I'm feeling a lot less stressed as I write this post.
The last school thing that had really been weighing on my mind was finished yesterday afternoon. It was something I'd been dreading, and now it's over.
Don't get me wrong. There are still two presentations, one paper, and one final exam standing between me and the end of the semester, and all of those hold tiny amounts of stress, but none of them hold the stress that yesterday held for me over the last week or so.
And now it's done, and I'm a free bird!
And at this point, I'm planning to celebrate my freedom tonight by having dinner with all my house church people (hello pizza!!!), and cuddling a week-old baby boy (a new honorary nephew to spoil!) for the first time.
It's a lovely thing to be a free bird!
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Thursday, April 05, 2012
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
No More Tolerance
When I started using the reading plans on my Iphone's Bible app, it was because I was trying to re-introduce some sort of regularity and discipline to my time in scripture. I wanted to be able to say at the end of the day that I was regularly reading scripture, because that's what "good christians" do.
I didn't expect those couple of chapters a day to become a fixture of the way I start my morning, usually on public transit, and honestly, though I know it's God's word, I really wasn't expecting God to speak. But He does. Almost every morning, if I'm willing to listen.
Yesterday I read this:
2 Corinthians 11:20 (The Message)
"You have such admirable tolerance for impostors who rob your freedom, rip you off, steal you blind, put you down—even slap your face!"
And I'm thinking about how this year of deconstruction has been teaching me about impostors. About the people and things, (spiritual or physical) that rob my freedom, my peace and my joy.
I think I'm learning that I have a say in this whole process. That, as Paul was reminding the Corinthians, sometimes I tolerate those impostors - the lies that come to steal, kill and destroy. I give them free reign to hurt me, to slap my face.
I've spent a lot of time this year working at recovering. It's seemed that every time I've begun to pick up the pieces, another part of my life has shattered. The deconstruction has continued and continues. Two more blows have come this last week. And there are more pieces to sort out, and either discard or piece together again. And the pieces that have shattered carry with them the certainty of more shattering to come. Not possibility, but certainty.
But, I do get to choose whether or not I'm going to tolerate the impostors. The lies that come in force with each moment of shattering. I'm learning that I've tolerated far too much. Sometimes, now, the recovery comes more quickly. I'm thankful to have found myself amidst a group of friends who I can count on to speak truth, and point out the impostors when I can't see them. Friends who speak directly, and with much love, telling me which things are lies.
So, going forward, the goal is no more tolerance. No more letting the impostors hang out and steal my freedom. That's the goal anyway. And I pray in the midst of less tolerance, I will slowly collect the old pieces and find new ones. That healing and life and wholeness will come in ways I can only long for and imagine.
I didn't expect those couple of chapters a day to become a fixture of the way I start my morning, usually on public transit, and honestly, though I know it's God's word, I really wasn't expecting God to speak. But He does. Almost every morning, if I'm willing to listen.
Yesterday I read this:
2 Corinthians 11:20 (The Message)
"You have such admirable tolerance for impostors who rob your freedom, rip you off, steal you blind, put you down—even slap your face!"
And I'm thinking about how this year of deconstruction has been teaching me about impostors. About the people and things, (spiritual or physical) that rob my freedom, my peace and my joy.
I think I'm learning that I have a say in this whole process. That, as Paul was reminding the Corinthians, sometimes I tolerate those impostors - the lies that come to steal, kill and destroy. I give them free reign to hurt me, to slap my face.
I've spent a lot of time this year working at recovering. It's seemed that every time I've begun to pick up the pieces, another part of my life has shattered. The deconstruction has continued and continues. Two more blows have come this last week. And there are more pieces to sort out, and either discard or piece together again. And the pieces that have shattered carry with them the certainty of more shattering to come. Not possibility, but certainty.
But, I do get to choose whether or not I'm going to tolerate the impostors. The lies that come in force with each moment of shattering. I'm learning that I've tolerated far too much. Sometimes, now, the recovery comes more quickly. I'm thankful to have found myself amidst a group of friends who I can count on to speak truth, and point out the impostors when I can't see them. Friends who speak directly, and with much love, telling me which things are lies.
So, going forward, the goal is no more tolerance. No more letting the impostors hang out and steal my freedom. That's the goal anyway. And I pray in the midst of less tolerance, I will slowly collect the old pieces and find new ones. That healing and life and wholeness will come in ways I can only long for and imagine.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Avoidance
"The world of pretend is a cage, not a cocoon. We can only lie to ourselves for so long."
The above quote was a classic Meredith line, from the ending of an early episode in Grey's Anatomy's second season.
I treat avoidance mechanisms like a cocoon, and they're usually my first stop when I'm dealing with fear. Whatever I can do to escape the ugly reality of life for a while.
Escape, I think, is a good thing.
It can offer a break and a chance to breath and rest.
My issue is this - too often I let escape become avoidance.
Because let's be honest, shall we? It's far more pleasurable to avoid than to face the mess head on.
To pretend it simply doesn't exist.
And then, then that moment always comes when I realize that I'm in a cage, not a cocoon, and I've delayed the inevitable - the pain, yes, but also the healing.
I'm working on this pattern lately... aware of it again, and working on the courage to crawl out of that cage/cocoon and really face life, and when I heard that line as I was watching the old Grey's episode, I knew I had to share it.
My question is this - when does your cocoon become a cage that keeps you from something better?
The above quote was a classic Meredith line, from the ending of an early episode in Grey's Anatomy's second season.
I treat avoidance mechanisms like a cocoon, and they're usually my first stop when I'm dealing with fear. Whatever I can do to escape the ugly reality of life for a while.
Escape, I think, is a good thing.
It can offer a break and a chance to breath and rest.
My issue is this - too often I let escape become avoidance.
Because let's be honest, shall we? It's far more pleasurable to avoid than to face the mess head on.
To pretend it simply doesn't exist.
And then, then that moment always comes when I realize that I'm in a cage, not a cocoon, and I've delayed the inevitable - the pain, yes, but also the healing.
I'm working on this pattern lately... aware of it again, and working on the courage to crawl out of that cage/cocoon and really face life, and when I heard that line as I was watching the old Grey's episode, I knew I had to share it.
My question is this - when does your cocoon become a cage that keeps you from something better?
Friday, August 06, 2010
Now
I talked yesterday about my brokenness and mental illness soapboxes and about walking honestly.
And then I came across this post from Anne Jackson earlier this week.
She wrote about the story of now.
I don't like my now story.
I talked about story at the beginning of the year, when I was reading Donald Miller's book "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years." About wanting to write a better story with my life.
If I look at my list, I have to admit that a lot of those plans for the year died when I lost my job and unexpectedly found myself duckless and changing direction in life. Even U2 had to be indefinitely postponed (though I suspect that Bono's back surgery is not directly correlated to the ending of my employment tenure).
I started telling a different story when I enrolled in some university courses for the summer to begin to move towards a career in nursing.
And God had some story ideas too.
His involve healing and freedom.
And a process to get to those things that is anything but pretty.
Unless of course, you're using "pretty" in a sentence such as this, "It pretty much sucks, actually."
My now story involves a lot of days that are spent in tears.
In an seemingly constant and intensifying battle with fears that have controlled me for years.
Fears that are fighting hard to stay as they surface in new ways and I desire freedom and healing.
It involves stomach aches, and panic attacks, and frustration.
It involves relational tensions and discussions about boundaries and other things that involve my heart and stir insecurities.
It involves insecurities and self-image and self-worth.
And working to change long ingrained mindsets.
It involves identifying lies, and working through the (seemingly endless) process of replacing them with truth.
It involves family, and faith, and friends and sleepless nights and cloudy days.
This is my story of now.
And my gut response would be to go with the earlier statement - it pretty much sucks.
But something in me knows that this is good.
That God holds my hand and walks with me even in this.
That His hands are in these things surfacing now, when I don't have full-time employment to cope with too.
That He is offering freedom at the same time as directing me down this new path towards nursing.
It pretty much sucks. But it's good. Dichotomy and mystery. Healing through pain. Freedom after the fear really intensifies (and it encourages me, oddly, that the fear has intensified, that it is trying to hang on. it seems to only do that when there is hope that it will really and truly go.)
This is my now story.
And then I came across this post from Anne Jackson earlier this week.
She wrote about the story of now.
I don't like my now story.
I talked about story at the beginning of the year, when I was reading Donald Miller's book "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years." About wanting to write a better story with my life.
If I look at my list, I have to admit that a lot of those plans for the year died when I lost my job and unexpectedly found myself duckless and changing direction in life. Even U2 had to be indefinitely postponed (though I suspect that Bono's back surgery is not directly correlated to the ending of my employment tenure).
I started telling a different story when I enrolled in some university courses for the summer to begin to move towards a career in nursing.
And God had some story ideas too.
His involve healing and freedom.
And a process to get to those things that is anything but pretty.
Unless of course, you're using "pretty" in a sentence such as this, "It pretty much sucks, actually."
