Stepping into Real life

Silk is soft and smooth, hand-pressed shirts crisp and wrinkle-free.

I remember the iron out every evening, the next day's clothes thoughtfully selected and prepared.

Practically everything in the house was an ornate antique of the Victorian era. It was a homestead handed down through generations. The walls reflected beauty and strength inside a brick facade that masked obligation.

I connect with the strong of the brick and the hot steam of the iron that hand-presses the wrinkles out.

Raised as a good girl, I followed the house rules: be polite . . . behave. I was seen and not heard. I didn't run in the house to keep the walls quiet and the precious dishes from rattling. I knew what it took to make my parents happy with me. And so when I found myself pregnant 11 days before my 18th birthday I had one thought: This wasn't supposed to happen to me.

Seated at the kitchen table with a heart full of heavy, my face would give way to the burden I carried. I was expected to find a way to iron it out smooth and I couldn't find the right starch to get the wrinkles out. I couldn't solve this problem, I didn't have a plan. A solution was presented to me and there would be no discussion. Though I stuttered and stammered in disgust, I wasn't courageous enough to choose life.

It was the threat of disconnection that weakened my strength. And the overwhelming concern for what my parents thought of me. I needed them and so the thought of losing them because of a choice I preferred not make was suffocating. I finally surrendered to what appeared as better for me when every bit of me raged with a knowing it surely wasn't right.

I made an appointment for the day after my 18th birthday, to get it done and over with and to make home life happy. This was never to be spoken about and having it taken care of outside of our town would all be to "protect" me; from what exactly I'm not sure, though I suppose perhaps the thought was shame.

I'd cry in my room for weeks, learning how to iron a regret smooth and tuck it away. It took awhile for me to learn how to fold that secret up tight. I'd try and wrestle it to the ground until eventually I ran out of fight. Ultimately, it would be shame that would find me and haunt me and scavenge my very life.

Always have a plan. That's what that moment in my story taught me. Because if I don't, someone else might have one for me. So I spent my days incessantly focused on the calendar, make-believing that planning creates a life. Shame was heavy and led me to a perfection-seeking way of life: always doing what I should, literally sucking what life remained in me right out of me.

Chasing a fabricated life would ultimately become so incredibly and overwhelmingly exhausting. Real would tug at my shirt sleeve and grab a hold of my leg. I'd feel itchy and get all squirmy as Grace whispered in my ear:

     It isn't natural to be all tight-lipped and wrinkle-free. Just Be.

I literally ached to get out of the straight-laced, buttoned-up, suffocated habit of a life that I'd created.

Today marks 16 years since that life inside of me was ended, the day after the one that marks when my very own began nearly three and a half decades ago. I think of how I have feared mistake-making all these years, how I've endlessly planned, ironed my days lifeless.

My story isn't pretty bow-tied -- I'm still in process. But I'm learning to appreciate the messy . . . the wrinkles . . . and to hold my plans loosely. I am learning to trust that every bit of my story has purpose, as I begin to unfold and let me Be. And, be flawed.

I'm learning to step into {Real} . . . into life.

And that this is my worship.

 

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A dare for whoever to rethink perfection

I ache to be whole.

As if there is an expectation that I should be more than and even sometimes less than, I long to feel less disjointed and more put together. As though I have broken parts or too many parts.

It feels naked-like to be this way -- messy and just not as I'm supposed to be. Pieces of me are in places where I think they don't belong.

But, according to who am I not right the way I should be?

Whoever said I am not perfect? 

Because, I am right the way I was created to be, truly . . .

     the perfect mother for my son.
     the perfect wife for my husband.
     the perfect employee for the position.
     the perfect friend for the situation.

Chosen for these stories. Casted before there was ever an audition. Showing up messy, stuttering, or not knowing my lines to my parts, or the moves to my roles doesn't disqualify me for the parts. Every day isn't an audition, it's simply a rehearsal.

Perfection isn't what we think it is.

We chase after getting everything just the way we think it should be, and we spend all our energy trying to live up to expectations we imagine of others or ourselves. This is what we define perfection to be when really, it's not about this at all.

Perfection is when something is whole. Full. To be all of itself.

When we bring our whole selves to the story, there is nourishment for our soul.
When we don't hold back on who we are and we are wholly us, His glory is.

All I mostly ever do is hide. Cower in a cave. Cover my face out of shame -- for being me, so less than I think I should be.

Nearly everyday I remark about the awesomeness of the sky. I watch the sun rise and set and get giddy over the radiant strokes of beauty as I consider His power and majesty. I reserve awesome for the big stuff. Lately, He has been speaking to me that I am, too.

