on learning to accept fear (Part 2: responding to a mother's worry)

My mother texted me the other day to express how "sad" it is about Robin Williams. I agreed and commented how mental illness is definitely very real.

She then said: "Promise me never to do that."

And I couldn't reply.

Sometimes the truth is too scary to face, so I hide.

I was afraid of my mother's fear so I chose not to respond to her request that I make such a big promise to her. Mostly I was afraid for her because sometimes the truth can feel like too much. I wanted to protect my mom from worry.

I've been paying more attention to fear these days.

I've been noticing that like children, fear just wants to be noticed. Even though fears can't just get what they want and don't have the right to push me around, I'm letting them be heard. I'm asking questions and trying to learn from them, even though rationalizing with or talking down fear doesn't always work.

Like the white hair, and wrinkles, and aches and pains that have been slowly making me notice that in spite of my feelings, I'm not 25 anymore . . . fear reminds me that I'm human.

I'm learning that I can rest when I simply accept fear as a part of life, kind of like germs that I can't just perfectly cleanse away. I make a choice to accept the risk that I might get sick and live.

No matter what we do, fear isn't something that we can make go away.

Fear isn't something to feel shame about -- neither that we have fear, or that we struggle to control it.

I hope that in time I'll become better at thoughtfully responding to fear instead of impulsively reacting to it and that my body will be strong enough for it the next time it invades me. For now, I'm learning to be honest that this conditioning takes a lot out of me.

I feel like a person who is just beginning a new fitness routine and is tempted to give up from feeling more exhausted because of the workouts. I'm learning to be gentle and patient and kind with myself as I develop the strength to stand strong in the midst of fear that is a part of life. Like wind, I can't control fear from happening, but I can do what I can to be prepared for it. Yoga reminds me of this as I contract my core muscles and stand strong like a tree, imagining that I can't be pushed or blown over.

I'm starting to accept fear and it's wonky ways. I'm also starting to accept it as a part of others, too, and how it spills over and makes a mess sometimes.

Though I couldn't promise my mom I won't one day take my life and I was afraid of how she might feel and what she might think if I spoke the truth, I decided not to let my silence be so deafening.

In my response to my mother's worry for me, I addressed it by saying:

I saw your text before I went to bed and didn't know how to respond, so I let it sit.

The truth is, I can't promise something like that to you. I can't promise that to anyone. Not even myself.

Does it mean you should be worried about my mental health? Not necessarily.

None of us are immune from random and seemingly sudden moments of onset anxiety and depression; however, I'd venture that the "sudden-seeming" nature is really a surfacing of the truth that's hidden below.

I've struggled in my own silent and scary ways for a lot of my life, and it's likely why I created "rules" that were my way of trying to fix myself.

I'm aware that my son and my husband and I could choose not to be brave in this life; we could choose to give up.

That I haven't . . . that any of us haven't . . . is truly a miracle. 

I share this piece of my response to my mom because truth alone isn't enough to set us free

     . . . neither is love from our family, and
     . . . neither is time.

It isn't because we aren't good enough that explains why we continue to struggle in life, it's simply because we haven't arrived in a place where anything is perfect.

When we accept that we were made human, we just might begin to accept our brokenness . . . and even ourselves. 

Maybe, just maybe, we'll begin to simply be, as we are, instead of work to become someone we aren't (even yet).

Maybe we'll begin to see our beauty as the kind that in its rawness is sometimes hard to look at, yet reminds others that they aren't alone.

Maybe we'll begin to see our imperfect bravery of accepting ourselves as the most perfect beauty of all.

Maybe we'll begin to accept grace.

Maybe we'll begin to rest.

Maybe we'll begin to live.

responding to a mother's worry

My mother wrote to me last night with what she called, unfounded worry. She asked me to forgive her if she steps out of line and said:

"I don't want interfere and I don't want to make things my business that don't belong to me. 

I worry about you because I am your mother and I love you. I cannot pinpoint why I worry. I have no definitive reason that brings me to this worry.  

It is not person or situation specific. It is just an uneasy feeling I have. 

. . . I just want you to know how important you are, how much you are needed and how much you are loved . . . " 

: : : 

Even though fear was rummaging around the walls of my heart, and . . . 

     I wasn't completely comfortable with what I had to say, and . . .
     I wondered what I could have possibly done to make her be worried, and . . .
     I wanted to run and hide, and scream and shout in defense of myself, and . . .
     I sometimes forget to count the gifts . . .

I scripted a response and sent it . . . in the midst of the fear . . . because:

I'm learning to honor myself, as I am
     . . . and I'm learning to honor others, too, as they are.

