learning to receive

It feels easier to keep all the feelings to myself.

Stuffing my thoughts in my journal or reserving them for the book that I might never actually finish or publish seems like the more comfortable thing to do. It's less risky of being perceived as prideful or lookatmeish. Posting on Facebook or on my blog is so forward and I imagine a big red arrow flashing: Look at Me!

Yet, I think there's something that needs to be said.

I know I'm a hot mess and that I can be overly dramatic, overly sensitive, and overly self-conscious. I can tend to make much ado about nothing and worry over imagined things versus real things. In my attempt to not make messes, I create bigger ones. Still, I know that I am not alone.

Here we are, nearly 11 years since our first son was born, and we're expecting another. The guy at the furniture store yesterday asked us point blank why we would do such a thing. "Why start all over again?" I joke with people about it and eye roll, claiming that this came as a surprise when it's something that we actually hoped for. We actually chose not to have our children close in age.

I've waited for so many years to see this dream come true of having two children. Around the time our son was two years old I began asking when we could try for another and for seven years I continued to ask that question, begging and cajoling and trying to be good-enough.

Eventually, I learned what surrender is about and made the hard choice to let it go. I stopped asking and started considering that maybe having two children wouldn't be a part of our story. I started to be okay with our life as it is.

Without realizing it, even though I was experiencing contentment, a twinge of bitterness took root in my heart. I so much imagined our family as being just the three of us that I actually closed off my heart to having another, so bitter about the waiting and the faith-living.

I wish that I could say that I was willing for anything since I said those words so many times, yet the truth is that I really hadn't arrived at that place of willingness. Sure, there were moments when I was more willing and it felt as though I was genuinely open to whatever plan God had for us. And sure, there was a lot of progress that was made in my walled-up heart that allowed me to consider that perhaps my dreams weren't His dreams. Still, I didn't arrive in the ways I wish I did.

When we found out that we were expecting my dream of a second child, I reeled back as if the thought were a hot stove that I couldn't touch or I would get burned. It took me several months of living anxious to realize that I had been living as if I was swimming in a pool and suddenly gasped for air, panic-stricken.

I was so aware of my fear that we would lose this baby, or that maybe it wasn't about the baby and there was something that I needed to learn in the process and losing the baby would be a necessary part of my story. I momentarily forgot about the vision I had two years prior that our kids would be exactly 10 years apart and how I was actually excited to be an older mother with the experience of having a different kind of story.

There were so many people who I shared our news with so early and I wanted to limit their happiness for us. I didn't want to face them if we lost this joy. I feared pity and misunderstanding because no one fully knew the journey I had lived and even those who stood on the periphery of our story had limitations to their connection with me.

I did a pretty good job at erecting boundaries that were more reflective of brick walls designed to keep me safe. I have kept people at an arms distance away to reduce any risk of hurt or disappointment. I imagine that maybe people don't really care that much and they're just being nice. I hear people say they're so busy all the time and I feel like I'm a nuisance or an inconvenience when I try to get together with them. At the same time, I don't make accommodations for people a lot of the time and let "busy" be my excuse to dodge relationships.

I want people to know that I am happy to see them and be around them, though I don't really want them to get too close. I'm not sure what my actions actually communicate and a part of me is really too afraid to know the truth. I wish I wasn't this way, yet it scares the bejeebers out of me to even think of being any different. It's just so much easier in a lot of ways to keep up this charade, though I know that it really isn't.

When friends ask if anyone is throwing us a shower for this new baby a part of me is delighted at their kindness, while the other part of me wants to shirk into my shell and say that I don't need that, I can do it on my own thankyouverymuch . . . besides, who has baby showers for the second child ( . . . even if it is 11 years later . . . )?

I hear myself mumble to myself, "I'm an adult now and capable of buying my own baby gear." I hear my own self defending my life, prideful that I am doing things "right" now and that I don't need anyone.

I hear these words and I remember how I want this time to be different. I want to enjoy and notice and soak up the moments. I want to receive any help and any happiness anyone might have to offer. It won't be perfect and I am careful not to romanticize this experience, but I so much want to receive all of it -- as it is -- instead of trying to do everything right all the time.