My now story involves a lot of days that are spent in tears.
In an seemingly constant and intensifying battle with fears that have controlled me for years.
Fears that are fighting hard to stay as they surface in new ways and I desire freedom and healing.
It involves stomach aches, and panic attacks, and frustration.
It involves relational tensions and discussions about boundaries and other things that involve my heart and stir insecurities.
It involves insecurities and self-image and self-worth.
And working to change long ingrained mindsets.
It involves identifying lies, and working through the (seemingly endless) process of replacing them with truth.
It involves family, and faith, and friends and sleepless nights and cloudy days.
This is my story of now.
And my gut response would be to go with the earlier statement - it pretty much sucks.
But something in me knows that this is good.
That God holds my hand and walks with me even in this.
That His hands are in these things surfacing now, when I don't have full-time employment to cope with too.
That He is offering freedom at the same time as directing me down this new path towards nursing.
It pretty much sucks. But it's good. Dichotomy and mystery. Healing through pain. Freedom after the fear really intensifies (and it encourages me, oddly, that the fear has intensified, that it is trying to hang on. it seems to only do that when there is hope that it will really and truly go.)
This is my now story.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I'm Going to Be Her Again
I've written about twirling before. Here and here.It holds a certain promise of freedom for me. These days I twirl occasionally... it's actually begun to happen, but it rarely happens unembarrassed and unencumbered, and in any sort of location where it can be witnessed.
The photo above is sort of an exception. In a public park, with two friends watching, I spun, because I was joyful and peaceful and free, and it just bubbled out of me.
A lot has happened in the two weeks or so since that photo was taken. A lot of hard internal stuff, and I've stared at that picture a lot, treasuring the memory, and wishing I was still in that space.
Today didn't go as planned. I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do about a number of things. I'm disappointed in some ways, and hurting.
But just now I decided that whatever it takes, I'm going to be that girl in the picture again. I'm going to inhabit her skin permanently. I'm going to live unencumbered.
I have a sneaking suspicion it won't be an easy or pleasant process. I'm guessing it's probably going to be pretty ugly and painful and hard. And I'm pretty terrified of that quite frankly.
But I like her. And I don't often say that about anything to do with myself. So I'll do whatever it takes to live in her skin, in MY skin, permanently.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Surrender, freedom, hatred and judgement
I'm a judgmental person.
That's a happy way to start a blog post, isn't it?
The truth is, if you know me well, that statement was kind of a "what else is new" thing for you to read, and you're probably already losing interest in this post. Stay with me if you can. This time I think I'm actually going somewhere.
I've been thinking a lot about being judgmental this week. Partly because at times that judgmental nature has a tendency to spiral into hatred - especially when someone I love is being hurt. I've spent a lot of time recognizing this tendency in myself, feeling disappointed by it, and frustrated at it, but also sort of helpless, wondering how on earth one changes something that seems so core to oneself.
I love deeply and (try to) love generously. I'm at moments guarded with my heart - like most of the planet I've been hurt often enough to be tentative in offering the whole of myself to others. But, I will watch you closely. If your words don't line up with your life, I'm going to notice. If you're cruel, I'll notice. If you're harsh with your words, I'll see that too. And I have a huge distaste for hypocrites. Given long enough, I will most likely write you off as someone for whom it is impossible for change to occur.
I'm learning, though, that those things in others that so anger me, that draw out that tendency to judge, are often mirrored in various ways in my own life. That that cruel thing that makes me want to react out of anger and hatred towards someone else hits a nerve, because while I perhaps haven't been vocal about it, I'm had equally cruel thoughts. I'm learning that I can't play holier than thou. That sin and rebellion is still sin and rebellion whether it's overtly acted out or carefully hidden within the depths of oneself.
I've been thinking, too, about surrender and freedom. I've written about it several times before. You can find those thoughts here and here, and the most recent ones here.
In 2008, when I first wrote of surrender, I penned the following in my journal (appearing later on the blog in the first post linked above): "Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation."
A few weeks ago I wrote this: "Surrender is never easy. That letting go of my rights in favor of something bigger."
I've been thinking a lot about surrender this week. About, to quote DC Talk, "learning to give up the rights to myself; the bits and the pieces I've gathered as wealth." I've pondered the times I've truly managed, even if just for a moment, to surrender, and the relief and freedom that was there, and I've questioned why it is that that freedom has so often seemed fleeting and the struggles have so often seemed to multiply in the wake of those fleeting moments of freedom and surrender.
And as I prayed and pondered, the following scripture came to mind:
"When an evil spirit leaves a person, it goes into the desert, searching for rest. But when it finds none, it says, 'I will return to the person I came from.' So it returns and finds that its former home is all swept and in order. Then the spirit finds seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there. And so that person is worse off than before." (Luke 11:24-26, NLT)
Questions began echoing in my mind, "With what do I fill the free space brought by surrender? Am I intentional in replacing that space with things that glorify God, or do I simply rejoice in a space swept clean, and leave my heart open for greater oppression?"
(I need to pause, here, for just a second, and say that I really believe that sometimes surrender and freedom simply come and last. That we make that choice of surrender, and it is truly freeing. I have simply had a week of the growing conviction that the choices of surrender I've made have at times been less than wholehearted, and that I've invited a multiplication of misery upon myself in some of those moments of revoking surrender.)
Two other passages of scripture have been echoing through my thoughts this week as well. The story that speaks of Moses' face glowing so brightly after the time he spent with God that the Israelites were afraid, and it was necessary for Moses to wear a veil. And, the passage in 2 Corinthians that reads: "Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold. We are not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face to keep the Israelites from gazing at it while the radiance was fading away...But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (2 Corinthians 3:12-13, 16-18, NIV)
These two were certainly passages that seem on a totally different topic than dealing with a need to surrender my right to judge, and with the multiplication of misery at the fail to surrender. And yet, they popped up everywhere I went.
Are you asking yet how I'm going to tie this rather long-winded treatise together? I have a point, I promise!
I woke this morning into the sort of stunned space that follows certain unusual nights in my life.
It was a night where I'm really not certain whether I was awake or asleep. I just know that I watched some rather profound things play out in front of me. That I was relatively conscious of laying in my bed, but that I was transported elsewhere as I lay there.
In this case, some of the details are foggy. Mostly, I saw people. One or two I recognized; most I did not, as they were silhouetted. All were surrounded by a beautiful light. Lovely and golden. An almost internal glow.
As I woke and drove to work, the passage from 2 Corinthians came to mind, and I felt as if Jesus was reminding me that each of these people, whether I knew them or not, were displaying his glory, unveiled.
I wish I could tell you that some of the faces I recognized in the dream were those towards whom I've struggled with hatred and judgmental thoughts. The reality is that that is just not true. The few I recognized were people I love deeply.
And yet, as I pondered that sight all day, all those silhouettes of God's glory, I couldn't help but be reminded that it is simply not my right to judge. That each person, whether I happen to consider them cruel and hypocritical or not, is made in the image of God, and that I need to lay down that rebellious hold I've had on judgment. That I need to be willing to release that hatred. And, that perhaps, if in an odd dream like experience, God can for a few moments give me new eyes that see his glory, maybe he can do that in my day to day life as well - reveal his glory in those I'm so tempted to judge and to hate.
And that, tonight, is my prayer. That the view of his glory within each person, his love for each person, would so overwhelm my eyesight that I have no choice but to fall to my knees in confession and surrender. A surrender that is whole-hearted and not simply making space for further misery. I'm not there yet, but I'm taking steps in that direction. And I pray that those steps will grow.
That's a happy way to start a blog post, isn't it?
The truth is, if you know me well, that statement was kind of a "what else is new" thing for you to read, and you're probably already losing interest in this post. Stay with me if you can. This time I think I'm actually going somewhere.
I've been thinking a lot about being judgmental this week. Partly because at times that judgmental nature has a tendency to spiral into hatred - especially when someone I love is being hurt. I've spent a lot of time recognizing this tendency in myself, feeling disappointed by it, and frustrated at it, but also sort of helpless, wondering how on earth one changes something that seems so core to oneself.
I love deeply and (try to) love generously. I'm at moments guarded with my heart - like most of the planet I've been hurt often enough to be tentative in offering the whole of myself to others. But, I will watch you closely. If your words don't line up with your life, I'm going to notice. If you're cruel, I'll notice. If you're harsh with your words, I'll see that too. And I have a huge distaste for hypocrites. Given long enough, I will most likely write you off as someone for whom it is impossible for change to occur.
I'm learning, though, that those things in others that so anger me, that draw out that tendency to judge, are often mirrored in various ways in my own life. That that cruel thing that makes me want to react out of anger and hatred towards someone else hits a nerve, because while I perhaps haven't been vocal about it, I'm had equally cruel thoughts. I'm learning that I can't play holier than thou. That sin and rebellion is still sin and rebellion whether it's overtly acted out or carefully hidden within the depths of oneself.
