In conversations over zoom, in person, through face masks and over copious cups of hot beverages I have heard it again and again. We are weary. We are struggling. We are aching.
We got the proverbial wind knocked out of us. We have been repeatedly kicked while down. We have absorbed multiple "last straw" moments and yet we are still standing...Or crawling...Or at least, breathing.
God only knows the details of my hard season and I don't know yours. The struggle has taken many different shapes, colors, and sizes. No two of us share the exact pain, and yet we can share a collective sigh that somehow sums up the experience.
And so here we are.
And yet, in a season where so many are feeling different shades of the same struggle, we find ourselves increasingly divided and hostile. As a natural-born peacemaker, it's exhausting to watch. I have dear friends and family that span a vast range of opinions regarding political, religious (or non-religious), economic, and scientific worldviews (to name a few). It seems that I know people on all extreme ends of the spectrum of opinions.
This is what I have concluded...
Nobody has all the answers... if any.
Most people are doing the best that they can with the resources that they have.
We are not all that different.
...And if ever there was a time to be kind, it's now.
2021 was hands down the most difficult year I have lived yet. The perfect storm of circumstances collided during the pandemic for me resulting in the loss of so many precious things. One of those precious things was certainty.
Things like my purpose, my faith, and my passion feel shaken to the core.
I have been questioning so much and so often that some days it feels as if I will wake up and realize I have been unknowingly cast as a supporting character in a satirical TV show. So often I have felt as if nothing matters anymore. As if life is a meaningless and cruel joke. In the chaos of everything that has happened and is happening in the world and in my personal life, is there meaning to be found?
In the ashes of everything I thought I knew, I have discovered something that I believe does matter.
It's love.
See, we humans are so messy, so awful, and so desperately beautiful that it takes my breath away. To experience love is so painful and so necessary that we will stop at nothing to obtain some version of it. We each carry the ability to love and be loved and yet for whatever reasons we withhold it, extinguish it, or abuse it.
This is my plea.
Be kind.
You have no idea the pain that another human is carrying in their soul.
You are no better and no greater than your neighbor that you mock. We are all simply human. You cannot begin to boast of knowing the why behind someone else's behavior. You can speculate, you can guess, you can even puzzle together the handful of facts you hold. But it is not yours to know or to judge another soul. It is yours to love.
That's what makes your life beautiful. Not your opinions, not your knowledge, not your certainty. It's your love.
We are all tired. We are all struggling. We are all aching.
Please, be kind.
Be defined by the one thing that makes humanity beautiful, that makes human life worth living. Be defined by love.
Because it matters.
At the end of the day when everything else has burned to ashes, love matters.
Be kind.
Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
I jumped behind the couch before I had a chance to process
the peculiarity of it. I tucked my knees, wrapped my arms around my body, and the
dam broke. As I cried, it began to dawn on me how ridiculous this must look.
After all, the crammed-between-the wall-and-the-back-of-a-sectional
in a dark room doesn’t really scream “dignified” in my book (or “sane” for that
matter).
And why, you may ask, am I hiding behind a couch, crying and
shaking like it’s the start of the apocalypse?
Because I ate a brownie.
I ate a brownie to challenge my eating disorder. Clearly the
eating disorder fought back (I’ll spare you the inner dialogue).
I discovered something in that moment behind the couch:
It is incredibly vulnerable to cry over brownies.
I have a loud inner critic that informs me almost 24/7 that
the things that hurt me “shouldn’t hurt” or that the feelings I have shouldn’t
be “that intense” or that those raw, sensitive parts of my heart “shouldn’t
exist” and/or “don’t matter.”
You’re crying about a BROWNIE, Joanna! C’mon! This is
idiotic.
And that’s the reason I jumped behind the couch.
Because in my heart of hearts I believe that no one should
see me cry over such a “stupid” thing. That my feelings are wrong and nobody
should see them. My feelings are too much. I am too much. That the most
appropriate and logical thing to do in moments of intense emotion is to go
away.
So, I hide. Behind couches, yes… but most often beneath a
mountain of “right” answers, independence, introvert excuses and productivity.
In truth, I would rather discuss difficult emotions for
hours upon end than feel them for 90 seconds. And heaven forbid there is another
human in the room with me when I feel them. I don’t want to be seen crying
over brownies. How embarrassing.
Let’s be real, I wasn’t crying about the brownie.
There is a tender part in my heart that aches from years and
years of believing that what I eat is a direct reflection of my value as a
human being. That if I don’t do that area of my life perfectly, I won’t be seen
and I won’t be loved.
So, I wasn’t crying about the brownie. I was crying because it
hurts to be unseen, unknown, and unloved. It’s hurts to
challenge the voice in my head that is convinced that this is all dependent on
the brownie. Even more than that, it hurts that I have believed this since I
was a little girl, and as a result, invited the wrecking ball of an eating disorder
into my life.
It hurts.
I was crying because it hurts.
And pain is so vulnerable.