When our first son was born I didn't make any accommodations for how my life would change. I didn't make adjustments at work to peel back even a little bit. I focused on work and how-to-be-a-good-mother with such an intense laser focus. I don't remember actually feeling anything, I was so head-down driven to do and be all things. I had a lot of growing up to do, for sure.

Now, there is a different way of living that my journey has led me to receive. I am more willing to accept my weaknesses and my strengths as they are. I am less prone to try-hard to be all things and more apt to enjoy the moments. Even though I still have so much more to go in my learning to live a life that is reflective of rest, I enjoy so much more about life than I ever have before.

The wife of a very good friend of ours has offered to throw me a shower for this baby and I responded to her with, "Who would even come? . . . They're all so busy . . . " I think about how I've shut them all out anyway, and wonder who would even want to come. I feel silly and awkward and embarrassed.

My heart knows that the years in between my first son and this pregnancy isn't about the baby, just as I know that a baby shower isn't about the gifts or even the people. I'm learning to live open, to loose my wants and dreams and all my comfort-strappings. I'm learning that though I don't "need" the people, maybe there is a gift in being with them and even for them in being with me.

I recently realized that I am not as introverted as I once classified myself as being. I discovered that being around people actually gives me energy. Even watching people interact with each other is enough for me. I need people. It is fear of doing life wrong, or of being perceived as too much that has kept me back and alone.

Why don't I slide open my glass door and sit among the people who I really want to be with? Why don't I invite them in? Why do I continue to make it appear that I am too busy for them when really all I do is sit on my couch and think about how I need people?

It feels easier to just watch the world from inside behind the comfort of my own windows. It seems easier than risking any rejection or worrying how they might really feel or what they might really think. But the truth is that it isn't. And I finally know it.

I can hardly even remember all the people I'm "friends" with who live near me. I don't even know who my people are because it's the local, in real life people who I've been most ashamed to be me around and who I dodge and duck and cover to hide from. A part of me wants to post on Facebook, "Who would come?" Names start raveling into my thoughts: Jen, Erin, Lauren, Molly, Joan, Trish, Erica, Mari, Debbie, Kristen, Theresa . . . Would they come? And then I think about the people I work with and how I too often categorize them as only my 8:30-4:30 people . . .

Boy-Man tells me to say "Yes!" if anyone wants to throw us a party. As scary as it is, I think maybe his bold confident acceptance of kindness is what it means to be strong. Maybe it's time to open the sashes and doors and to step out in big, brave courage without smiling and waving in genuine happiness only to quickly put my head down in fear. It's time to celebrate relationships and to risk what is real.

Who is with me? Who can remind me that I am not alone while reaching for my hand and receive the gift of relationship?

willing

Father, we come.

as judgmental and accusatory, we stand as pious hypocrites.

we long for good and right to rule this place and yet we see Evil all around us.

blame finds our lips for the actions of others.

though we aren't too prideful to own our mistakes, we justify our choices.

it's hard to even consider that You love the murderer.

we finger-point and arm-cross to avoid any connection with him or her.

     . . . the one who knows better and yet who once again messes up.

how could they?, we sputter.

we stand in disgust because surely they know better.

to extend grace to them seems unnecessary.

to love them seems so impossible

we confess we aren't willing, Father.

yet, we are willing to be willing.

     . . . make us so.

in Jesus name, loose us to love.

bend us and break us to be more like You.

Amen.

Linking with Lisa-Jo.

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 being willing

It's a place I've talked about before in my dreams as a place I've always wanted to live. Yet, before this week I've never even been here.

Everything in our life makes that dream seem so impossible. So foolish and silly. Too reckless and irresponsible. Truthfully, I'm afraid to even consider it.

You see, we've had a big move happen in our story that it didn't go particularly smooth. It was hard, and so I'm tentative and hesitant . . . and just so damn afraid.

I'm afraid of taking my family to places we aren't ready for yet, and of the consequences that come with risk. The last time we moved away I was excited and basked in the big open sky of where we were. A girl's gotta spread her wings, you know, and anyone who knows me knows that I needed to do just that.

Our last move had consequences that are still mucked up and that still affect us. And though we've been incredibly blessed, I still struggle to think that messy is my fault and is to be avoided at all costs; even though I know and believe that all is purposed, without a shadow of a doubt.