I've been thinking, too, about surrender and freedom. I've written about it several times before. You can find those thoughts here and here, and the most recent ones here.
In 2008, when I first wrote of surrender, I penned the following in my journal (appearing later on the blog in the first post linked above): "Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation."
A few weeks ago I wrote this: "Surrender is never easy. That letting go of my rights in favor of something bigger."
I've been thinking a lot about surrender this week. About, to quote DC Talk, "learning to give up the rights to myself; the bits and the pieces I've gathered as wealth." I've pondered the times I've truly managed, even if just for a moment, to surrender, and the relief and freedom that was there, and I've questioned why it is that that freedom has so often seemed fleeting and the struggles have so often seemed to multiply in the wake of those fleeting moments of freedom and surrender.
And as I prayed and pondered, the following scripture came to mind:
"When an evil spirit leaves a person, it goes into the desert, searching for rest. But when it finds none, it says, 'I will return to the person I came from.' So it returns and finds that its former home is all swept and in order. Then the spirit finds seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there. And so that person is worse off than before." (Luke 11:24-26, NLT)
Questions began echoing in my mind, "With what do I fill the free space brought by surrender? Am I intentional in replacing that space with things that glorify God, or do I simply rejoice in a space swept clean, and leave my heart open for greater oppression?"
(I need to pause, here, for just a second, and say that I really believe that sometimes surrender and freedom simply come and last. That we make that choice of surrender, and it is truly freeing. I have simply had a week of the growing conviction that the choices of surrender I've made have at times been less than wholehearted, and that I've invited a multiplication of misery upon myself in some of those moments of revoking surrender.)
Two other passages of scripture have been echoing through my thoughts this week as well. The story that speaks of Moses' face glowing so brightly after the time he spent with God that the Israelites were afraid, and it was necessary for Moses to wear a veil. And, the passage in 2 Corinthians that reads: "Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold. We are not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face to keep the Israelites from gazing at it while the radiance was fading away...But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (2 Corinthians 3:12-13, 16-18, NIV)
These two were certainly passages that seem on a totally different topic than dealing with a need to surrender my right to judge, and with the multiplication of misery at the fail to surrender. And yet, they popped up everywhere I went.
Are you asking yet how I'm going to tie this rather long-winded treatise together? I have a point, I promise!
I woke this morning into the sort of stunned space that follows certain unusual nights in my life.
It was a night where I'm really not certain whether I was awake or asleep. I just know that I watched some rather profound things play out in front of me. That I was relatively conscious of laying in my bed, but that I was transported elsewhere as I lay there.
In this case, some of the details are foggy. Mostly, I saw people. One or two I recognized; most I did not, as they were silhouetted. All were surrounded by a beautiful light. Lovely and golden. An almost internal glow.
As I woke and drove to work, the passage from 2 Corinthians came to mind, and I felt as if Jesus was reminding me that each of these people, whether I knew them or not, were displaying his glory, unveiled.
I wish I could tell you that some of the faces I recognized in the dream were those towards whom I've struggled with hatred and judgmental thoughts. The reality is that that is just not true. The few I recognized were people I love deeply.
And yet, as I pondered that sight all day, all those silhouettes of God's glory, I couldn't help but be reminded that it is simply not my right to judge. That each person, whether I happen to consider them cruel and hypocritical or not, is made in the image of God, and that I need to lay down that rebellious hold I've had on judgment. That I need to be willing to release that hatred. And, that perhaps, if in an odd dream like experience, God can for a few moments give me new eyes that see his glory, maybe he can do that in my day to day life as well - reveal his glory in those I'm so tempted to judge and to hate.
And that, tonight, is my prayer. That the view of his glory within each person, his love for each person, would so overwhelm my eyesight that I have no choice but to fall to my knees in confession and surrender. A surrender that is whole-hearted and not simply making space for further misery. I'm not there yet, but I'm taking steps in that direction. And I pray that those steps will grow.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Newness
I am a big fan of newness these days.
Fresh starts.
New life.
I know I've mentioned it here before, but one of my favorite quotes is a classic line from Anne of Green Gables that goes something to the effect of , "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet." That is a really hopeful sentiment to me these days.
I'm waiting eagerly for spring and all of the newness it represents as well. Yesterday was the first day in a week or so where no snow fell. (I'm not counting those few little flakes that were mixed with rain as my roommate and I headed into the grocery store.)
It's a new month today. I like new months. Blank calendars and the space for fresh things.
I've been thinking a lot about the question Jesus posed to the man at pool of Bethesda, "Do you want to be well?" There's a lot having to do with newness in that question too. In fact, that question probably deserves it's own post at some future date.
But for today, I'm just going to celebrate newness.
And the fact that it's Friday.
Friday's are also good, for a number of reasons, including evenings of having the house to myself, spent in generally luxurious pasttimes such as facial masks, long baths, and episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Friday's are also good because they're "jeans day" at work. I like jeans day.
And on this Friday, I'm wearing a favorite top and earrings, purchased from the Tibetan store downtown, with my jeans. And flip-flops, even though it's theoretically too cold. Because I felt like wearing flip-flops, and because my toenails match my Tibetan top and earrings!
Celebrating newness.
Choosing life and joy today wherever I can.
Fresh starts.
New life.
I know I've mentioned it here before, but one of my favorite quotes is a classic line from Anne of Green Gables that goes something to the effect of , "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet." That is a really hopeful sentiment to me these days.
I'm waiting eagerly for spring and all of the newness it represents as well. Yesterday was the first day in a week or so where no snow fell. (I'm not counting those few little flakes that were mixed with rain as my roommate and I headed into the grocery store.)
It's a new month today. I like new months. Blank calendars and the space for fresh things.
I've been thinking a lot about the question Jesus posed to the man at pool of Bethesda, "Do you want to be well?" There's a lot having to do with newness in that question too. In fact, that question probably deserves it's own post at some future date.
But for today, I'm just going to celebrate newness.
And the fact that it's Friday.
Friday's are also good, for a number of reasons, including evenings of having the house to myself, spent in generally luxurious pasttimes such as facial masks, long baths, and episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Friday's are also good because they're "jeans day" at work. I like jeans day.
And on this Friday, I'm wearing a favorite top and earrings, purchased from the Tibetan store downtown, with my jeans. And flip-flops, even though it's theoretically too cold. Because I felt like wearing flip-flops, and because my toenails match my Tibetan top and earrings!
Celebrating newness.
Choosing life and joy today wherever I can.
3 on Freedom from Henri
So, I suppose some of you might get bored with all the quotes from Henri Nouwen I share here, but really, the blog is something I do as much for myself as for the people who read it, and I often flip back through the archives and read the thoughts and quotes and links and articles that have challenged me, or struck me, or made me laugh. And so, I add all the best of the Henri Nouwen quotes that appear in my inbox here, for later reference!
But, today's thoughts from Henri are on freedom, which is a topic I've been thinking a lot about lately anyway... so, I'm sharing again!
Growing Into Our True Freedom
True freedom is the freedom of the children of God. To reach that freedom requires a lifelong discipline since so much in our world militates against it. The political, economic, social, and even religious powers surrounding us all want to keep us in bondage so that we will obey their commands and be dependent on their rewards.
But the spiritual truth that leads to freedom is the truth that we belong not to the world but to God, whose beloved children we are. By living lives in which we keep returning to that truth in word and deed, we will gradually grow into our true freedom.
The Spirit Will Speak in Us
When we are spiritually free, we do not have to worry about what to say or do in unexpected, difficult circumstances. When we are not concerned about what others think of us or what we will get for what we do, the right words and actions will emerge from the center of our beings because the Spirit of God, who makes us children of God and sets us free, will speak and act through us.
Jesus says: "When you are handed over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes, because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you" (Matthew 10:19-20).
Let's keep trusting the Spirit of God living within us, so that we can live freely in a world that keeps handing us over to judges and evalutators.
Freedom Attracts
When you are interiorly free you call others to freedom, whether you know it or not. Freedom attracts wherever it appears. A free man or a free woman creates a space where others feel safe and want to dwell. Our world is so full of conditions, demands, requirements, and obligations that we often wonder what is expected of us. But when we meet a truly free person, there are no expectations, only an invitation to reach into ourselves and discover there our own freedom.
Where true inner freedom is, there is God. And where God is, there we want to be.
But, today's thoughts from Henri are on freedom, which is a topic I've been thinking a lot about lately anyway... so, I'm sharing again!
Growing Into Our True Freedom
True freedom is the freedom of the children of God. To reach that freedom requires a lifelong discipline since so much in our world militates against it. The political, economic, social, and even religious powers surrounding us all want to keep us in bondage so that we will obey their commands and be dependent on their rewards.
But the spiritual truth that leads to freedom is the truth that we belong not to the world but to God, whose beloved children we are. By living lives in which we keep returning to that truth in word and deed, we will gradually grow into our true freedom.