Maybe for you it’s not a brownie. Maybe it’s a comment your
partner made (or didn’t make), or the job you didn’t get, or craving the
substance you are trying to give up, or the flashbacks, or the cancelled
appointment, or coming home to an empty apartment, or the unmet expectation
that your family will know what to say and when…
Sometimes it just hurts.
Can we learn how to say things like that? To feel things
like that? Things like:
I’m hurting
I’m sad/mad/disappointed/confused..etc
It hurt when…
I feel unlovable
I’m struggling with my inner critic
I’m so tired
I need encouragement
I’m scared
I feel ashamed
I don’t have all the answers
Will you help me?
And I don’t just mean when life is crisis. I mean in the
brownie moments. In those little things that really are not little at all. I personally
try to wait until the big moments to have my meltdowns. You know, the screaming-in-my-face-billboard-you-are-DEFINITELY-not-ok
moments.
I want to learn to be brave in the brownie moments.
To tell those tender parts of my heart “you matter” and to
invite them to have a place in my life (my not-hiding-behind-the-couch-life).
To feel the hurts, even if the cause seems “idiotic.” To allow myself to be
seen and loved in those spaces.
This is new territory for me.
I’m scared
I feel ashamed
I don’t have all the answers
and sometimes it just hurts.
I love walking or jogging in the dark with the stars and silent
streetlights. I love exploring caves,
climbing on a roof at night, or laying down on cold cement to ponder the night
sky.
There is something about the dark that feels safe to me.
Comforting. It’s the idea of being enveloped in something and blotted out of
view. I feel invisible in the dark, and that feels good.
It’s hard to be seen.
Especially for my ever-loving-self wearied by the constant
awareness of how I am seen. For as long as I can remember, I have diligently watched
the reactions of the people around me. Reading into faces, tones, words, and
trying to gauge how I can present myself in the most acceptable way. I have struggled
on the journey to be myself rather than the image I portray.
We are miles down the trail but nowhere near the summit,
friends.
I love
the darkness.
I’m not sure when that started because as a kid, I slept
with my closet light on and the door cracked open. Heck, I even sprinted to the
bed after flipping off the light because you know, monsters.
Now, the dark feels like a refuge. A place to breathe, to sleep,
to pause. To pretend the rest of the world does not exist. To pretend life is
as peaceful and beautiful as it appears in the starlight.
A place where you cannot see me and I cannot see you.
This feels safe…for awhile.
I’m learning a painful truth in this season of pandemic-quarantine-isolation-stay-at-home-national-emergency.
Ready?
We are not designed to live in the dark.
(please don’t roll your eyes, I know I’m the only one who
JUST figured this out).
I crave acceptance, affection, and unconditional love. I
have tried my best to be seen in a way that will provide these commodities. The
problem with my efforts is this:
The only parts of me that are able to receive said commodities are the parts that I allow to be exposed. The parts of me kept hidden in the dark will never
experience the miracle of being truly, extravagantly loved.
In the dark I will
continue to long, hunger, and starve to be seen. Truly seen.
In the incredible book “The Soul of Shame,” Curt Thompson
writes that we are all storytellers. We are all longing, searching,
seeking, someone who wants to hear us tell our story.
To really listen, to hear, to see us for all that we are.
So while the dark may seem safe, it is anything but
true.
I can hide from myself and hide from you, but there is One
who sees my soul.
I am finding a desperation in this season to encounter my
Abba with an intensity I have not experienced before. The noise in my corner of the world has
both increased and decreased in pandemic-land. I cannot pretend away this reality.
I am needy in too many ways. Shaken in vulnerable places. And I am brought to
my knees, not to simply “pray” but to pour out my heart and my tears.
In the dark, I need to be seen.
I need Him to envelope me, because
the darkness will not hold my soul in a safe embrace.
I see the messiest parts of myself and pretending in the dark is no longer enough. I cannot present the image to those around me because there is
no one to see. Nothing but social media, phone calls, and video chat. Showing
up at work to be seen, but only with the parts of myself that are appropriate
for that setting.
I am lonely and I know I am not alone.
We are not designed to live in the dark. We are designed to be seen, and to see each other.
Friend, do you know that your soul is seen? That here, in the
madness of 2020, you are not invisible? There is One who sees you in your little corner of the world and knows the state of your life, your family, your workplace, and your soul. You are not alone, unheard, unseen, or unloved.
There is safety for my soul in the presence of a good God
in the middle of a bad season. I can sit on my living room floor in the
morning sunlight or the cold cement at night and I can rest in the truth
that I am known and loved, no matter what this crazy future holds.
I hold this truth tightly, desperately.
I am inviting the light. Inviting exposure to the parts of
my heart that cry out to be seen, to be loved. If I cannot do that with others in person,
I can sure as hell do it with the God who refuses to be confined by physical
boundaries. He sees me.
I will find my refuge enveloped in the light, though the dark
endures around me and the storm rages inside me.
Will you join me?
If I say,
“Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,”
even the
darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.
(Psalm
139:7-12)
For he will
hide me in his shelter
in the day of trouble;
he will
conceal me under the cover of his tent;
he will lift me high upon a rock.