Shame tells me that I can't be awesome. I make mistakes. I flub it up. I . . . I . . . I . . .

Again and again He tells me that I am Awesome. Just as I am. 

My mistakes don't make me less than.

He uses every single choice I make as a way to draw me to Him.

Free to choose, He backs me up with a covering -- a hedge of protection. He fills the gap between my selfish ambition and His glory be. He cleans up my messes before they really become messes. There is no true failure.

Grace is a gift, not something to be earned. 
And I can never make the gift stop coming. 

I usually want to run away when it gets hard. Give up on trying. Because the journey is painful most of the time and I get tired, weary of the hurting. I get discouraged that happy isn't something I feel or see more often. Yet, I am so blissfully unaware of true pain because there is joy down deep. I see the goodness in the pain, how it brings me to Him.

     I notice the strength that surfaces when I didn't imagine I'd have any.
     I notice the peace that comes when fear was so hot and heavy.
     I notice the beauty rise up out of really ugly situations and experiences.
     I notice the Creator of all and wonder how anyone could ever really question His existence.

When I bring my whole self into my story, I am giving back what is truly His in the first place. 

This is my tithe, what He deserves: when I just Be.

When I am fully me and don't hold back bits and pieces of me out of shame for being less than, I reflect trust in Him -- that He really does know what He's doing and that he really does purpose whoever and everything.

My trust can't be reflected until I take the step to just be. 
I first need to step -- I first need to Be.

The ache in me to be whole is my unsettled soul as it's held back. It will always remain inside of me until I just let me be Me. Wholly and fully Me -- perfectly Me.

He doesn't want my offering until I first give Him what He deserves, my Self as my tithe. 

Until I give Him my tithe can I really give Him my offering -- my trust for Anything -- especially my control and my need to be my own savior. And all this is a blessing turned back around for me, a gift of His design.

When I step out of the cave I've nestled myself into, and tried to slumber deep within to numb the pain of life away -- when I stand wholly Me -- there His glory be. I don't have to bring anything else or be any other way, He just is when I am as I am.

Whoever lives has an ache to be awesome. And we are this when we are wholly ourselves, not shirking back out of fear or shame.

So . . . Be.

You already are Awesome . . . so just Be.

And let your living be your true worship.

*Real* authenticity | {Day 8}: Keeping it Real

     This space here where I write has been practice for real life.

               It's bended me and mended me.

          I've been challenged and inspired. Encouraged and admittedly, even admired.

               Your comments have humbled me as I have been considered *authentic*. Untied me.

          Unraveled the pretty ribbon that has kept together this sometimes *seemingly perfect* try-hard life.

          Because, Authentic is exactly what I have struggled to live out loud... 

               Join me for more over at the beautiful, Emily Wierenga's place for more. 

: : : 

          Emily wrote an important book that will influence lives in meaningful and profound ways. 

          Her worship is scrawled out in her courage and obedience, and I'm thrilled to point you to it: 

: : : 

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grit

It follows me in every moment of my living.

Never measuring up.

Always reaching for an apology.

I chalk it up to yet another lesson and consider the growth {I think} I need.

Truth is, my To-Do list doesn't require this.

I needn't deliberately plan for growth.

My short-comings were made for purpose. 

I choose to believe my imperfect helps me clearly know my strengths.

What I'm not stellar at, I choose to see as a reminder of the importance of others. I reach out to someone else for that strength that I lack.

It feels like grit--
     this imperfect dancing around in my *whirl and twirl* of life. 

I want to get away and live a life of more smooth and calming moments. Less friction.

I want to struggle less with believing in the purposes of my imperfect.

But the grit, it's what makes me reach for Him. Always.

For the grit, too, is necessary for my story. 

Today's post is part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to 

     "Write for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... 

     Unscripted and unedited...

     Without worrying if it's just right or not."

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Grace for me

Seeing my mistakes tears me up inside. A frayed heart I have.

My groom is washing dishes and I notice my reusable coffee filter full of grounds. And then I remember the baking carafe that I left in the sink full of soapy water.

I berate myself for not doing everything I should have done. 

Stammering I'm sorry, I punish myself with hatred for my forgetful ways.

The one thing he can't stand is when I do this to myself.

Angry he becomes over this. His love cannot understand the beating.

He fights for me to *receive*. 

Softly. Gently. Kindly. Accepting.

A wounded little girl I still am. 

I'm in a standing meeting with colleagues and see him at my office door.