The Spirit Will Speak in Us
When we are spiritually free, we do not have to worry about what to say or do in unexpected, difficult circumstances. When we are not concerned about what others think of us or what we will get for what we do, the right words and actions will emerge from the center of our beings because the Spirit of God, who makes us children of God and sets us free, will speak and act through us.
Jesus says: "When you are handed over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes, because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you" (Matthew 10:19-20).
Let's keep trusting the Spirit of God living within us, so that we can live freely in a world that keeps handing us over to judges and evalutators.
Freedom Attracts
When you are interiorly free you call others to freedom, whether you know it or not. Freedom attracts wherever it appears. A free man or a free woman creates a space where others feel safe and want to dwell. Our world is so full of conditions, demands, requirements, and obligations that we often wonder what is expected of us. But when we meet a truly free person, there are no expectations, only an invitation to reach into ourselves and discover there our own freedom.
Where true inner freedom is, there is God. And where God is, there we want to be.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Beautiful...
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Crying out for restoration
A dear friend of mine who posts to her blog very infrequently has posted twice in the last two days, and her words are eating at me. They're not directed at me. She is speaking her heart (and it is one that I love). But for my heart her words are carrying a strong message of conviction.
She spoke in her most recent post about some of the little things around her home, the reminders of deep moments and the promises that Jesus has made to her. I've been in her home, and seen those reminders. And while my own tendency to collect those things in my own home was already present, in the time I've known her, she has taught me much about collecting and marking the things the Lord has spoken. She has also given me several little gifts that mark things about our relationship (one that is deeply important to me) or things that she knows the Lord has been speaking to me.
From where I sit several of her gifts are visible. And several other items that are tied to deep moments we've shared can also be seen.
I cleaned my bedroom from top to bottom a few weeks back. In the midst of a day where the wrestle was strong, and I felt the need to simply silence all the voices, I cleaned. I reordered, reorganized, and generally removed chaos wherever I could. I cleaned the surfaces that are prayer "altars" of a sort in my bedroom, and the temptation was strong to remove many of the items sitting on them, to put them away in a box where they couldn't be visible reminders any longer. Where they couldn't sting.
Because right now the reminders sting. They speak of deep places that in some cases I'd rather forget. They call me to things I'm afraid of, and not always certain I want. They speak of what was, and what subsequently seems to have been shattered. There are a few items in particular that I would much rather have stored safely away in a box, than in plain sight, visible each time I rise to look in the mirror.
When I feel like this, I avoid those "altars" as much as possible. I don't light the candles that rest there, or anywhere else in my bedroom. I don't burn incense, or oil, because those fragrances, too, carry reminders. I don't look at the items on my window sill - some gifts from my friend, a stone from "my" spot in the mountains when I met Jesus there and twirled last summer, a heart shaped stone from Indonesia, some strings of shells from Hawaii, a container of rose petals from various special bouquets this last year, and some pieces of driftwood I gathered from a lake shore when I was there with friends last July. I try not to make eye contact with the photos that hang on the wall across from my bed, one of a lake, and one of a spot my heart has been called to visit.
And yet, I can't avoid them either. I have slept for several weeks now wrapped in two scarves, both symbols of prayer and reminders of deep things the Lord is speaking. I tried last night to lay down without wrapping myself in the scarves. I was peaceful, and felt I didn't need them. I couldn't do it. Within moments I was sitting up, and reaching for them, wrapping them around me before laying back down to sleep. I wear a few of those reminders on a daily basis - a ring, and a necklace and a bracelet, each speaking of different deep moments.
And I have felt the tug of all these things scattered around my space deeply.
My friend spoke in the writing she shared on her blog these last few days of finding her feet again, and returning to the promises spoken. Of believing and standing amidst these things.
And I have resented the reminders scattered around my space. Even the reminders I wear each day, or fall asleep wrapped in. I have resented the deep pull of Jesus on my heart and life. I have wanted nothing so badly as to be "normal". I have resented that so many of the deepest moments of this last year, so many of the things scattered around my room also speak of moments of deep pain and sorrow.
The photo of the place my heart longs to go speaks of a dream, and a calling of Jesus to me. It also speaks of a shattered dream. Of fear of traveling to pray with friends. Of a hesitancy and brokenness I don't know how to handle.
The railway spikes on one of the altars speak of a moment when I found family. I found the place in which I belonged, I fit. They also speak of the deep shattering that has taken place within that family in the last year. Of anger and frustration and pain. Of a year of tears and wondering and struggling.
There is a tiny gold camel from Pakistan. A gift from missionaries when I was a child, but also a reminder of a very dear friend who is serving the Lord in that country now. And a reminder of some painful words. Of moments when the direction the Lord is taking my life has been unseen, or judged because it is not understood. (And how can I expect someone else to understand that which I am hardly able to accept or comprehend?)
There are stones and wine corks. Goblets. A tiny rose pin. Three pure white candles. A stone cross handmade into a necklace. A cross from my graduation and a rosary hanging over another photo. Five stones with words etched in them. Bits of wax left from the advent candles I burned and prayed with. Scarves. Palm leaves and willow branches. A tiny oil lamp from Israel. A medal and a tassel from Rome. Coins. Two boxed baptism candles.
And I have been tempted at moments to pack each and every one of them away. To simply move on. To box up a season of my life, and shut it down. To declare something new and create a life out of it. To close off the deepest parts of myself because while they have held the deepest joy, they have also carried immeasurable sorrow. I am tempted to purge these things from my life.
But I can't. And I have resented that too. That in becoming more and more fully myself, I have encountered such shattering, such deep pain.
I have been tired and angry, and haven't known what to do with those feelings.
And reading my friend's words these last few days has caused much of this to surface within my own heart. In part because I love her heart. And in part because of an awareness of how far my own is at times from where I'd like it to be.
I read her words about finding her feet again, and I am glad, because I love her deeply and desire that for her. I also wrestle with jealousy, because in these moments where she is finding her footing, I have been feeling like I have lost what little hope and footing I had left.
Just over a year ago, in an impossibly deep moment, I confessed to the Lord and a friend that I could stand amidst the storms. That I could fight. That I had been hearing him say that to me, and ignoring it, because I didn't want to stand or fight. That I didn't want that to be part of my reality. I haven't regretted that confession, and yet, I have regretted it nearly every day of the year that has followed.
I am discovering that this journey with Jesus is highly confusing and full of paradox.
That joy and sorrow seem far closer together than I dreamed was possible.
My heart is being stretched and tugged and shattered and pierced.
I sat and listened to an African children's choir last week, and fought tears I didn't understand.
I look at the photo on my wall of a place that I know unequivocally that the Lord has asked me to visit. To go to, and pray, and speak some words of scripture, and I remember that same passage of scripture echoing in a hall where diplomats of the world have gathered. And I remember too the division in that moment. I look at it and remember that Jesus told me not to make that trip alone. To have companions for the journey. And I remember how many relationships have fallen to pieces since and because of the last trip where he asked me to travel and pray with friends.
I look at a ring on my finger - a placeholder until just the right ring presents itself, and I remember a moment of deep vows near a lake. And I remember too how quickly those statements of choice were tested.
I see the coin resting on the frame of my mirror and remember a dream I had and a moment to deep to be publicly shared. And I remember how quickly it too became a source of conflict and division
There are moments when I feel as if life has become a ridiculous sort of balancing act, and I wonder if that is healthy.
Abba, I confess that my heart has ached. That I have resented the reminders of the things you've done, and the promises you've spoken that are scattered around my space. That I've been angry that this life that you've offered me has been so marked by pain. I admit that I don't understand, and that that lack of understanding really bothers me. That I have been jealous of those who seem more able to find you in the midst of suffering or more able to find you without experiencing suffering. That I have wanted to have the benefits of knowing you deeply without drinking the cup of your suffering. That I have a hard time trusting you. That at times I am afraid of you. That though you have spoken often to me about joy, I seem to be unable to grasp what you mean by that. That I have hated people I deeply love. That I have harbored anger and unforgiveness. That I have been certain that you cannot be loving, because the life you have offered has been far too cruel for that. That I have hated the things you've said, and feared the things you've called me too. That there have been moments when I've created distance from you and others in an attempt to protect my heart, instead of believing that you will shield and protect it.
And so I ask for your forgiveness. And your voice and your presence and your help as I seek to walk differently. I ask for a heart that loves. A heart that is still willing to believe that you can and will change things that I believe are impossible. I ask for your healing, and your wholeness, recognizing that your definition of wholeness might just look a lot like my definition of shattered. I ask for more of the deep moments when my heart knows that it has met with you, and for you to remind me of those moments even when I'd rather forget and let my heart grow hard. Give me back a heart of flesh, in place of a heart of stone. Let me see you in the gift of a church candle from my roommate, and wine goblets waiting to be used. Let me see you in the scarves wrapped around me. Let me see you, and not the pain and bitterness and questions that so many of the reminders scattered around my bedroom have carried.