: : : 

My response to my mother's worry went something like this: 

Mom, 

I know you love me and that's a great gift -- to know.  

I truly appreciate you and how you care. 

Let me assure you that there's no need to worry. Though, mother's have this sense and that's not to be ignored, so for whatever reason that brings you to "worry" I'll just trust that you'll choose peace. I've been on a journey of rest and it's been deep and profound. Perhaps I've been distant. 

Why do people feel compelled to walk a certain line or stay outside of certain bounds? That kind of thinking isn't free to just love and care and express genuine concern and is what inhibits many of us from peace and what causes us continued restlessness, wondering what should we do? how should we act? what should we say? I've been deliberately choosing not to live that way and to be more open with my heart, though it's hard. I'm tired of the rules that imprison me; rules that I create and have based my life around that has ultimately inhibited me from living in joy and peace.

I want you to know that life is good, Mom. Truly, it's good. 

Now, in my mid-30s, I'm navigating who I am, as I am, versus who I think I ought to be. This may seem like a time to reply: "well, that's how you should have been living, silly girl" Yet, it's not how I've lived and that's just how it is. I think a lot of people my age get to this point in their lives and start to realize that we haven't been true to ourselves, and those who don't get it probably just haven't realized this about themselves. This is my story right now: learning to live freely as me and not focus so much on the imperfections.

I'm deep and often times too much for most people including myself, yet I am learning to trust God for my imperfections and trust my husband for his love. These two are profound lessons I'm in the midst of learning and it takes a lot of energy and strength and much of my heart just to live in this space. Perhaps that's a lot of the reason why I might come across as distant; there's just not a lot of words I can muster and not a lot of room in my heart right now. I'm okay with this and I trust I'm good enough in this moment, as I am. 

I hope you'll be overwhelmed with a peace that assures you that I'm in a good place. 

love,

a

Linking with Jennifer

a lesson on art

I grew up with the mindset that being "artistic" is something a person either is or isn't.

Looking at everyone else's art would make me want to hide my own. I didn't think I was good enough. And as a parent, I've done the same thing with my son's artistic creations.

I've rolled my eyes, made excuses, and even suggested that he's a bit on the immature side. When he was attending public school, I would see the hallways lined with children's artwork and my mind would compare my son with his peers. Deep inside I didn't think he was good enough.

My nine-year-old son's pictures of people resemble stick figures while the same aged girl down the street practically has a person's complexion and jaw-line drawn out as real life-like.

This past winter I came home from work on several occasions to find my son handcrafting a three-dimensional "house" made out of construction paper. A staircase with a railing . . . a newscast script and video camera with wiring . . . a fireplace . . . a pizza box . . . grease on the floor of the garage . . . "The Sharp's" home, as he named it, was life-like! And beyond what I saw, the storyboard my son developed behind his self-motivated, independent paper creation is remarkable evidence of how his brain works; he thinks of details with an engineer-like mind.

As it turns out, my son was inspired by a three-dimensional paper exhibit he viewed at the new teaching museum on the campus where I work. Students here are expressive and many have a varied interest in art, though they aren't majoring in the subject. Art is studied cross-curricularly and my son has had the opportunity to see it for himself. An evening concert with mountain ballads, fiddle tunes, banjo playing, and scrolling illustrations called crankies, also recently inspired my son.

Beyond seeing art, The Boy-Man has been inspired to create art for himself . . . in his own way with his own creative thinking.

The thinking that I'm not good enough has been infused throughout my life story. Fear has coursed through my veins as I've compared and measured myself to others, placing limits on me that has squelched my risk-taking and courage to live, as I am.

It's awful to realize how much of myself I've given up. I didn't have a favorite color or food or flavor. The word should bossed me around and I'd look to others for the answers, as if life was a test I was cheating on because I was too afraid that I might be wrong about something.

Writing was something that I kept hidden for a long time, and I still get the heebie-jeebies to share among certain kinds of people, especially the academic-folk. I stay clear away from poetry because fear tells me I don't know how, yet someone told me once (or twice, maybe) that my writing is at times poetic-like. It's just that I don't always know how people decide to break the lines where they do and that's where fear gets the best of me.

People have also told me in recent years that I am real. Once I discovered what it feels like to just be me, I realized that I don't have a choice but to live any other way than as I am . . . if I want peace, that is.

I might be too much for some people. I might make some squirm or shuffle in their stance. I can tend to be a bit over the top and dive a bit too deep for some people. Others seem to appreciate how I openly share my heart and don't sugarcoat my thoughts. Passion carries me away sometimes and I live a lot by emotions and intuition.

