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.

staying here

Father, we come.

anxious for Your healing.

hopeful, yet wondering if maybe we could be wrong.

what we long for and envision You doing just might not happen.

we look, and what we see niggles a thought that maybe the grass won't ever turn green.

maybe what was once fresh-fallen-white and now is crusty-brown will just turn muddy-muck.

we realize the possibility that our story could get even yuckier yet.

You could have a journey that takes us deeper into the knee-deep valley of cold and darkness.

we walk around scouring for signs that our hope isn't lost forever; that it's just dormant.

You are our Foundation that guides us as we walk, looking for signs that there's growth.

we plead for signs to show us we're healing; that there will be redemption in all this waiting.

our eyes are fixed forward with faith that our hope-filled heart isn't just dry wasteland.

still us to stay here, Father.

shift our eyes to where the waiting is and where the signs of winter still loom.

may this be our offering to You: to accept this place, as it is.

amen.

write

life is hard.

it doesn't always feel good and i'm definitely not always happy-clappy.

life sometimes comes hard and fast and at other times more like a slow drip.

i get irritated about my own proclivity of doing whatever to make it my way.

contentment takes its queue from comfort, and anger takes its queue from annoyed.

i wish circumstances didn't dictate my reaction to life. 

a small ridge forms in between my eyes a lot of days.

the lines stay there for awhile to remind me of the gruel of patience.

i complain more than i accept the way things simply are.

it's so hard to loose anger and disappointment at how things aren't. 

yet, it's really actually easier and less exhausting to let things be.

i'd like to be more tolerable that everything is out of my control.

barbed wire juts out from my mouth when i don't get what i want.

there's usually such a bloody mess left in the wake of my selfish impulsiveness.

i've learned what leads me to back to love my own messy self. 

it settles the popcorn in my noggin and gives me permission to be.

it's how i remember i'm human, in my raw and real and free.

i write.

this is my worship.

linking with Lisa-Jo.

restless

I've lived in fear for so long that gripping life tight and being intensely focused on what I thought I should do became a habit that was hard to break.

I wasn't sure why I lived this way; it always felt so natural.

     God kept nudging me to loosen my grip. 

I'd resist and declare: this. is. how. i. am! I didn't think I could change and thought I was doing everything right.

Being humbled makes everything feel like it's crashing around you. It made me imagine an Earthquake and wanting to push back the pictures and the dishes on the wall as I realize everything is shaking.

We aren't born with octopus-like arms, though, and we can't tend to both the walls and everything else crashing on our very selves. We have to choose to loosen our focus and to trust that even though it feels like the walls are crashing down, whatever may happen won't make all of who we are dissolve. We have to do this to live in peace.

Because, peace-choosing is all about releasing our wants and accepting what is.

To trust that the experiences we've lived (and live) won't be wasted, frees us from all the trying to create sense out of everything. We find rest here.

I've lived restless. And I've tried to figure out why and what I'm doing wrong to have this angst in my heart. I've tried to be content and counted what I've daily unwrapped as gifts. Still, there is a restlessness within me and try as I may it won't go away.

I see now that it's not discontent.

I've been restless to pursue hope, no. matter. what.

It's risky because it most assuredly will bring pain and disappointment. I can't control the outcome and that's the thing.

Still, I am restless for this.

"He is the builder of our dreams. We bring Him our blank canvases, hand them over, and say, whatever you must create to display your glory, do it." (Jennie Allen)

God has been chasing me. Wanting to be my every.thing, He has gently pried my fingers off of the reigns that have falsely given me the idea I'm in control. He continues to shift my focus off me and onto Him. He has helped me to serve just Him; not me or my comfort.

I want whatever He wants these days . . . though part of my hope, admittedly, is to be comfortable and to not hurt. And it's scary because I know myself; I know I want comfort sometimes more than I want His will. But I won't get comfort and life is hard and unfair.

     All in life is for purpose, though. I believe this.
     And I long for Him widen my capacity to trust.

Restlessness in me remains and I know I have been crafted with passions that each day stirs up. I've been purposed to leave a fingerprint, a stamp of His glory.

I'm restless for us all to loose our control . . . for us all to lead others closer to peace and rest by encouraging our Real-selves to live out. 

Like Jennie, I am restless for us all to not waste our days staring at ceilings wondering if there is more, any longer . . . . .

     for us all to . . . take the threads of [our] life and go live like it.

And so, I dare to declare that we each are commissioned to loose us and choose Him, to pursue hope and accept what.ever. is now and what.ever. may be.

Together, might our worship be to step up to the table, boldly Be who we are . . . and with sensitivity to His prompting, loose our idea of what and who we should be.