I love you. And I long to walk in step with you. (And I admit that I'm afraid of what that could mean.) Ease my fears with your comfort. Remind me of that first verse I memorized as a small child, to say aloud in the middle of the night to combat the nightmares, "when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you." Help me to trust. Help me to want to trust.
I love you. And I desire you.
I remember the vows I made to you. And I remain committed to them. Give me the strength and grace to walk those out.
Remind me that I chose this. That I committed to follow you, even if it meant drinking from the cup of suffering.
Pour out your blessings on those I have resented. Help me to walk daily in forgiveness towards them.
Work a miracle and once again draw together the things that have been impossibly broken.
Bring peace and restoration.
Bring an outpouring of hope and joy.
May it be enough comfort for me that I was where you asked, when you asked me to be, even if others were not. Help me to rest in that obedience. Help that to be enough, to be the thing I remember, not the brutally painful things.
Help me to see beauty instead of the ashes. To remember the deep image of the phoenix that night a few years back, sitting on the floor at epic, next to a friend, while Kirk preached. That was another week and another year that was marked by deep beauty and deep pain walking hand in hand. Help me to remember that so often the beauty came in the midst of the deepest destruction and pain. Help me to look for the beauty and not become focused on and mired in the destruction and pain.
You are good. It's a truth spoken by your word. Help my heart to trust and rest in that.
Bring freedom. Help me to see the places you have offered it, and to walk in it. Help me to be still in those places where I am still bound - to stop thrashing in order to be set free.
Provide in new ways for me.
Restore my health.
Show me the church community that you have for me.
I love you.
Abba, I belong to you. May your will be done in my life.
Amen.
She spoke in her most recent post about some of the little things around her home, the reminders of deep moments and the promises that Jesus has made to her. I've been in her home, and seen those reminders. And while my own tendency to collect those things in my own home was already present, in the time I've known her, she has taught me much about collecting and marking the things the Lord has spoken. She has also given me several little gifts that mark things about our relationship (one that is deeply important to me) or things that she knows the Lord has been speaking to me.
From where I sit several of her gifts are visible. And several other items that are tied to deep moments we've shared can also be seen.
I cleaned my bedroom from top to bottom a few weeks back. In the midst of a day where the wrestle was strong, and I felt the need to simply silence all the voices, I cleaned. I reordered, reorganized, and generally removed chaos wherever I could. I cleaned the surfaces that are prayer "altars" of a sort in my bedroom, and the temptation was strong to remove many of the items sitting on them, to put them away in a box where they couldn't be visible reminders any longer. Where they couldn't sting.
Because right now the reminders sting. They speak of deep places that in some cases I'd rather forget. They call me to things I'm afraid of, and not always certain I want. They speak of what was, and what subsequently seems to have been shattered. There are a few items in particular that I would much rather have stored safely away in a box, than in plain sight, visible each time I rise to look in the mirror.
When I feel like this, I avoid those "altars" as much as possible. I don't light the candles that rest there, or anywhere else in my bedroom. I don't burn incense, or oil, because those fragrances, too, carry reminders. I don't look at the items on my window sill - some gifts from my friend, a stone from "my" spot in the mountains when I met Jesus there and twirled last summer, a heart shaped stone from Indonesia, some strings of shells from Hawaii, a container of rose petals from various special bouquets this last year, and some pieces of driftwood I gathered from a lake shore when I was there with friends last July. I try not to make eye contact with the photos that hang on the wall across from my bed, one of a lake, and one of a spot my heart has been called to visit.
And yet, I can't avoid them either. I have slept for several weeks now wrapped in two scarves, both symbols of prayer and reminders of deep things the Lord is speaking. I tried last night to lay down without wrapping myself in the scarves. I was peaceful, and felt I didn't need them. I couldn't do it. Within moments I was sitting up, and reaching for them, wrapping them around me before laying back down to sleep. I wear a few of those reminders on a daily basis - a ring, and a necklace and a bracelet, each speaking of different deep moments.
And I have felt the tug of all these things scattered around my space deeply.
My friend spoke in the writing she shared on her blog these last few days of finding her feet again, and returning to the promises spoken. Of believing and standing amidst these things.
And I have resented the reminders scattered around my space. Even the reminders I wear each day, or fall asleep wrapped in. I have resented the deep pull of Jesus on my heart and life. I have wanted nothing so badly as to be "normal". I have resented that so many of the deepest moments of this last year, so many of the things scattered around my room also speak of moments of deep pain and sorrow.
The photo of the place my heart longs to go speaks of a dream, and a calling of Jesus to me. It also speaks of a shattered dream. Of fear of traveling to pray with friends. Of a hesitancy and brokenness I don't know how to handle.
The railway spikes on one of the altars speak of a moment when I found family. I found the place in which I belonged, I fit. They also speak of the deep shattering that has taken place within that family in the last year. Of anger and frustration and pain. Of a year of tears and wondering and struggling.
There is a tiny gold camel from Pakistan. A gift from missionaries when I was a child, but also a reminder of a very dear friend who is serving the Lord in that country now. And a reminder of some painful words. Of moments when the direction the Lord is taking my life has been unseen, or judged because it is not understood. (And how can I expect someone else to understand that which I am hardly able to accept or comprehend?)
There are stones and wine corks. Goblets. A tiny rose pin. Three pure white candles. A stone cross handmade into a necklace. A cross from my graduation and a rosary hanging over another photo. Five stones with words etched in them. Bits of wax left from the advent candles I burned and prayed with. Scarves. Palm leaves and willow branches. A tiny oil lamp from Israel. A medal and a tassel from Rome. Coins. Two boxed baptism candles.
And I have been tempted at moments to pack each and every one of them away. To simply move on. To box up a season of my life, and shut it down. To declare something new and create a life out of it. To close off the deepest parts of myself because while they have held the deepest joy, they have also carried immeasurable sorrow. I am tempted to purge these things from my life.
But I can't. And I have resented that too. That in becoming more and more fully myself, I have encountered such shattering, such deep pain.
I have been tired and angry, and haven't known what to do with those feelings.
And reading my friend's words these last few days has caused much of this to surface within my own heart. In part because I love her heart. And in part because of an awareness of how far my own is at times from where I'd like it to be.
I read her words about finding her feet again, and I am glad, because I love her deeply and desire that for her. I also wrestle with jealousy, because in these moments where she is finding her footing, I have been feeling like I have lost what little hope and footing I had left.
Just over a year ago, in an impossibly deep moment, I confessed to the Lord and a friend that I could stand amidst the storms. That I could fight. That I had been hearing him say that to me, and ignoring it, because I didn't want to stand or fight. That I didn't want that to be part of my reality. I haven't regretted that confession, and yet, I have regretted it nearly every day of the year that has followed.
I am discovering that this journey with Jesus is highly confusing and full of paradox.
That joy and sorrow seem far closer together than I dreamed was possible.
My heart is being stretched and tugged and shattered and pierced.
I sat and listened to an African children's choir last week, and fought tears I didn't understand.
I look at the photo on my wall of a place that I know unequivocally that the Lord has asked me to visit. To go to, and pray, and speak some words of scripture, and I remember that same passage of scripture echoing in a hall where diplomats of the world have gathered. And I remember too the division in that moment. I look at it and remember that Jesus told me not to make that trip alone. To have companions for the journey. And I remember how many relationships have fallen to pieces since and because of the last trip where he asked me to travel and pray with friends.
I look at a ring on my finger - a placeholder until just the right ring presents itself, and I remember a moment of deep vows near a lake. And I remember too how quickly those statements of choice were tested.
I see the coin resting on the frame of my mirror and remember a dream I had and a moment to deep to be publicly shared. And I remember how quickly it too became a source of conflict and division
There are moments when I feel as if life has become a ridiculous sort of balancing act, and I wonder if that is healthy.
Abba, I confess that my heart has ached. That I have resented the reminders of the things you've done, and the promises you've spoken that are scattered around my space. That I've been angry that this life that you've offered me has been so marked by pain. I admit that I don't understand, and that that lack of understanding really bothers me. That I have been jealous of those who seem more able to find you in the midst of suffering or more able to find you without experiencing suffering. That I have wanted to have the benefits of knowing you deeply without drinking the cup of your suffering. That I have a hard time trusting you. That at times I am afraid of you. That though you have spoken often to me about joy, I seem to be unable to grasp what you mean by that. That I have hated people I deeply love. That I have harbored anger and unforgiveness. That I have been certain that you cannot be loving, because the life you have offered has been far too cruel for that. That I have hated the things you've said, and feared the things you've called me too. That there have been moments when I've created distance from you and others in an attempt to protect my heart, instead of believing that you will shield and protect it.