Unity between my groom and me is something I struggled hard and long over. It came with a gutting and a breaking, and an ultimate surrender and willingness for what. ever. I'd give up my dreams for him if that's what I needed to do to preserve the willingness for unity God's worked out in me. And for this girl, let me tell you, that's no small thing!

I want the itch of this dream (and others that go with it) to go away. 

It feels like a big, fat bug sitting on my shoulders and I've screamed at God to Get. It. Off! 

     Yet, beauty chases me and dreams follow me, and I can't not want that . . .
          even that which I cannot really, fully see.

I'm still that girl who wants to spread her wings; the girl who loves big, wide open skies and who is always excited to go where beauty is. This girl, though, has grown and she's afraid of herself wanting to move too far ahead of where God wants us now.

As much as I'm willing to go, I'm also definitely willing to stay. And, again, that is truly no small thing! 

I used to do almost anything to maintain comfort. Nowadays, I walk straight into warm feet and sweaty hands to pursue Hope with a middle name of Risk. I can't avoid it and have found that actually the discomfort lies in the not pursuing and in keeping focused on comfort, instead.

I'm doing things these days like reaching out for meetings with people for no specific reason, to follow a sometimes silly and stupid-seeming nudge, all the while surrendering any expectation of anything specific from happening . . . again, no small thing.

You see, there's no fear when we do what we're led to do. When we go where we need to go at the time, even though it may not seem to fit or linearly line up. Sure, there might be a smidge of nervousness, but there's also a peace that comes when we simply do the exact things that we know not doing would bring the most uncomfortable feeling of all.

I'm not sure what I'm saying or what I'm doing, except to say this:

     I'm loosening my grip, I'm willing, and yet I'm still pursuing.

this is my worship.

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

 

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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. 

____________________________________

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We come

We come to the table with our heaviness, our sadness, our disappointment, our angst.

We come with resolve for different and better.
We come with hearts that are joyful and for some, even bitter.

We come with our baggage, our fear, timidity, and even for some, naivete.

We come with discomfort and comfort quilted within us.
We come with remembrance of generations before us.

We come with tight jaws, bringing our empty, gritty and raw.

We come with our yesteryear's, our now, and the tomorrow's that we hope and we fear.
We come with our memories and our many-sized dreams that we hold so near.

We come with our holeyness, and our wholeness, and find there among us a Holiness.

We come with imperfect love that seeks to fill and free each other.
We come with a willingness to share in communion with each other.

We come to the table with an invitation to feel and to be Real, stuffing ourselves on the gifts of grace.

this is our worship. 

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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. 

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opportunity

There are these {crazy-wild} dreams that swirl around in my heart.

They follow me all day and into the night. They whisper to me at my favorite part of the day when it's dark and quiet.

I entertain those whispers and delight in my Hope. In the dark and the quiet.

(Hardly ever in the bright *whirl and twirl* of the day.)

These dreams don't make sense, though Wonder tells me that they could be connected. They are impractical and my every day Real seems to highlight the reasons why these dreams are so unrealistic.

I feel dumb. So I quiet.

Bending into the uncertainty, I let my questions stir and be.

One word for this year-story-to-be has been clear and obvious and yet I've doubted it. Many more words have come to the surface and I've considered replacing the one.

Choose keeps finding me.

(And with that, doubt, too.)

Because, I'm not {yet} willing. Though He says that I am.

He tells me I am capable and He will do the rest. He will give me this rest. Peace. And that to choose is enough. It's to submit . . . fears, doubt, control . . .

This question keeps finding its way to me: Who is God . . . in my life? And so I choose who I will serve.

Last year I talked about Wonder and Willingness from a perspective of distance, as I was considering what it might mean to submit to faith -- the hope in what is uncertain.

I consider the opportunity that may come from moving beyond considering to choosing . . . to submit and be willing . . . to be obedient and choose Any. Thing.

(even especially my imperfect self.)

So I say "OK"

( . . . even if a little hesitantly.)

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

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

You might be interested in this:

wonder

being willing

stepping aside

on being ready

vivid

Share your heart...click the Add a comment link way below.

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