Let's do this life. Let's run into our restlessness.

this is our worship.

a dare for you

You hungered for this new year, didn't you? A new start was what you most wanted.

Fresh possibilities and easier days are what you hope for. Less pain.

You had a rough last year, didn't you? Last year was ugly and mean like those junior high school days that you always wanted to hide away. You've been hoping for happy and peace, yet the walls in your home are pin-drop quiet while the walls in your heart blare loud and angry. 

Life still hurts and you still ache. 

This year will be different, you declare.

You need last year's to be revoked. 

And if not last year's, you're still thinking of that other year. The one that still follows you and haunts you, and that makes you pray let this year not be like that one. 

Most of us usually have at least one of those year's: the Daddy-make-it-go-away! kind of year's. 

     . . . like children with the covers pulled over the head waiting for the monster to go away. 

The start of this year is hoping and praying there will be happy and peace and no ugly monsters, please.

Last year has value, though. 

As much as you want to erase it away, I dare you to consider that it matters. 

I dare you to take those hard memories and hurt and hold them tight. 

I believe beauty can and will bloom, right here in your holding -- like when most days you wondered whether your child would ever ever again want you to come near, and then she eventually does . . . in the ugly puke-filled days. 

     There's treasure here, in the holding and having. 

You might not see it or stomach it, but there really is. The miracle is in loosening your grip on fear and saying "okay" to what has been and choosing not to bury it or box it up. 

You can't change the past. But what you can do is help set into motion Peace. 

So, I dare you to count that year that pains you as a gift. 

     . . . and then tell {me, please} of the beauty I'm certain you'll soon see!

this is your worship.

as it is

Christmas always seems to come with a crashing, a resigned humph and a very loud thump.

It gets ugly and I wish it wouldn't. {Just like regular life, I suppose.}

There seems to always be shouting and a wanting to give up. Words are spoken that aren't really meant. Truth bubbles up and has no where to go.

I finally get to the point where I admit that I handled too many bags in one hand. Where I'm just so humbled for the table that's there to catch the jar from an inevitable crash.

It's like there isn't any room left at the Inn of my [very] full self.

I get to a point where I can't take any more and life proves to me that it's just so out of my control.

I'm not happy with myself or anyone in this space where everyone feels the brunt of my disappointment. I get angry at me and the whole, wide, blessed world.

It's awful-feeling here. I get mad at myself and take it out on everyone else.

Where I get anxious for dreams that aren't yet fulfilled. For early, late, and perhaps even forgotten gifts.

Can't I just be more grateful?!
Why do I have to be so obsessive and compulsive? 
Why can't I just let it all go and full-heartedly surrender? 
Why can't I be {even more} "whatever" like?

I struggle and Christmas crashes,
     and I'm learning that it's okay this way. 

God tells me: Don't be so angry with yourself. Just let it and you Be.

I know this and yet this kind of catching and releasing sometimes feels more like short-leashing. The way it is isn't particularly how I'd have it. I've been hoping to be more accepting of this place and all the waiting for what my heart really aches.

But I'm still anxious today.

And so with the word that has followed me all through the year,

I {timidly} Choose . . . 

     to stay here . . .
     to bend low and receive . . .

Even though it isn't what I'd want if I could write the script myself, I'm choosing . . .

To see all of this as His gift . . . 
     the slowing and the draining of Me.

Read about my friend, Kris tell of how her Christmas crashes, too. 

this is our worship.

___________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

on accepting

We try to make ourselves behave how we know we should. Our children, too.

Motivated by goodness and honor, we try to be who we know we ought to be and we push them with the same standards.

     They pull toward us looking for guidance, yet push us away in rebellion.

We stand with contorted faces expressing confusion and we forget how we do this, too.

Rebellious of the try-hard efforts we push/pull like crazed maniacs. More than an arm wrestle, the days can tend to be an all out brawl. A battle of wills.

Shouting spews forth from our fearful selves as we struggle to maintain control, angry at our weaknesses, and afraid that we might not win the battle in even us.

We tear through our lives with an intensity to somehow find a way to fix ourselves. 

     Who should we tell our secrets to be freed?

     What should we read to make ourselves better?

     When should we move from here and step toward the dream?

     Where should we go to make ourselves positioned for more right and honorable behavior? 

     Why should we have hope when we do these things we don't even want to do, yet we do anyway? 

     How should we align our days to avoid the temptations?

We stuff ourselves as if we're chasing after the prize on the bottom of the Lucky Charms box, all the while consuming more and more empty-calorie questions.