And so I ask for your forgiveness. And your voice and your presence and your help as I seek to walk differently. I ask for a heart that loves. A heart that is still willing to believe that you can and will change things that I believe are impossible. I ask for your healing, and your wholeness, recognizing that your definition of wholeness might just look a lot like my definition of shattered. I ask for more of the deep moments when my heart knows that it has met with you, and for you to remind me of those moments even when I'd rather forget and let my heart grow hard. Give me back a heart of flesh, in place of a heart of stone. Let me see you in the gift of a church candle from my roommate, and wine goblets waiting to be used. Let me see you in the scarves wrapped around me. Let me see you, and not the pain and bitterness and questions that so many of the reminders scattered around my bedroom have carried.
I love you. And I long to walk in step with you. (And I admit that I'm afraid of what that could mean.) Ease my fears with your comfort. Remind me of that first verse I memorized as a small child, to say aloud in the middle of the night to combat the nightmares, "when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you." Help me to trust. Help me to want to trust.
I love you. And I desire you.
I remember the vows I made to you. And I remain committed to them. Give me the strength and grace to walk those out.
Remind me that I chose this. That I committed to follow you, even if it meant drinking from the cup of suffering.
Pour out your blessings on those I have resented. Help me to walk daily in forgiveness towards them.
Work a miracle and once again draw together the things that have been impossibly broken.
Bring peace and restoration.
Bring an outpouring of hope and joy.
May it be enough comfort for me that I was where you asked, when you asked me to be, even if others were not. Help me to rest in that obedience. Help that to be enough, to be the thing I remember, not the brutally painful things.
Help me to see beauty instead of the ashes. To remember the deep image of the phoenix that night a few years back, sitting on the floor at epic, next to a friend, while Kirk preached. That was another week and another year that was marked by deep beauty and deep pain walking hand in hand. Help me to remember that so often the beauty came in the midst of the deepest destruction and pain. Help me to look for the beauty and not become focused on and mired in the destruction and pain.
You are good. It's a truth spoken by your word. Help my heart to trust and rest in that.
Bring freedom. Help me to see the places you have offered it, and to walk in it. Help me to be still in those places where I am still bound - to stop thrashing in order to be set free.
Provide in new ways for me.
Restore my health.
Show me the church community that you have for me.
I love you.
Abba, I belong to you. May your will be done in my life.
Amen.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Henri on Forgiveness and Freedom
more thoughts from Henri Nouwen. These ones hit home a bit given my ongoing thought process surrouding finding freedom.
Forgiveness, the Cement of Community Life
Community is not possible without the willingness to forgive one another "seventy-seven times" (see Matthew 18:22). Forgiveness is the cement of community life. Forgiveness holds us together through good and bad times, and it allows us to grow in mutual love.
But what is there to forgive or to ask forgiveness for? As people who have hearts that long for perfect love, we have to forgive one another for not being able to give or receive that perfect love in our everyday lives. Our many needs constantly interfere with our desire to be there for the other unconditionally. Our love is always limited by spoken or unspoken conditions. What needs to be forgiven? We need to forgive one another for not being God!
Receiving Forgiveness
There are two sides to forgiveness: giving and receiving. Although at first sight giving seems to be harder, it often appears that we are not able to offer forgiveness to others because we have not been able fully to receive it. Only as people who have accepted forgiveness can we find the inner freedom to give it. Why is receiving forgiveness so difficult? It is very hard to say, "Without your forgiveness I am still bound to what happened between us. Only you can set me free." That requires not only a confession that we have hurt somebody but also the humility to acknowledge our dependency on others. Only when we can receive forgiveness can we give it.
Forgiveness, the Way to Freedom
To forgive another person from the heart is an act of liberation. We set that person free from the negative bonds that exist between us. We say, "I no longer hold your offense against you" But there is more. We also free ourselves from the burden of being the "offended one." As long as we do not forgive those who have wounded us, we carry them with us or, worse, pull them as a heavy load. The great temptation is to cling in anger to our enemies and then define ourselves as being offended and wounded by them. Forgiveness, therefore, liberates not only the other but also ourselves. It is the way to the freedom of the children of God.
Forgiveness, the Cement of Community Life
Community is not possible without the willingness to forgive one another "seventy-seven times" (see Matthew 18:22). Forgiveness is the cement of community life. Forgiveness holds us together through good and bad times, and it allows us to grow in mutual love.
But what is there to forgive or to ask forgiveness for? As people who have hearts that long for perfect love, we have to forgive one another for not being able to give or receive that perfect love in our everyday lives. Our many needs constantly interfere with our desire to be there for the other unconditionally. Our love is always limited by spoken or unspoken conditions. What needs to be forgiven? We need to forgive one another for not being God!
Receiving Forgiveness
There are two sides to forgiveness: giving and receiving. Although at first sight giving seems to be harder, it often appears that we are not able to offer forgiveness to others because we have not been able fully to receive it. Only as people who have accepted forgiveness can we find the inner freedom to give it. Why is receiving forgiveness so difficult? It is very hard to say, "Without your forgiveness I am still bound to what happened between us. Only you can set me free." That requires not only a confession that we have hurt somebody but also the humility to acknowledge our dependency on others. Only when we can receive forgiveness can we give it.
Forgiveness, the Way to Freedom
To forgive another person from the heart is an act of liberation. We set that person free from the negative bonds that exist between us. We say, "I no longer hold your offense against you" But there is more. We also free ourselves from the burden of being the "offended one." As long as we do not forgive those who have wounded us, we carry them with us or, worse, pull them as a heavy load. The great temptation is to cling in anger to our enemies and then define ourselves as being offended and wounded by them. Forgiveness, therefore, liberates not only the other but also ourselves. It is the way to the freedom of the children of God.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Pursuing Quiet
My headspace has been way too loud and cluttered of late.
I've been bogged in stuff that I can't figure out, thrashing around, trying to find freedom in the midst of some gross stuff.
Late last night I decided that I needed my interior space to quiet down a little.
So today I'm doggedly pursuing quiet.
I'm being rather ruthless in what I will take in. What thought patterns I'm letting run their course. What I'm reading and listening to.
And I'm cleaning.
I'm not entirely sure if this is a needed thing, or just an elaborate method of avoiding that is working on a temporary basis.
But for now, I'm more peaceful.
And I decided that if I really do want to pursue freedom right now, it might be helpful to stop thrashing against the things that bind long enough for someone (Jesus I hope) to come and unbind them. It seems that it would be easier for unbinding to occur if I am still enough to make it a less difficult task.
I've been bogged in stuff that I can't figure out, thrashing around, trying to find freedom in the midst of some gross stuff.
Late last night I decided that I needed my interior space to quiet down a little.
So today I'm doggedly pursuing quiet.
I'm being rather ruthless in what I will take in. What thought patterns I'm letting run their course. What I'm reading and listening to.
And I'm cleaning.
I'm not entirely sure if this is a needed thing, or just an elaborate method of avoiding that is working on a temporary basis.
But for now, I'm more peaceful.
And I decided that if I really do want to pursue freedom right now, it might be helpful to stop thrashing against the things that bind long enough for someone (Jesus I hope) to come and unbind them. It seems that it would be easier for unbinding to occur if I am still enough to make it a less difficult task.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Exposed
This finding freedom business is even harder work than I thought.
And there is yet more to walk through.
More things surfacing.
I'm feeling exhausted, raw, exposed, naked. In front of God, and a close trusted friend.
It's not a safe feeling yet, to stand so exposed, even in front of Jesus, who I know knew it anyway.
I pray one day it will be a safe place. I believe one day it will.
In the meantime, I'm committed to keep standing there.
Even when it seems to be tearing me apart.
Even when the rawest of wounds is being ripped open.
As a friend pointed out on the weekend, it's better than letting them fester.
And I continue to pray for broken things to be restored. People. Hearts. Relationships.
My heart has shattered, and there is yet more surfacing, more to walk through.
And yet, this freedom that seems to come at so high a cost, that seems to be so painful to achieve, is something my heart longs for, and so I keep walking, one tiny little halting, sometimes, limping, sometimes crawling step at a time, with many tears shed, towards it.
And there is yet more to walk through.
More things surfacing.
I'm feeling exhausted, raw, exposed, naked. In front of God, and a close trusted friend.
It's not a safe feeling yet, to stand so exposed, even in front of Jesus, who I know knew it anyway.
I pray one day it will be a safe place. I believe one day it will.
In the meantime, I'm committed to keep standing there.
Even when it seems to be tearing me apart.
Even when the rawest of wounds is being ripped open.
As a friend pointed out on the weekend, it's better than letting them fester.
And I continue to pray for broken things to be restored. People. Hearts. Relationships.
My heart has shattered, and there is yet more surfacing, more to walk through.
And yet, this freedom that seems to come at so high a cost, that seems to be so painful to achieve, is something my heart longs for, and so I keep walking, one tiny little halting, sometimes, limping, sometimes crawling step at a time, with many tears shed, towards it.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
On Freedom (addendum)
On Sunday, I wrote here about freedom.
I was chatting on the phone with my friend Faye tonight, catching up a little, and planning a time to see each other next week, and was rehearsing some of the thoughts I wrote on Sunday for her.