I'm learning that living real and life-like is beautiful art. Living this way is the greatest gift we can give God. When we live our raw, real selves out loud we are honoring who He deliberately allows us to be. We can trust that if there is any part of us that needs any fixing, He'll do what's necessary in and through us.

We can simply be.

     This is our offering.
     This is our worship.

And so, I am choosing to trust these days more than I am choosing to fear. I'm stepping out and putting one foot in front of the other in a metaphorical way. I'm doing as I'm led, being actionable about God-sized dreams and crazy ideas, even though I don't have all my ideas perfectly all together and even though I'm not entirely 100% equipped right now.

To live in such a way whereby we fully and freely live reminds people that they aren't crazy as they are, and that they aren't alone. To live this way is to trust that God has purpose for us, as. we. are -- messy and immature and not entirely put together or fully equipped.

God has told me through the years that Peter, one of Christ's disciples, and I are kin. We were both shifty in nature, not confident enough to stand on our own two feet, bullied by fear. Yet, God worked in us an unshakable faith as we began to know Him in such a personal way. He told us both that we are a rock, for Him. Peter's faith built people up and God tells me that mine does too; that my faith is a place of stability in times of fear, reminding people that they can rest, as they are.

Our very living as. we. are. is the heart of worship. We reflect our trust that we can simply embrace who we are, and that God purposes us all of who and how we are for His glory. He's a God of inside out transformation, declaring the ugly as beauty and the imperfect as perfect, making our messy lives works of art.

loose us to be

 

Father, we come.

with face buried in our hands, still we come.

we know we need You.

yet, to face You seems so hard.

to have You take our hands away from our tear-stains seems so scary.

to have You see our guttural pain streaked across our face is a bit like jumping off a cliff.

yet, we believe in You. and we hope in You.

     . . . still, we question Your Realness.

why is that?, I wonder.

what are we afraid of? 

do we think You'll smack us, or leave us, or laugh at us, or turn away from us in disgust?

You won't do any of those and we know it.

     . . . and still, we are timid to be Real.

You have anointed us for such a time as this.

You have called us to live this one life we have -- to live it full and unabashedly.

release us from fear's grip and shame's taunting that keeps our faces hidden.

loose us to stand free and full and emboldened with full confidence in You.

shift our minds and our fears to focus on Your deliberate crafting of us.

I ask this believing You use our true selves in ways far greater than we see.

so let this be:
     in Jesus name, loose us to be Real in every way. 

          . . . . knowing we're part of your Kingdom building in ways we cannot even imagine.

let us Be.

amen and amen.

be Real with me

i see you sigh when the new day dawns.

pulling the covers back over your head and lingering a little longer underneath the warmth, i can see how you hesitate to step your feet out and begin a day again.

life feels heavy sometimes. the days are burdensome with all their responsibility and such. 

you carry these immense expectations of ourselves and others, and it's just so hard to make everyone do what you think they should do.

     (why, oh, why can't they just do what they know is right?!)

you know you can't control and really, that isn't your plan. yet, you feel compelled to help and guide, and it aches so much to see everyone so reckless and seemingly mindless.

surrendering their care feels a little bit like carelessness on your behalf. it makes you squirm inside and think maybe you are being irresponsible with your influence.

you're entitled to feel what you feel and think what you think.

taking your foot off the gas and pulling over to take a break in the day feels a little bit like playing hooky and you worry about causing more of a distraction than creating good, hearty discipline. flittering about in fun is good, just not all the time.

your heart really wants the best for all of us, i get that. we have work to do that requires order and structure, focus and attention, and so . . .

     when he doesn't seem to remember all that together you put into yesterday . . .

     and when she seems to have forgotten the simplest reminder . . .

     and we all seem to be too carefree . . .

i get that you sometimes just want to scream: doesn't anyone care but me?!

whimsy is our way, though i see it isn't yours. you have a more organized way to each day. we need you, just as you need us -- whether we each know it or not. 

and so, i'm praying because that's what i know how to do. 

     i'm praying your grip will be loosened . . .

     i'm praying for your willingness to let us be us will be widened . . .

     i'm praying we won't dismiss you and your ever loving heart . . .

     i'm praying we pay attention more to the details and not scrimp on being responsible . . .

     and i pray we all learn to live our days barefoot and frantic-free.

let's hold each other up today. 
let's let each other be, as we are -- fully and free. 

i'll appreciate you for you. and him for him.

and let me back up to say that i first appreciate me for me.
     (which, as you know, is truly no small thing.)

i'll step into the me that i am and invite you to do the same for you. 

when you sigh as the new day begins, i'll not ridicule you for not being happy-clappy sunshine-face mister-ready-for-the-day. i'll let you be and trust that you'll find your way.