: : : 

God knows that we fall short.

He designed us knowing full well that we will do what we dare not, wish not, hope not, and try not. That we will fail to fulfill the obligatory good-girl behavior.

He's so not afraid of the suffering that we will endure or the depths of the valley of sin. And He knows just how far to take us for our lives to be flip-flopped from ugly to beauty.
   
He allows us to be -- as we are -- for His glory. 

It is He who will give sight to the blind. And it is He who makes radiant from the raw. Ashes to gold.

It isn't our goodness that leaves a legacy. Not our own behavior, or our own good parenting, or our own child's conforming. This kind of trying only serves to crush. Stifle. Suffocate.

Might we accept the truth that we (and they) will fail and flop.

     That sinful behaving is inevitable. That we're human, after all.

Let's loosen our grip and stop trying so hard. Instead let us live, love, lighten up, and let Him move in us, choosing to accept ourselves (and our children) as the dearly loved ones that we are.

     However you need to, play us out to reflect you. Less of us and more of you here in this day. Amen.

this is our worship. 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

we don't do Elves

We do hard and gritty and I know it's the same way for you, too. There's enough pretending in this life and we've decided to just Be.

Our Boy thinks the silly Elf sitting up on the shelf is cute. He's asked us to get one, but you see, I just can't. I really just can't. Sure it could be fun, but really, I just can't. There's no wrong way or right way to do this stuff and I'm not saying you shouldn't. I'm just saying we don't (not this year, anyway).

Each year I wrestle Christmas kind of like the folks who fling theirs up on the roof of their car. I start out all excited and then eventually I get a bit deflated from the reality of what it really means.

I avoided shopping this year. Plain ol' dragged my feet. And then I looked at the calendar and realized that honest and truly there might not be any gifts under the tree, especially if I didn't shop right that very day.

When I'm afraid to do something for one reason or another, I tend to delay. I tighten my jaw and fake a headache. And in the process, I've given myself one. Because, finding excuses is really no fun.

I'm leaning more into the truth these days and I'm more willing to accept it all, completely and wholly as it is -- even me as I am.

I'm accepting that comfort is something I'd prefer, just like Mary did, I'm sure. And that instead, Christmas came in the stalls with what stinks.

When our own dear child is the reason for our day to be a head-scratcher, or a belly-acher, or a throat-hurter . . . we've still got a job to do and so does he. As much as I want to delay having to discipline and put a thumbtack in it for a few weeks from now, the kid's still got to learn and we've still got to teach.

Christmas isn't for my comfort and ready or not, I still have so much to learn about letting Christmas simply be.

this is my worship. 

Linking with Emily

and Jennifer

 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

the little I give

I do a pretty good job at receiving.

Consuming moments for myself, I focus a lot on me. How can I can grow and how can I be better are questions that have obsessed me and contorted my view of what the purpose of life is all about.

Selfish ambition and personal gain are admittedly what I sometimes want more than anything else. 

I am known to sacrifice peace for comfort now. I take advantage of Christ and tend to take His grace for granted.

I know that God forgives and redeems, and honestly I tend to shelve what I should do for temporary self-satisfaction.

A vacation-like life is what I so often want. I dream of far-off places where people are always smiling, the weather is always warm, and the only sound is the swooshing of the ocean on the sand.

I want every part of my day to be happy and I gulp up those kind of moments as though my mouth is bone-dry parched. Dipping my hands in, I cup to receive -- and I gulp. 

Receive and gulp.

It's often times usually mostly all about me. I want all for me.

I'm not a very good giver. I begrudge people when I do, blaming them for the parts I want that have to wait -- the sweet dessert that I worry I'll never have; that might be all gone by the time that I can.

When life gets painfully awkward or uncomfortable, I want to ditch everything and run away.

I know that not every moment will be pleasant and that heroes are made in the grit and the muck. Those whose sustenance is drawn from the mire are refined through the fire, I get that.

The folks who stay and do, and roll up their sleeves to really work at fighting the wanting for self pleasure are admiring and sometimes so enviable. And frankly, I'll never be as good as them.

Comparison kills my content and keeps me from compassion (mostly toward self), I know this.

It's hardly life that I bring into moments when I want perfect and pretty and plain ol' happy. Stubbornness and rigidity leave me stiff and corpse-like, withered and frail.

I want everything my way and I'll risk nearly everything to get it, including my very life that sometimes stands on the edge of temptation, poised to give all of me away.

There is a part of me, though, that comes into each moment and imbibes on a slice of simple assuredness. It's a thin place where I accept all that is. Where I am willing to sleep on the floor, stand in the rain, and sit in the dark. Where I know more than a thousand gifts of beauty lie. 