I complained that no one ever tells you that to get to freedom, you have to wade through a lot of crap first. That it's not quite the instantaneous thing that it's made out to be.
Faye offered a comment in response that I found quite insightful. She said that she thinks the reason that no one tells you that, is that most people will settle for pseudo-freedom. That very few actually do all the hard work to get to real freedom, and that therefore, they simply can't tell you how painful, and how much hard work it is to get there, because they've never really experienced it.
I think I'm thankful for friends like the one who sort of pushed me headlong into the mess I waded through on the weekend. And friends like Faye who offer insights like that. Because, despite the pain of getting there, I think I'd rather have the real thing than settle for pseudo-freedom. (Though it might be hard to get me to admit that the next time I find myself with another mountain of crap to wade through in the journey to ever-increasing freedom!)
I was chatting on the phone with my friend Faye tonight, catching up a little, and planning a time to see each other next week, and was rehearsing some of the thoughts I wrote on Sunday for her.
I complained that no one ever tells you that to get to freedom, you have to wade through a lot of crap first. That it's not quite the instantaneous thing that it's made out to be.
Faye offered a comment in response that I found quite insightful. She said that she thinks the reason that no one tells you that, is that most people will settle for pseudo-freedom. That very few actually do all the hard work to get to real freedom, and that therefore, they simply can't tell you how painful, and how much hard work it is to get there, because they've never really experienced it.
I think I'm thankful for friends like the one who sort of pushed me headlong into the mess I waded through on the weekend. And friends like Faye who offer insights like that. Because, despite the pain of getting there, I think I'd rather have the real thing than settle for pseudo-freedom. (Though it might be hard to get me to admit that the next time I find myself with another mountain of crap to wade through in the journey to ever-increasing freedom!)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Things they don't tell you (freedom)
I spend a lot of time amazed at the things about life that no one bothers to tell you.
I wrote once on this blog about how I'd been having conversations with God about what freedom would look like, and he showed me a picture of myself in a beautiful skirt - a twirling skirt - spinning in a meadow.
Freedom is a word that's talked about a lot in the circles I hang out in. It's a great concept, and wonderful when it's been achieved.
But can I just say that I've never really heard it mentioned that it's a lot of hard work to get to. That it takes a lot of fighting and tears and hurt. A lot of gross moments of pulling things into the light and letting them be seen in all their disgustingness. A lot of struggle. A lot of moments when you're absolutely certain that nothing could be worth the price of what you're going through.
No one tells you that part.
No one tells you that freedom is rarely instantaneous.
No one tells you that often, when the Lord offers it, it still means you have to walk through all the shit to get to it. That you don't just sort of get airlifted over all the built up crap to the place of freedom, but that you have to negotiate your way over and around and through the crap to get there.
No one tells you that you might actually get there sometimes, and be so exhausted from the trip that you don't even realize you've temporarily arrived, and that you certainly don't have the energy to appreciate it.
It's an awfully beautiful thing, freedom, but no one tells you the cost.
I've been recognizing the cost again this weekend.
And maybe tomorrow I'll put on my twirling skirt and spin just a little to celebrate. But just at this moment, I'm caught by the fact that no one told me it would be this way. And I'm exhausted from the journey through it.
I wrote once on this blog about how I'd been having conversations with God about what freedom would look like, and he showed me a picture of myself in a beautiful skirt - a twirling skirt - spinning in a meadow.
Freedom is a word that's talked about a lot in the circles I hang out in. It's a great concept, and wonderful when it's been achieved.
But can I just say that I've never really heard it mentioned that it's a lot of hard work to get to. That it takes a lot of fighting and tears and hurt. A lot of gross moments of pulling things into the light and letting them be seen in all their disgustingness. A lot of struggle. A lot of moments when you're absolutely certain that nothing could be worth the price of what you're going through.
No one tells you that part.
No one tells you that freedom is rarely instantaneous.
No one tells you that often, when the Lord offers it, it still means you have to walk through all the shit to get to it. That you don't just sort of get airlifted over all the built up crap to the place of freedom, but that you have to negotiate your way over and around and through the crap to get there.
No one tells you that you might actually get there sometimes, and be so exhausted from the trip that you don't even realize you've temporarily arrived, and that you certainly don't have the energy to appreciate it.
It's an awfully beautiful thing, freedom, but no one tells you the cost.
I've been recognizing the cost again this weekend.
And maybe tomorrow I'll put on my twirling skirt and spin just a little to celebrate. But just at this moment, I'm caught by the fact that no one told me it would be this way. And I'm exhausted from the journey through it.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Fresh Start
It's a new month. Seems the weather changed instantaneously from summer to autumn over the weekend - they had 5 cm of snow in the mountains only an hour from here. A new season.
I need a fresh start. A do over if you will. A chance to choose life again. A shifting of season once again.
So I'm glad for a new month. A fresh start.
And I'm starting here:
"And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." (Philippians 4:8)
I need a fresh start. A do over if you will. A chance to choose life again. A shifting of season once again.
So I'm glad for a new month. A fresh start.
And I'm starting here:
"And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." (Philippians 4:8)
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Saying Goodbye
If you read my blog regularly, you'll know that I spent Saturday morning in a local cemetery, not for a funeral, or because anyone I know is buried there, but simply because I'd long felt the pull to visit. It turned out to be an invitation from Jesus to find healing for a long-wounded place in my heart. I woke far earlier than I'd planned on Saturday morning, having been looking forward to a long, lazy morning in bed. Instead, I found myself wide awake, but with little motivation to move from the warm cocoon of my bed. I grabbed my laptop from the dresser beside my bed, and turned it on, intending a quick check of my email, and then popping in a dvd and (hopefully) falling back asleep as it played.
Instead, while I was perusing my emails a friend on the other side of the country instant messaged me, and we began chatting. We talked about our various plans for the day, and I happened to mention that I was feeling a strong urge to visit this particular cemetery. (She been visiting a few weeks before, and I'd pointed it out to her.) She suggested that perhaps I was feeling the urge to spend time in a cemetery because some things in my life have been dying of late. Her comment brought to mind a situation from nearly ten years ago, and before I knew it I was sharing a story with her that I'd never before told anyone. Her response had many helpful thoughts in it, but what stood out in my mind was a succinct comment "And you wonder why you want to go to a cemetery?" It made me laugh and convinced me that that was, indeed, how I was going to spend my day.
Just over eight years ago my grandfather passed away. Our relationship was not a particularly close one due to many things, though he'd been a constant presence in my life since birth. He was from a generation of men that rarely if ever expressed emotion. He loved to tease, and during my teenage years I had a love-hate relationship with this man who drew seemingly great pleasure from making sometimes rude comments about my love for food, and my weight. When you are a woman with curves in a family of women who are rather slender, you can't help but feeling self-conscious, and Grandpa's comments did little to alleviate my teenage (and onwards) angst.
His illness was long, and drawn out. Congestive heart failure they called it. Over the last years of his life he was in and out of hospital, and there was even talk of him and my grandma moving into the home of my family (my dad is their oldest child) because the care required was becoming more than grandma could handle alone, while not enough to necessitate nursing care.
I remember that last week of his life in ways that are both vividly clear and completely blurry. It was becoming obvious that he would not be leaving the hospital this time around, and family members were beginning to stay nights at the hospital, taking turns, never leaving him alone. I'd visited the hospital with my parents and brothers several times that week, each time knowing that it could be the last.
On the Friday of that week, I came home from high school exhausted – completely spent, physically and emotionally. My mom and brothers were once again heading to the hospital, and though I felt guilty, I made a decision based in self-care, and chose to stay at home and rest, planning to visit the following day. It was a decision that I would regret deeply for the next eight years.
When I rose fairly early the next morning, and stumbled out into the living room, collapsing on the couch, I was greeted by my dad. No softening, just "Grandpa died last night. Your aunt and I went to the hospital when Grandma called, to say our goodbyes. We need to head for Grandma's house soon."
All I could think in the shock of that moment was that I'd put myself first in a moment of exhaustion the day before, and now I'd never get the chance to say goodbye.
As time wore on, the guilt of that decision weighed heavy. I knew it was irrational, and I never mentioned it to anyone, but I was unable to escape it, either, and it came up at the oddest of times.
I hadn't thought about any of this in months, but found the story spilling out of me in that brief conversation with my friend early on Saturday morning. Her words hit home, "You can say goodbye now. He can say goodbye too." I questioned her further, "He can say goodbye?" She reminded me that the Catholic church, which both of us have been exploring of late, believes that the saints – those who are believers – are still alive, and free to speak to us. Unsure what to do with that statement, we said our goodbyes, ended our conversation, and I dressed and prepared for the day.
Some quick research on the internet (the history buff in me wanted to know where to locate a few specific graves in what I knew to be a historic cemetery) and I headed out the door, praying the whole way, still stunned at what had suddenly risen to the surface in my early morning conversation. I'd quickly tucked a journal, bottle of water, my wallet and camera into a bag, and I was ready to go. I didn't know what to expect, or how the day would go, only that the Lord seemed to be drawing me to himself, and bringing to the surface long hidden wounds.