and when i'm struggling to get my popcorn-brain thoughts to settle down, will you let me be as I am, too?

will you hold me and remind me that we each have our struggles? will you just let the quiet be between us without making me feel less than and you feel more than?

remind me that we all have days that make us sigh.

     days that make us want to scream . . .

     days that make us want to stand on our heads . . .

          or spin the plates wildly . . .

          or simply want to humph and sit in the sun.

because, i forget sometimes that i'm not the only one who gets lost on any random day that ends in y. and i forget sometimes that we're all allowed to have moments when we want to run back in bed or frankly, run right away.

when i see you sigh, as much as i sometimes want to rebuke you or fix you, i need to see your real.

i need to be reminded that grown men cry and hurt and get discouraged, and that big girls can cry, too.

i need to be reminded that we don't have it all together all the time, and we can't be all things to everyone without coming apart a little at the seams.

i need to see you are Real. 

so sigh on, my dear. the days are heavy to bare.

i can't promise you today will be any better than the other day, or that everything today will be okay.

what i can do is accept that you have feelings and you are human.

     i can climb into bed with you and pull the covers over our heads . . .

     i can hold you and sigh right along with you . . .

     i can take your hand and stay with you through this uncertain and brand new day.

this is my worship. 

a new kind of vow: As. We. Are.

I think we should come to the altar naked.

     No more of this beautiful white gown and glorified-perfect stuff.

Seriously, I think we should come naked: as. we. are.

     Messy. Dirty. Bruised.

     Self-mutilated. Self-shamed.

     Holey and drained.

     Ashamed and afraid.

     Angry. And even amazed.

Our vows should be of a different kind.

     Aware that we will surely swerve and sway and make mistakes.

So I'm proposing a new kind of vow.

     To our groom (or our bride), as much as to our littles, and each other.

A daily vow as much as a life vow.

: : : 

to my groom . . . my son . . . my self . . . and even my God,

my loving you today is a choice, and you need to know this:

     i will get angry even after i say that i won't.

     i will surely hurt you.

     i will be unlikeable a lot of the times.

     i will abuse and adulterate what we've got.

     i will put me first.

     i will have unfair expectations of you.

     i will be impatient, and impish.

     i will abandon my umph and stickwithitness.

     i will want to run.

     i will try to hide.

     i will want comfort more than i will want the hard work.

     i will make so much about me.

     i will want what i want over what i know is what's best.

     i will get everything so tangled and twisted, just as i will be.

     i will complain of not having what i want.

     i will pine for better days.

     i will come into my days scared and scarred.

     i will not promise that i'll always love with a generous and committed heart.

     i will, though, guarantee one thing: i'll always be human.

          i will live the definition of messed up, tripped up, effed up.

          i will be me. 

     i will boldly and brashly bring my whole self to the table, at least some days: real and raw.

     i will reflect my need for undeserving grace, unconditional love. true redemption.

     if that's what you're willing to want, then let's do this thing . . . this life . . . this day.

this is our worship. 

Linking with Jennifer.

on learning to honor thy self

We base our thoughts and our feelings on comparison, constantly pining for a benchmark other than letting our heart have its own voice. 

I wish we all would believe our very selves and loose the could’ve and would’ve kind of living, and the if only we were kind of mourning.

Comparing my life with others has squelched dreams and most of all: Hope. 

I’ve let what you (and others) think, define what I think. (And most of the time I haven’t known for sure what you really even think.) Energy has drained out of me as I’ve watched you being you and stepped up to my days as someone I’m not. I’ve told myself my dreams don’t matter . . . and put a thumbtack in even caring about what I think.

The desire my heart has most is for us all to just Be: As. We. Are . . . to accept our life as it is . . . to live our passions versus dismiss them. 

I picture ourselves as a living magazine boldly splaying the beauty that we are.

Join me at Laura Rath's place to read more . . . 

this is our worship.

this is Christmas

I snarled at him this morning first thing.
And he's been throwing up throughout today.

It's Christmas and it doesn't feel as it should.

I watch the silent wonder in her eyes as she looks at the album.
And her grown son bends over to remind her "that's Pop".

It's Christmas and it doesn't feel as it should.

In all of it, Immanuel . . .
In all of it, grace.

For this is Christmas.
And all of it we unwrap.

this is our worship.

___________________________________

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wounds

So much of me wants to step over the edge to what I cannot see. To truly live by faith.

I feel a push to choose the unabashed faith-living where I am certain of what I do not see. Just as I wonder what it would be like to go there, I scratch my way back to where I feel more secure, where I can see what appears to be most Real. 

