Take Heart!

Today I had to ask someone for help. A favor. A pretty big one, too. I held the phone in my hand for a solid five minutes before I made the call. This was after putting it off for hours. She was so gracious and kind and of course, said yes. Yes, she'd love to help me.

Yesterday, I reached out to someone in a text that I hadn't talked to for several months. Someone that I saw every week for over a year. We were pretty close. Her response to my text? "Who is this?"

You win some. You lose some.

It's fascinating to me how even the smallest gesture of vulnerability can feel excruciating. We are all part of the human race. We all have needs. A need for help, for contact,  for connection or community. We all feel the need to be seen and valued.

And  yet, putting myself out there in these two small ways- with very little risk- felt so risky.

I guess along with shame comes the fear of exposure. Being exposed for who I really am. Being truly vulnerable means allowing others to see me at my weakest. I don't know anyone who wants to have their neediness exposed and yet, when I think about the people who I know that have taken the risk to let others see them in that way,  I'm always amazed at their honesty. I'm always encouraged by their courage.

I recently listened to a devotional where the speaker says that Jesus was hard on the Pharisees because they were hypocritical. They hid who they really were- presenting a false piety to the world.

Jesus was never hard on anyone in scripture for being weak or real. In fact, he often brought out their weakness so he could address it. So he could heal them, forgive them and make them whole. An encounter with Jesus is always exposure without wounding.

Unless you are a Pharisee. The Pharisees were the opposite of vulnerable. They were proud and arrogant in their own strength. These men Jesus wounded. Yet, even for them -and for those of us today who are afraid of exposure- there is healing in his wounds, if we allow our weakness to be exposed by him.

I'm realizing these days that vulnerability is not weakness. It is courage. It's strength.

And, even if I'm not rejoicing in my neediness being exposed, at least I don't have to be afraid. I can take heart that Jesus is there to step into my weak places with hope and courage.

Walking With a Limp

My son keeps telling me to move. Move my blog that is. I tried but I'm overwhelmed by starting something new. Just the thought of it makes me feel anxious. Silly? Yes, I guess. But, true.

I've been absent for a while. No writing.

My loving and generous husband bought me a laptop just so I would write. He believes in me. It was as if this kind and thoughtful gesture paralyzed me. Also, I started reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. A book, by one of my favorite authors, about writing. I was so inspired by her and then- so paralyzed.

I've been in a dark place again. I've been thinking about what would I call this place along my journey. A valley? A desert? Maybe I've been adrift at sea. I feel too lost to even recognize the landscape.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to write about it.

But, recently I watched two TED talks by Brene Brown. The first one about vulnerability and a second one on shame. Very powerful and very heart wrenching for me to watch.

I've been practicing vulnerability. Very slowly and with much trepidation. And, honestly I haven't always been pleased with the results. In fact, this week I spent three days injured from practicing this art. Yes, injured. And no, not emotionally, physically.

Steve and I were in the midst of a hard talk. One of those "talks" where your voice goes up about three octaves and you begin to sweat.... well, maybe that's just me. I was sharing with him some things that were very difficult for me to say. I didn't realize it but I had my right leg in a toe pointy tight thing. I guess it's called "en pointe" in ballet terms. Anyway, I was so tense that I actually injured my calf muscle. I couldn't walk without intense pain for three days! I'm not kidding!

Vulnerability really is painful.

Honestly though, the shame I have felt over sharing myself is way more painful than a torn calf muscle. In her TED talks Dr. Brown shares that in her research she discovered that people who are vulnerable are people who believe they are worthy- worthy to be seen, to be heard, to take up someone's time sharing of themselves. Well, this is the crux of it for me. I have never felt I was worthy of that. I've never believed that who I am was worth anyone's time.

So, I've finally come to understand that this is what keeps me from writing. Shame. It's not feeling overwhelmed that paralyzes me -it's the shame that does that.

Shame sucks. But, I've decided that living a false life sucks more. I'm going to try vulnerability instead. I'm going to stare down shame, choose not to listen to it's insidious voice. I'm going into the arena. I have no doubt I'll emerge bruised and wounded. But, I believe these wounds will heal and the true me will be left standing. I've also decided I'm worth the risk.

Stay tuned if you want to read up on my journey into discovering the real me. I can't promise it's going to be pretty but I do promise to keep writing no matter how loud the voice of shame gets. I've got my gloves on and I'm not taking them off anytime soon.


Here is the link for Brene Brown's talks. If you have a few minutes they are more than worth your time.
http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html, and her Ted Talk 2 on shame  http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame.html

Is This TMI?