After arriving, I wandered through the cemetery for over an hour. Turns out that what is commonly referred to in our city as cemetery hill is actually composed of several separate cemeteries. I spent my time in Union Cemetery, and Burnsland Cemetery. I snapped photos, smiled at the wide variety of small animals that had seemingly turned out to greet me, and generally just enjoyed the peace of walking in a beautiful old cemetery – more like a park than anything. I located the graves of the RCMP Colonel who founded the fort that eventually grew into our city, naming the fort (and ultimately the city) after his hometown in Scotland, and of the first settler in the Calgary area as well. I visited the military burial grounds, walking through graves for soldiers killed in both world wars as well as the Korean war. I found the grave of a young woman, a rising local journalist, killed only months ago, in a brutal attack.
After walking for quite some time, I found myself wandering up a pathway
towards a building that I knew from my brief research to be the
old chapel and mortuary. I wondered what the orange ball lying in the pathway was, and as I drew closer and recognized the object I simultaneously began to laugh and cry. It was a bright orange giant marigold.
At this point I know you're all wondering why a large, ostentatious, and rather ugly flower inspired such a burst of emotion. My grandpa was known for his gardening skills. He'd built a few greenhouses in his backyard, and each winter started a bevy of plants from seed, that in the spring he'd then give to whatever family and friends cared to enjoy them. He was especially known for geraniums, tomatoes, and yes, marigolds. Each spring he'd bring my mom a huge flat of the giant marigolds – the sort that get a foot or two tall, and produce large, smelly, ant attracting flowers that are several inches in diameter, and are generally ostentatious and lacking in subtlety. Every year the front of our home was graced with these flowers, and every year my mom and I would have a conversation about how absolutely hideous I felt that these particular flowers were.
And so, finding one laying, completely out of place in the middle of a pathway, on a morning when I'd been grieving my grandfather, and had come to the cemetery hoping to lay to rest eight years of guilt and say goodbye, was a rather shocking experience for me. A quick perusal of the nearby area told me that there were no marigolds growing in the flower beds or on graves, and no flower arrangements that contained marigolds anywhere in the vicinity.
I picked the flower up, and, cradling it in my hand, began to hunt for a section of the cemetery that I'd been looking for all morning. It was time to say my goodbyes. Known as "The Potter's Field" (a reference to the field purchased by the priests, with the blood money Judas Iscariot had been paid for his betrayal of Jesus and ultimately returned to the priests, and designated by them as a cemetery for foreigners) this section of Union Cemetery houses approximately 1000 unmarked graves – the final resting place for the bodies of Calgary's earliest homeless, indigent, and a few executed criminals. Finding the spot, a narrow strip sandwiched between two sections with gravestones, and planted with large trees and shrubs, I climbed to the top of the hill and settled myself in the grass. Pulling out my journal I began to write, releasing the many years of emotion, and finally, addressing my grandpa in a letter of sorts, and saying goodbye.
The marigold now sits in a tiny glass of water on a bookshelf in my bedroom. It's wilting and fading, and within the next day or two I'll discard it. The memory it carries, though, will go with me forever.
On a day that I desperately needed release, to be freed from some things I'd carried far too long, Jesus met me in a cemetery. On a day when I'd spoken with a dear friend about saying goodbye, and she'd reminded me that the Lord would allow that to happen, I unexplainably found in my path the one flower that could open that well of emotion, and allow the release I'd longed for to occur. I said goodbye, and in that goodbye found great freedom. Freedom from guilt. From the silence that had marked this for so long in my life. From the grief that I'd carried unnecessarily past the time when the sorrow ended. I found life in a place known for death. And for that I am grateful.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Paradoxes (or “I Can’t Have It Both Ways Can I?)
Combatant prince, O come to me,
No weak, peaceful Brother disgraced.
A dead cold body hung on a tree.
This is not what I came to see.
(http://blog.beliefnet.com/godspolitics/2008/06/when-a-eucharist-of-humility-i.html)
I’m going back and forth this morning. I want it both ways.
I want the gentle, healing way. The way that a friend and I have talked about for months now. Gentle encounter. Healing in the midst of worship. Less warlike, and more filled with adoration. The way that defined my healing from depression nearly three years ago.
And yet, I want the warlike way as well. I want the Jesus who protects, who guards, who defends, who goes to battle on my behalf. I want a Jesus who will order the things tormenting me through these last days and months to leave. Not a Jesus who says, “Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
I want to be totally defended, to rest in the knowledge that I am protected. I also want to defend myself.
There is this shield picture spoken over my life, and I find myself struggling with it. The posture required of me to be protected by the shield held over me is one where I am defenseless. Laid out on my face, curled into a ball. There is no way to move quickly from that position. No way to defend myself. There is a trust required in it that is hard for me. To trust that that shield will be enough. That I am protected. To relinquish control of that.
I want that victorious Christian life you hear about sometimes. The one that a good pastor’s kid knows is a lie or a pipe dream. But the one that sounds so promising. Just meet Jesus and all your troubles will melt away. Seems my troubles have done nothing but increase since meeting Jesus. There are days (more frequently lately) where walking with Jesus seems only a marginally better option than life without Him. The question I find myself asking is if “marginally” is enough?
I want it both ways. To be in control, and to be surrendered to a protection far beyond my control.
Somehow, I don’t think I can have it both ways.
No weak, peaceful Brother disgraced.
A dead cold body hung on a tree.
This is not what I came to see.
(http://blog.beliefnet.com/godspolitics/2008/06/when-a-eucharist-of-humility-i.html)
I’m going back and forth this morning. I want it both ways.
I want the gentle, healing way. The way that a friend and I have talked about for months now. Gentle encounter. Healing in the midst of worship. Less warlike, and more filled with adoration. The way that defined my healing from depression nearly three years ago.
And yet, I want the warlike way as well. I want the Jesus who protects, who guards, who defends, who goes to battle on my behalf. I want a Jesus who will order the things tormenting me through these last days and months to leave. Not a Jesus who says, “Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
I want to be totally defended, to rest in the knowledge that I am protected. I also want to defend myself.
There is this shield picture spoken over my life, and I find myself struggling with it. The posture required of me to be protected by the shield held over me is one where I am defenseless. Laid out on my face, curled into a ball. There is no way to move quickly from that position. No way to defend myself. There is a trust required in it that is hard for me. To trust that that shield will be enough. That I am protected. To relinquish control of that.
I want that victorious Christian life you hear about sometimes. The one that a good pastor’s kid knows is a lie or a pipe dream. But the one that sounds so promising. Just meet Jesus and all your troubles will melt away. Seems my troubles have done nothing but increase since meeting Jesus. There are days (more frequently lately) where walking with Jesus seems only a marginally better option than life without Him. The question I find myself asking is if “marginally” is enough?
I want it both ways. To be in control, and to be surrendered to a protection far beyond my control.
Somehow, I don’t think I can have it both ways.
Risk Freeing Someone Else
Cameron posted this piece of writing advice from Anne Lamott this morning, and it rather caught my attention.
"Toni Morrison said, 'The function of freedom is to free someone else,' and if you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else.
Not everyone will be glad you did. Members of your family and other critics may wish you had kept your secrets.
Oh, well, what are you going to do? Get it all down. Let it pour out of you onto the page. Write an incredibly shitty, self-indulgent, whiny, mewling first draft. Then take out as many of the excesses as you can."
--Anne Lamott
"Toni Morrison said, 'The function of freedom is to free someone else,' and if you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else.
Not everyone will be glad you did. Members of your family and other critics may wish you had kept your secrets.
Oh, well, what are you going to do? Get it all down. Let it pour out of you onto the page. Write an incredibly shitty, self-indulgent, whiny, mewling first draft. Then take out as many of the excesses as you can."
--Anne Lamott
Monday, June 16, 2008
Twirling skirts, revisted
Just over a year ago, I wrote this post. "Trees, Twirling Skirts and Mental Health".
It is probably the post that brings the most people (who aren't friends or regular readers) to my blog. At least two or three times a week it pops up as the post that flagged something in a google search.
I bought the twirling skirt I'd been dreaming of on the weekend.
And, yesterday, in a few spots, I twirled.
I'm still waiting for the freedom promised in that original image of twirling to arrive. But yesterday, as a prayer for mercy and freedom, for myself and some dear friends, I stepped into a mountain clearing, peeled off my shoes and socks, and spun barefoot around and around and around.
My roommate and I were talking about the missionary Eric Liddell (made famous in the movie "Chariots of Fire") as we drove to the mountains yesterday. Liddell's sister was quite critical of his passion for running. She felt it was time wasted - not used in ministry. His response? "When I run, I feel God's pleasure."
Yesterday I stood in the sun in a mountain clearing, and later in the setting sun on the bank of my favorite creek, and I spun.
I felt God's pleasure.
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