I've been contemplating crazy God-sized dreams that have followed me around in the *whirl and twirl* of my days, wondering about the possibility of their realness. And I've been taking steps to pursue them -- deliberately. boldly. bravely. When I don't see evidence of what I hope for, doubt nags at me.  

The other day, my son took a lacrosse ball to the chest without his pads. Though unintended, the shot went directly at him, leaving an obvious mark that was overwhelming to see. It wasn't until I saw the wound that I understood the magnitude of the blessing. I felt the pangs of what if, and guilt began to gnaw at me for how my grip is so tight.

It changed me to see the mark.

Looking down at my fingers, I notice how they grip so tightly. Even though I know I can loosen them, I am humbled to realize my own fears hold back my faith-living and cause me to wrestle doubt as much as I do.

I'm human. I create idols and my comfort is based around them a lot of the time. I can say that I surrender and I can try not to live for anything or anyone other than Him, but the truth is that I do. And, He's mostly okay with it. His grace is big enough to give me permission to be me right now with all my doubt.

He allows this process of growing.

Thomas was given an opportunity to see Jesus after He was crucified, to see His wounds. God didn't have to do that for him -- to respond to his doubt -- yet, He allowed Thomas to see. Jesus even remarked that Thomas was blessed because he saw.

Seeing is what changed me.

It was a gift to see the mark where my son was hit -- to have a greater understanding for what could have been, and to consider what didn't. Part of me feels shame for being affected by a wound as much as I have been and I am tempted to shrug it off as no big deal.

What it represents is Real.

I don't want to minimize Him in my life, especially for His purposes -- even for these crazy dreams that may never come to be in the way I imagine.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

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worship | {Day 31}: Keeping it Real

I often ask him to tell me about his heart. And I am certain he thinks I'm certifiably crazy.

When I ask him about his day, it's usually an immediate and soft-toned "good," almost distant sounding. It's obvious to me his mind is really off thinking of something else, though he doesn't even realize it. With an urgent questioning before his mind goes too far away, I ask, Really? Was it really?

I want him to notice what is important to his heart.
I want him to feel free to be fully him.

Before I leave his bedroom I ask again, if he has anything he needs to share. Because, he needs to know that he can share anything. Mostly that he can tell Him. His prayers now, they're mostly all gratitude-speak, and I pray his spirit communes with His over his heart.

We talk about deliberately living how He made us -- with all our passions splayed out for the world to see. And how sometimes that means being honest about feelings that have nestled inside and burrowed into our heart.

We talk about how everyday moments are occasions for Real worship.

     Choosing to serve Him by living our authentic self out loud.
          Not fear...or pride...or anger...or even them.

     Keeping the entrance to our heart carefully guarded.
          Not keeping the hurt inside.

The moment awakens his memory and suddenly truth blurts out. He's been angry and holding it inside all this time, completely mindless to how it's burrowed itself in his sweet heart. And how a stone has turned up and his heart it's now solid, not soft.

He doesn't want to listen to a thing I've got to say. And his father, he's become his enemy. Suddenly I see the battle enraged.

We talk about what really matters most -- freedom over feelings. And he learns a bit more about forgiveness in that moment. How it's really more for us than for them.

Courageously, he reaches for it. Forgiveness. And there, his heart beats softly again.

The stone is rolled away.

Read a list of all posts in the {31 days} of Keeping it Real series.

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imagine | {Day 30}: Keeping it Real

There once was a man who became a scientist.

He fell in love with chemistry, though he was always certain he would be a writer.

Butterflies became his curiosity and he made discoveries about them that saved people's lives.

People thought he was strange for spending so much time on what didn't seem to matter -- winged creatures.

And eventually his obsession with a vision led to a patent which led to one of the most successful pharmaceutical drugs on the market, curing one of the most deadly diseases on the planet.

Money poured in and he tells how he never could have imagined the magnitude of his curiosity.

So he gave it away.

His dreaming became an investment in other people's dreams.

Sometimes visions have no end. We pursue them anyway, though they may seem to make no sense.

: : : 

I interview a candidate for an open position.

She asks me how I manage every thing -- a career. a marriage. the man-growing of my child. my writing.

I tell her I've learned a lot. Mostly, to be myself.

Hearing my own words, I think of how I never could have imagined accepting Me the way I do.

     Yet, here I am and this He did.

My heart craves a pouring into her of encouragement.

I tell her she is good enough and for her to trust that truth, not chase after more or different.

There's no end to my vision of what this affirming might do to a budding professional.

But I do it anyway.

Just like the scientist who studied anyway.

When we imagine possibilities, Real things happen.

Read a list of all posts in the {31 days} of Keeping it Real series.

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On the scientist and his dream.