Tonight, as I was getting ready to head out the door to meet some friends for dinner I paused to look in the mirror. Once I got through the insecurity of my jeans being a bit too tight, I really liked what I had on. White jeans, black top, my favorite wedge sandals and a beautiful blue scarf I borrowed from my daughter.

 But, as I drove away from the comfort of my home and headed for the wine bar doubts began to settle in my heart and shake my already precarious confidence.

Who was I to think I could pull off a dramatic scarf loosely wrapped around my neck and draped over one shoulder? I love this look, but me? Growing up in a home where I was primarily praised for how I looked, aging has not been as smooth a road as I would have hoped. At 43 my neck is getting wrinkly, my hands a bit nobby, my hair is greying and not as smooth and thick as it once was. I look in the mirror and see crows feet and is that my imagination or are my eyes a bit sunken in?

My mom, at 74 has beautiful smooth skin. Recently, she stopped coloring her hair and it is this amazing brilliant white. Really lovely. I have good genes.

So, I wonder, has this life journey taken more out of me than I expected? And, no I'm not talking about looks here- well, not entirely. I'm pretty content with my appearance. I've got great facial bone structure- even if my chin is a bit too sharp. I do have lovely red(ish) hair and I've always loved my feet. Not that feet make you pretty but, I like mine.

Why then, at 43, don't I feel secure enough to walk into a wine bar feeling fabulous? If it's not my appearance then it must be my lack. But lack of what? If it's true that life has taken more out of me than I expected, what has it taken? And can I get it back?

When did my confidence become so tottery? Internally, I feel like a 9 year old girl walking around in her mother's heels. Ready to take a spill at any moment. The only difference is a 9 year old loves playing dress up. I on the other hand am tired of pretending.

Lately, I've been thinking quite a bit about duplicity and ways in which I am duplicitous. Not true. Not honest. Not me. It's a word that is taking me a while to get my head and heart around. I'm often checking to see if I am presenting a false self to others around me. The challenge? I'm having to get to know myself on a deeper level. The larger test? Being okay with who I am.

I have a friend who says sometimes she feels she is too much. Too much for people to handle. Don't we all feel that way sometimes? I do. I believe if I really let the true Jane 100% out it would be too much. Too loud, too sensitive, too selfish, too much emotion, too much honesty, just too much!

So, tonight as I sat in the parking lot debating on whether or not to take the scarf off; I thought about all these things. I finally came to the conclusion that it would be duplicitous of me to not wear it because, I love it. I love scarves. I feel beautiful, strong, and confident when I wear them. Weird maybe, but true.

I know my insecurity tonight wasn't about how I dress, but something deeper. A fear of being true. An anxiety about being too much. Yes, this life journey has taken a lot out of me. My confidence and self-love have slowly eroded over time. That's life. It happens to most of us.

What I'm thankful for- is that much has been put back. Words of life have been spoken to me and have soaked through to my soul. The friends I met tonight, like many of the women in my life, have done that for me. They have been life givers. The four of us sat around the table sharing so much more than wine and food.  We shared grace and truth. We shared Life.

And so, I ended the night the same way I began it- looking in a mirror. The mirror of true friendship. And, as I gazed into what they reflected back to me- what I saw surprised me. I saw that sometimes, I am too much to handle. I saw that we all are. I also saw Beauty. The beauty of unconditional love. That I am never too much for Him. And, that my friends know how to let go of what is overbearing for them and allow it flow to the cross where it's all been born already. It's all been held by the Only One who can ever bear it all. The one who none of us are ever too much for, Jesus.

The Whisper

I haven't been doing much writing lately, which I think is a sign of what is going on inside more than outside. I would like to blame it on being busy. The kids. The house. Steve being around more during his non-travel season. But, I don't think those things are completely true. I have also been telling myself -and others- that I don't have a lot to say right now. I don't think that's true either. The truth?

I've just been avoiding listening to myself.

God's been doing a lot of talking through books I've been reading and thoughts I've been thinking. But, when it comes time for me to turn those thoughts, ideas or impressions inward I'm finding lots of other things to occupy my time, my mind, my heart.

For one, TV. I'm loving Parenthood right now. Also, Downton Abbey on Masterpiece Theater. The Food Network and HGTV never disappoint! I've also been napping, eating, and basically just escaping. It's been great, actually. No complaints. But then, I get in bed at night and just before I fall asleep, I hear the whisper of a longing in my heart.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my sisters, and for the first time I said out loud for others and myself to hear all the thoughts and feelings that have been stirring.

It's been a year of dealing with loss. With grieving. Not just the twins. But more. So much more.

Pretty big things, too. Things like leaving our church and experiencing the loss of that community. Relationship shifts with friends and family. Our oldest son leaving home for college has been a daily loss and then there is Steve being away from home 1/3 of the year last year. These are all big deals and not even all the losses we experienced.