When I come into a moment with my hands cupped, presenting even a little bit of me that breathes in all as it is, I am presenting an offering of what I think pleases God most -- kind of like the widow and her two mites who gave what she had to live on.

It's not the forced, stiff, polished self that He wants. He's not looking for the kind of resignation that gives up and surrenders the whole: giving a shit. He's looking for the part that says "yes" to this, whatever it is -- as it is. The what. ever. because I know it's just better.

There are times when my hands aren't just cupped to receive; sometimes I cup to present. It might be that most of me drips out and dies as I selfishly gain, yet a little bit of my life still actually lives.

When I bring into moments the little part of me that is full and that is free, that really is enough, and He really is pleased.

this is my worship. 

Linking with Emily

and Jennifer

 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

resigning

Easier isn't always better. 
In fact, what may appear to be easier, often times most certainly isn't. 

I hadn't quite grabbed ahold of this truth with a firm grip of acceptance until this past week when my Father in Heaven settled this deep into my heart.

For so long I have impulsively urged (actually urged) my groom to do what I insisted was better for him. Out of anger with myself for not ever being how I thought I should be, I would unabashedly resign him from his heroic and obligatory duty, granting him "permission" to leave me, as his bride.

I always saw my groom as perfectly good and me as never [good] enough.

It was my focused mission to make his life easier and better, because I can tend to cause him frustration and tight, knotted-up muscles.

Really though, quitting wouldn't be making it easier or better and actually, it'd make it much worse.

I do that a lot, I recall: try to undo what's been done, and instead make tangled-up knots even more tangled.

It's shame that tells me to atone. 
     I don't leave well enough alone. 

I needed Truth to detach the crusted-over habit from the rim of my heart that told me I wasn't good enough. And now I can see that I was chosen -- to be my groom's wife -- just as I am.

I'm still learning about grace and how beauty is made in the messy place.

: : : 

Folks are doing a lot of talking about Mary, the mother of Jesus, and I hear the snake-like-sneer to not to be one more voice just like all the rest. But, I must tell the truth that needs to be told -- how her story still influences mine.

I picture Mary resigning in a way so much differently than I've ever defined the word to be.

Found out to be pregnant, though not because of anything she has done, Mary and Joseph now have a Royal mess.

We hear about Mary's acceptance of God's will, but I imagine it wasn't as easy as we read. 

I imagine a conflict of heart, a collision of two wants; disappointment and shame, and the temptation to blame. I picture Mary eventually falling on her knees, as she resigns to truth that she cannot fix what has happened; a process of accepting that she has been chosen, and that Joseph was, too -- just as they were.

There's nothing Mary could do to fix what had already begun. She didn't resign herself from the task, she instead resigned herself to His task.

I didn't think of her right away when my heart was Hand-scrubbed clean this week. But I think of Mary now as I willingly choose to accept that there is purpose in all of this, even the tangled, knotted-up mess.

It is not up to me to "fix" what I break or what I become. 
     I am purposed this way to show how God's work is done.  

Grace tells me I cannot try to make life easier or better for my groom, or for me.

So I resign today to let our togetherness, and me, simply Be. 

this is my worship. 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

The Bread

I notice the aroma saunter into the meeting room.

My heart feels full by the warm, unexpected embrace. Of what, exactly, is a mystery to me, though still, I count it as grace.

I discover cinnamon rolls baking warm. A coworker remembers I am now gluten-free and remarks about the aroma as cruel. I smile because I used to think that, too. 

To work in a building where there is an oven . . . to bite into such a sweet smell . . .

These are gifts that I count. And they are enough.

This past year has been a journey of learning a new way of life, a process of grieving an old way, of surrendering my human wants, and accepting my truer needs.

I resented what it seemed as though others could freely have. 

Just feeling good and grateful with what I have wasn't enough. I'd let fear be my guide and reach for comfort in places that ultimately just caused me pain, leaving me empty and never quite full.

Fear would mask itself as stress, an excuse to tempt me. I'd hungrily devour and intoxicate myself with the promises of comfort, only to pay the ultimate price, leaving me sick for days -- aching and exhausted.

Though hard fought, I finally learned that foods (and other things) lie; that they are false idols of the cruelest kind.

I discovered that what I thought I wanted isn't what I truly want, anyway. 

I now have a willingness, a hunger, a trust for what makes me truly nourished and truly full.

I choose Him: The {Real} Bread.

And now I see . . . the simple noticing of the aroma truly is enough, a kind gift of grace.

this is my worship. 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.