy under her seat and along the inside of her legs. As hooves pound the sod in the field beneath them, her own adrenaline surges to match the horse.
It's as if she is flying above reality for a few moments where nothing can touch her, and nothing compares to this feeling.
-
I don't particularly love vulnerability.
Ok, let's be honest, vulnerability terrifies me.
(If you can think of a more intense, fear related word, insert that).
Now, I can share my story. I can share personal details about myself. I can even share things that felt vulnerable at the time. Heck, I've written blogs that I promoted as "vulnerable." But here's the cache:
Vulnerability is not about what you are saying, it's about the state of being that you are in.
I can speak "vulnerable," without being vulnerable. Not to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at it. I know the art of faking vulnerability with my words without ever engaging my heart.
Vulnerability is looking you in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on your face and the tone in your voice when you see me. Really see me.
Disclaimer: Before you get excited about this post being "vulnerable" I want to tell you upfront that the most sensitive parts of me and this process will not be broadcasted on the internet. But I do want to share a piece of, you know, the less-authentically-vulnerable version.
(Later, we can talk about why I believe blogging, texting, emailing, etc. is a near impossible way to be vulnerable anyway).
Back to the blog post.
I think I grew up too fast.
There is a good chance you might have too.
Childhood can be stolen away too early by a great number of events: broken families, medical crisis, abuse, neglect, loss of a loved one, a major move, etc. Most things could be summed up in one word: Trauma. And newsflash, if you are reading this as a human on planet earth, you've experienced trauma.
Even the most ideal of transitions to adulthood is still quite jarring. For most of us, when we are young there are many things of which we are blissfully unaware and unconcerned. As we approach adulthood, it's as if the blinders come off and the world is suddenly, horrifyingly, not what it seemed. Even many children who experience trauma seem to wear rose colored glasses (or a full-on blindfold) to cope until they reach an age where they are able to digest the full implications of their experience. I believe this is a God-designed mercy.
Not everything about growing up is bad or painful. In fact, becoming an adult has a vast array of privileges. But...I'm not writing to talk about the joys of becoming an adult. I'm writing because something sad happened in my process and I want healing. Maybe you do too.
I'm learning that problem was not actually growing up little Joanna.
.
.
.
It was leaving behind little Joanna.
.
.
.
(I imagine that the mature and sophisticated crew just closed their browser to find more sensible reading material).
Here's the part that is sorta-vulnerable...
I was a really happy kid. I loved life, loved people, LOVED animals. Any disruption to my happy world triggered the use of my creative tool-box of child-like coping skills (AKA: strategies to pretend the disruption doesn't exist).
As I approached adulthood, my pretend-away-problems method started to breakdown. Cue shock, horror, devastation, etc. And instead of helping my young self grow up (which is not really possible to do when you are said young self), I resented myself for being just that: young, vulnerable, trusting, happy, etc.
I was angry with the little girl for laughing without fear.
I was angry with the little girl for dancing freely.
I was angry with the little girl for believing that the world was a safe place.
I was angry with the little girl for the stories she told herself to cover up reality.
I was angry with the little girl for trusting people with her tender heart.
So instead of helping her grow, I locked her away. Somewhere deep inside my heart there is a door to a room where the most vulnerable parts live and that is her home.
I thought that if I ignored her long enough she would wither away, disappear, or die.
But she's still there.
.
.
.
"Child."
He was subtle, but clear.
"I was there."
Unwanted images flashed through my mind, sensations in my body, and emotions flooding.
That's not me.
I could picture her, but it's almost as if my brain refused to acknowledge that it was a younger version of me. I felt a wave of disgust and knew that I had rejected this little girl. Though I would never say it to any other little girl, I wanted to call this one trash, worthless, hateful. And I wanted to forget.
"Child."
Please don't see me.
"I was there. I am here."
.
.
.
She stood at her bedroom window and stared at the grey clouds outside. She was so angry she could hardly contain it within her skin. She pounded a small fist on the dresser.
If You really exist, You need to prove it right now or I WON'T believe in You.
.
.
.
"Child, I was there."
Even though I have tried to abandon the child that I was, God has refused to abandon me. Even the most vulnerable parts of me that I locked deep in that room inside my heart.
.
This is wrecking me.
.
He is taking me on a journey in this season, one that I have kicked and screamed and fought against.
He is showing me how to unlock that door and invite the child He created to come out into the sunlight again. As painful as this is, I find myself feeling and experiences angles of life that I haven't in a very long time. I find myself packing up my camp in the land of denial so that I can stake my tent in the land of those who are truly living with their whole heart.
I cannot undo the trauma and the choices that carried me far away from that little girl. I will forever bear the scars of humanity and an understanding of evil that was not in my original blueprint. But someone else chose to share scars with me so that I can experience healing.
And He was there when mine were formed.
He is the only one who can say to the little girl who once trusted so easily, without fear,
"come out, come closer
it's ok to trust again
but you need to let Me keep you safe
and you need to let Me carry the pain
instead of pretending it away
the tenderness of your heart is not wrong
it is a piece of My own
so laugh, dance, grieve
and if you must, be afraid
but do not run back into the room to hide
for you belong in My arms, child."
It's exactly what she needs to hear.
So, I'm awkwardly, sorta, (and sometimes not) doing this state of being called "vulnerability."
It's looking Him in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on His face and the tone in His voice when He sees me.
Really sees me.
And then, I suppose, I might be able to let you see me too.
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