But, underneath the grief is the longing. The whisper of more. It's what I'm hearing when I let my soul get quiet. There's more than what we've had. There's more than what we've known. Right now, it's still just a longing. A vague idea, a vague hope.

But it's there and it's what brings me back to writing. To putting down on paper and letting my eyes see what's been kept quietly away. You see, if I put it down in black and white then it becomes for me. Becomes more real, more true. Becomes more than a thought, more than a feeling. It becomes a promise.

Hope. Trust. Wait.

This is the whisper.

A Phone Call

When my cell phone rang this morning I didn't recognize the number so I almost didn't pick up, but at the last second I did. I was surprised to hear my good friend's voice on the other end. She had just read my blog and was in tears. I seem to get this response a lot. We talked for a few minutes and made plans to see each other face to face.


After I hung up, I started thinking about an email I had gotten a few days ago from another close friend. She was sharing the pain that was stirred in her when she had read my blog. I wasn't exactly sure how my friends' responses were making me feel but I realized it did stir a longing in me to reach women through my writing. I began to say to Jesus, "Whatever you want to do with all this is fine. I give it to you."

But wait! My heart began to pound. This was so familiar. I couldn't finish the prayer and the words were stuck in my throat. I had to choke them back. I realized I didn't mean this prayer. And, I knew why.

Instantly, I was back in our first apartment. Steve had just dropped me off after THE doctor visit. The one where we found out we were having twins. I remember coming into our apartment, alone. It was early afternoon and Steve had gone back to work. As I stood there in our small den I found myself kneeling by our second-hand couch and praying. I prayed, "Thank you, Jesus for this miracle. It's not what we expected but I give them to you. Whatever you want with them is fine with me."

This morning, with my cell phone still in hand, I knew I couldn't pray that same prayer over my blog. I couldn't pray that over my kids, my husband, even myself.

But, I have prayed this prayer over the years. Of course, I have. I've prayed many times "not my will, but Yours be done." But, as I sat there this morning I knew- I knew in the deepest place of knowing- I've never meant it. Not one word of that prayer have I meant since the day I prayed it over David and Ruth. Whatever God chooses is not okay with me.

He let me down. He chose something no loving heavenly father would ever choose. He chose death for them. He chose to allow them to die. He allowed it. He could have stopped them from dying. He could have stopped the infection that was raging through my body and killed them and almost killed me. He didn't. He looked the other way.

So many disappointments over the years, so many broken dreams and dashed hopes. It's not just the twins, it's everything. It's the moving 8 times, the leaving behind and the starting over. It's the broken friendships, the financial strain, the thoughtless words spoken between Steve and me. The angry teens and the whiny toddlers. It's the sleepless nights and the lost vacations. It's the looks of disappointment on our parishioners' faces. The so many "No's" we've heard, and the so few "Yes".

Where has God been in all of this?

On a dark night, not too long ago I lay on my bedroom floor railing against the Lord. I cried out from a place within me that was so deep I wasn't sure I could return from it. It was so raw, so honest that there was a big part of me that was afraid. Afraid to go there, afraid to be so real with God. It gave new meaning to Psalm 42. "My tears have been my food day and night."

I feel as if I've feasted on my tears for so many years.

That night, after my tears ran dry and exhaustion began to set in, I still lay there on the floor, straining to hear a word from the Lord. No explanations came. No answers. But an invitation.

I heard my heavenly Father invite me to take communion. I held my breath. I must have heard wrong. How could He extend himself to me in that way after all the accusations I had just hurled at him?

Then an answer came. Forgiveness.

I sat on our front porch with the wine and the bread, and with renewed tears took communion. Nourishing tears this time. The food of forgiveness. The drink of Love.

I will pray those words again, "Your will be done." And, I will mean it. I know God doesn't have to answer to me for anything. I know I will never understand many of the things that have happened in my life. Much of the pain and grief will always be a mystery. Even the small day to day disappointments that may seem to much to bear are in the hands of my Savior. And I believe, if not all the time, then most of the time, that that is exactly where it all belongs.

In the bruised hands of Love.

Mom in Training

It's 5:30 a.m. and I'm up giving goldfish to Noah, my three year old. The time change is a bear. I like getting up early to have some quiet time to start my day. To gather my thoughts and pray. It was difficult before the time change to beat Noah out of bed but now it's impossible. He's the lightest sleeper we've ever had. If I breathe while walking past his room then his head flies off the pillow and he's at the door. He doesn't sleep well either. He's up 2 or 3 times a night. Our last two kids have been terrible sleepers, so basically I haven't slept since 2004.