The cadence of my heart changes and shame waltz right in, dancing clunkety-like with gratitude. Right then I know why he's there.

Mid-sentence with colleagues I shout out a "thank you" to my groom, suddenly remembering what I forgot and he was kind enough to hand deliver--my cell phone left on the charger.

I'm embarrassed at the blurting out of my gratefulness. 

After the meeting I rush to call him.
Suddenly thank you meets shame all over again.

He says that he heard my phone go off letting me know of a meeting, and he didn't want me to be late.

More. Grace. 

Unending. Grace. 

Shards of anger cut at my heart.
I want to receive and yet shame is just so heavy.

When does it stop? 
And then, thank you that it doesn't stop!

A shy heart I have. Conflicted, hesitant and timid to be loved. 

My voice exclaims that I've got myself an amazing husband.
And quickly I correct myself.

God placed the *amazing* inside of this man.
He made him kind and thoughtful.

It is Him who I love when I choose love for him. 

I realize I hurt inside. Shame makes me think I should be better.

And yet I know I should just receive grace.

I fight the crave for perfection--even to perfectly receive. 

Lately I've come out of the quiet where I've lived for nearly three years and I've begun to voice things that haven't seemed quite right.

All the living I've done to please them has come to a halt. 
I'm not well liked because of it, though I'm finally Me. 

I've felt my feelings and thoughts affirmed and it feels so good.
Like refreshing water, I feel nurtured and hydrated; clear minded.

The span of living these past three years was necessary.
Though, I want to beat myself up for not saying something sooner.

Still, I ache over longing for different, believing He led me here.

He allows me these feelings.
There's freedom here in receiving grace for them.

Receiving this grace is hard. 

It hurts. I wonder if it's okay as I lurk out of the hiding and live more Me.

Again and again He teaches me to receive. Like a mama-pup in a new home, I learn to trust and find comfort in His touch, over and over again.

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Pride Welcomes In Grace

No one is expected to be perfect. No one. Not here. Not on our own, this side of Heaven.

When we learn something, and we are asked not to make the same mistake twice, we are expecting perfection. In ourselves and in others.

It isn’t fair.

I think it makes our Father weep when we’re unfair to ourselves and each other, because we’re missing the point of Grace.  The point is to try, yes. But, there’s only so much we are capable of on our own.  

He is the Super Hero in His Story. 

Not me.

What that tells me is huge. A fallacy exposed:

I – AM – NOT – EXPECTED – TO – LIVE – PERFECTLY!

My chest actually hurts at the realization of this ugly Pride. 

And in enters Grace. 

Grace parts the curtains, opens the sash and lets the brilliance of the day warm my wounded heart. 

Grace hovers over me and kisses me and tells me my name - Beloved, a person who is greatly loved. 

Grace tells me that I am special. I am unique. I am valued. I am important to His Story.

Yeah. Sure. Of course.

I puff my chest out and gallantly pronounce that I know. I shrug away the softness of Grace like my son does quite often when I tell him the very same thing. I say I believe it.  But I don’t. I have no idea what this means and my mind is filled with the rushing tidal waves of Doubt. Uncertainty. Fear.

I have always had high expectations of myself. Everyone who knows me would agree. I’ve always thought that if you can imagine it, it’s possible. And I have always thought that no one can ever give 100%, so when we say we gave it our best we are lying. To ourselves. And to everyone around us. 

We can always give more and do better.

But…

We aren’t expected to. 

Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should.  

Our gentle Father is the (only) One who fully accepts us just the way we are. He holds our heart in His Hands. He caresses our face and tells us we’re beautiful right now.

Our loving Father reminds us ever so gently and lovingly that we are not any better than anyone else.  

And no one is any better than us. No one.

Every one struggles. Every one hurts. Every one makes mistakes. Every one falls short of what we want for ourselves and what everyone else wants for us.

So, while we’re busy trying to be better than the day before and we’re trying to be the best we can be, we are missing the point.

Like any good parent would do, sometimes He waits until we’re ready to listen.

He loves us so much, though, that He can’t just sit back. He can’t just wait. 

So, He tip-toes near our rooms – the rooms we’ve created for ourselves to keep us comfortable. 

He knocks and sometimes I pay attention to His knock and speak a sweet “come in.” And other times I pretend to ignore Him. Because I just don’t understand Him. And I can’t trust that it’s really as easy as He says.

He asks me to surrender all the blankies that I’ve held onto for so long - the expectations I have of myself, my plans, my hurts, and most of all…my heart. 

And in that handing over...in that trusting...in that surrendering...

        I receive Grace.

And it feels

like Freedom.