(Psalm 27:5)
Blessed be
the Lord,
for he has wondrously shown his steadfast
love to me
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.
The air was thick with emotion and enthusiasm, and it seemed like everyone was enjoying connection.
"What's wrong with me?" played like a broken tape in my mind over and over again.
Moving to a new place with new people is hard. If you've done it before, you know what I'm talking about. The past few months since I made the move to Central Oregon have been hard. Harder than I thought they would be. And I don't like to admit that because I take pride in having my life figured out (you can laugh).
In the chaos of a new job, new housing, new people, and new heartache, I have rediscovered some old acquaintances.
This committee of acquaintances has been tucked away in the shadows of my heart waiting for an opportune time to reappear.
See, when my life is somewhat comfortable, they see no need for intervention. But now, in this season of discomfort, they have emerged to do their job once again.
Their job?
To keep me safe.
(Well, that's what they think).
In reality, their job is to remind me of my every weakness, vulnerability, insecurity, and... a few other things that have no relevant connection to reality.
Why? So that I will keep those sensitive items safely tucked away, out of view.
It's scary to be known.
And I find myself in a season of becoming known by people who have not known me. At work, at church, at home, in therapy...
Don't say that!
Don't do that!
You shouldn't have...
You should have....
Nobody cares!
Nobody wants you around!
Nobody knows the real you
...and nobody wants to.
My committee is loud these days.
It's not the first time I've hiked with them in my backpack...but it's first time I've hiked this mountain...and I think they shredded my map.
See, all they know how to do is help me hide. Hide from pain, hide from fear, hide from awkwardness, hide from hope, hide, hide, hide. I have learned how to hide my entire life.
Hiding comes easily, it's learning how to un-hide that's the tricky part.
And why, "un-hide?" Because when the committee is in charge and the sensitive places of my heart are safely tucked away, I find myself face to face with another danger: Loneliness. And Loneliness has its own tapes playing on repeat...
"You are FORGOTTEN. Nobody knows you exist. Nobody sees you. Nobody sees your heart, Your needs, Your joy...Your pain."
It's what the Enemy of my soul has spoken over me since a very young age. As a pastor's daughter, I internalized the message that everybody else's needs mattered at the expense of my own. That everybody else could struggle and get help, but I could not. That everybody else could need prayer, compassion, and love, but I could not. Because surely God would fall off His throne if I couldn't meet my own needs. It hurts to feel forgotten, overlooked, unimportant. And I'm finding the of being forgotten is worse than the pain that comes with being known. It's just not a worthy exchange.
I know this, but because it is a familiar theme song, sometimes I catch myself humming to it totally unaware.
"God, I feel so forgotten. So alone. So unseen."
I have been blessed to have incredible community in my life during the past several years. People that I can be radically honest with and find safety, comfort, and accountability. Now those are long distance relationships... and seeking safety, comfort, and accountability feel like swimming upstream with a crew of hungry bears around.
While I am not forgotten by people who love me, my emotions are still singing the "Forgotten Theme Song" loudly and off key.
I realized recently that feeling forgotten was not just about other people: I felt forgotten by God.
Where was He when the job was harder than I expected?
Where was He when the relationship went south?
Where was He when the housing situation fell apart?
Where was He when my ability to cope got up and left the room?
Loneliness has an answer: Surely He forgot about you. That's what always happens, isn't it? You are always forgotten.
The committee chimes in: That's what you deserve anyway! You aren't worth remembering!
And as I call out for another answer from my Abba, it is strangely quiet. No rebuttal to throw at my committee. No breakthrough word of comfort and assurance. It's just Quiet.
And that is how it has been. I am quiet, and He is quiet. But this Quiet is not stagnant, this is a powerful quiet.
In this Quiet, this is what I hear:
"What do you know to be true? Stay there. Don't move. Don't speak. Be quiet."
And I hear it over, and over, and over again.
And it's NOT the word I wanted, but it's the word I need.
To choose what I know to be true when my committee is suggesting alternative options takes more courage than I can muster. So I stay. I'm quiet. I wait. I dig in my heels and I camp here until God strengthens my arms for the battle. Instead of listening to the logic of Loneliness, I choose to quietly ask the questions:
"Am I overlooked?"
"Am I unimportant?"
"Am I forgotten?"
Because I already know the answers to those questions. I already know. And I have a choice. While my committee would love for me to lay down and put on my headphones and listen to their tapes play over and over again, I have been given authority to say to my committee, "Thank you very much, I won't be needing your input on this one." I can choose to sit in the quiet with Jesus and allow Him to speak to my needs on His terms and in His time.
I'm learning in this season that with God, trust matters most when trust feels most difficult.
And I realized that if I can only trust God when His presence is obvious to me, He is not the one with the forgetting problem, I am.
He becomes forgotten by me when I choose not to trust in the Quiet and allow other voices to speak into me.
"Am I forgotten?"
I can ask my committee. I can ask my Loneliness. I can ask my pain. Or, I can ask Him.
Even when my job, my housing, my people, and my emotions change, His answer to that question never, ever does.