If I wasn't so sleep deprived I'm sure I'd think it was funny in a weird kind of way. In my twenties I'm sure I could have handled this lack of sleep better but now, twenty years later and many children later I need some sleep! What was God thinking giving me a strong willed, energetic, extroverted boy at 40? I'm tired. I'm sure there's some irony here, some lesson to learn but it's hard to learn anything when you can barely think straight enough to tie your shoes.

In bible study the other morning my group was having a deep, theological discussion about Paul. I swear I sat there thinking about what I had put in my kid's lunches that morning. The conversation bounced around me like a one of those small bouncy balls you get from a gum ball machine. All crazy and out of control. I admire that these women can be so fresh and insightful at 9:30 in the morning. I decided right then and there if anyone wants any deep and penetrating idea from me it needs to be in the 11 am. hour. That's my good hour. Any time before and I'm fuzzy from the lack of sleep and the frenzied morning pace. Any time after and I'm already starting my wind down for the day. The slow descent into housework, laundry, carpooling, homework, dinner, baths and finally bedtime.

I worry sometimes that my life will never return to "normal". I wonder if I will one day get back to a rational way of thinking and talking.

Last night in the car, on the way to soccer practice my daughter asked me, "what time does practice start?" My response was, "what practice?" Unfortunately, my two teenage daughters were in the car. You'd have thought I was on stage at Comedy Central. I started to yell at them, tell them I'd like to see them sit in a chair and have six people talking to them all at once, asking questions, demanding things and see if they could utter a sane syllable. But, I didn't. I stopped myself because honestly, it was funny. And too, I thought about my mom and how she'd said crazy things that never made sense like, "for crying out loud someone go unbark that dog!" We, all five of her children, laughed at her and even wrote down her sayings so we could remember them and laugh again one day at her absurd words.

Maybe I am befuddled and a little mentally hectic these days. But, if I allow myself I can also be full of laughter and whimsy. Letting go of the expectation that I might have something meaningful to say at bible study or go a full day without jelly on my shirt could actually put me on the right track toward, if not lucidness, then at least some good humor.

I love being a mom but I haven't always loved the journey. Late night feedings, scraped knees and sore throats are some of the things that have worn me out and made me stumble. And there have been too many days spent in depression, anxiety and loneliness. Grief has made me want to run ahead and not "sit" in the pain, allowing it's power to transform instead of cripple.

So, maybe at 40 I'm not completely "with it" but I do believe I'm a little wiser and a little more emotionally stable. And that counts for something. That counts for a lot.

This morning after dropping Steve off at the airport I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that Noah, with the sun in his face and his cheeks flushed bright red was asleep. Asleep! At 10:45 in the morning. I sighed. Poor guy, he just doesn't know how to pace himself.

Two Books to Help Start the Journey

My friend, Karen gave me a book to read. Well, actually just one chapter of a book. The chapter on mourning. The book is Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren Winner. It's a book in which the author talks about integrating her Christian faith with the Jewish traditions and religious practices she grew up with. In the chapter on mourning she shares that, "Judaism understands mourning as a discipline, one in which the mourner is not only allowed, but expected, to be engaged." She explains that the Jewish bereavement is marked by the days and months and yes, even the years after a death.

The first stage is called aninut which is the burial. It is followed by shiva. Shiva is the seven days after burial when the mourners come to literally "sit shiva". This is what Job's friends did for him when they came and sat with him for seven days and seven nights. The point is we are not meant to grieve alone but in community.

Last Friday night Karen came to "sit shiva." She brought a meal for my family, "because," she said, "I didn't know you 20 years ago to do this." But, she knows the journey I am on now. We sat on the couch in my living room. It was mostly quiet in the house with five kids. We sat. We cried. No words were spoken except for me to say thank you. After a while she read the Mourners Kaddish. She hugged me tight and left.

Twenty years ago I never felt permission to grieve. I only felt pressure to move on with my life. Like a splinter in my finger I only wanted the pain removed and to forget it was ever there.

Henri Nouwen in his book, Can You Drink the Cup? says, "We want to drink our cup together and thus celebrate the truth that the wounds of our individual lives, which seem intolerable when lived alone, become sources of healing when we live them as a part of a fellowship of mutual care."

The cup of sorrow is best drunk at a table of loved ones, who allow you to lift your glass, hold it before them, and empty it's contents. To drink it down to the dregs. They drink with you, loving and accepting you as you choke down the bitter liquid. "Then," Nouwen says, "the cup of sorrow becomes the cup of joy."

I'm very thankful that this time around I have people helping me to hold my cup. Like Karen, others have come around me to say they want to enter into the pain, to understand what it means to grieve over loss. On my couch last Friday night I believe I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, "one year." I finally understand now, that in this twenty-first year, I will travel the road of sorrow but will not have to do it alone.