I Remember You

I was driving along the interstate on a stretch of road where I couldn't find a Christian radio station. Roadtrips and music go together, so  I hit the USB drive option on the sound system and followed up with a quick tap to "shuffle." Several songs played that I hadn't heard in a long time and at one point I found myself adding harmony to Mark Schultz's "Remember Me."

Sung from God's perspective, He asks the listener to remember Him in all the little things of life:

Remember Me
When the color of the sunset fills the sky
Remember Me
When you pray and tears of joy fall from your eyes.

He speaks of the agelessness, the eternity of His unchanging presence:

And age to age
And heart to heart,
Bound by grace and peace.

Then He asks us to remember Him, because He's remembered us:

Child of wonder
Child of God,
I remember you...
Remember Me

Tears gathered in my eyes as that truth suddenly hit home: He remembers!

He remembers that 6 year old little girl.

He remembers that child of wonder.

He remembers her trust; her innocence; her child-like joy.

He remembers who He created her to be.

He remembers what was stolen from her.

He remembers the damage done and the trust betrayed.

He remembers what that six year old girl had no words for.

There were no witnesses to my abuse, but He saw.

It was years before I told anyone, but He heard.

He remembers what no one else does; what no one else even knew.

Even my memory has some gaps. But God knows.

He saw.

He heard.

His heart broke.

And He remembers.

He remembers because it matters.

He remembers because I matter.

He remembers.

He remembers the child of wonder, child of God.

He remembers everything.

And...

He remembers...

ME.

- jenn
Psalm 115:12: The Lord remembers us.... 

Into the Mess

Image by ChariT's Inspirational Creations

In some ways, I was a bit hesitant about publishing "Sound Reflections: Echoes of my Boots." I felt it was a good piece to share – it spoke of hope and it was true at the moment. But I also knew that other moments might be different – in fact WOULD be different. That's the funny thing about healing – it doesn't take a linear path. It's a jagged line with peaks and valleys. The general direction is usually up, but sometimes those valleys can plunge dramatically – perhaps even further down than the last dip. Sometimes the valley may even seem to be more of a gorge with a raging river running through it.

"Echoes of my Boots" was from one of the peaks. I knew there would be more valleys, so part of me hesitated to publish a post that might imply everything is now all good. It's not. Healing is a process. Sometimes it gets downright messy and unpredictable. Sometimes it seems to go backward before it goes forward. Sometimes you manage to take a few steps only to be knocked back again. Often you find yourself tumbling toward the valley floor only moments after standing on the peak. If you are in that place, healing from ANY hurt, please know that's normal. Things often get worse before they get better.

When I clean out a junk closet I usually drag everything out to sort through it all. The mess I create in the process actually looks worse than it did before I started. That's probably part of the reason so many of us put off doing it. As long as the door is closed, everything is okay. At least, it seems okay. We do a pretty good job of acting like it is – even convincing ourselves that it is – until someone opens the door a crack and gets a peek at our mess... or until that one last thing you want to stuff behind the door causes the entire mess to come crashing down around you.

My psychologist cracked open that door for me a couple of years ago. I'd been convinced there wasn't even anything in that closet. When he suggested there was, I denied it: Everything's okay, nothing to see here. I was wrong. He saw what I couldn't see. The mess in that closet – the broken trust of that six year old little girl¹– rules my reactions. It affects how I view the world, myself, and how I react to others – with reactions that aren't always justified.

We've been working on that. But to change something, first you have to be aware of it. To be aware, you have to look at it – really look at it. You have to take it out of the closet, out of the box. Once it's out you have to deal with it. You have to face those emotions and reactions. That's where it gets messy.

In "The Wounded Heart," Dan Allender wrote:

"The answer involves a strategy that seems to intensify the problem: peer deeply into the wounded heart. The first great enemy to lasting change is the propensity to turn our eyes away from the wound and pretend things are fine. The work of restoration cannot begin until a problem is fully faced.²

The truth is that we don't want to clean out that closet. We don't want to look. But we have to look if we want to change. We have to peer deeply. And if we find the courage (or the desperation) to do that, it seems to actually intensify the problem! Ugh! Emotions and reactions come to the surface with surprising strength. Messy. Painful. It gets worse before it gets better.

Recently, my psychologist asked how I was doing. After a few moments' hesitation and reflection, I answered:

"I feel worse... but I think it's because I'm doing better."

He smiled and nodded, affirming: "I couldn't have hoped for a better, more profound answer." Then, of course, he asked me to explain.

I felt worse because peering into the wound had stirred up emotions and reactions that had been suppressed. They were no longer stuffed behind the door, but were beginning to spill out. That week I'd seen in myself an unjustified reaction toward my husband and I'd cried in his arms because of it. That was the feeling worse. But it was also doing better. I'd actually allowed myself to feel – and that was progress. It's difficult for me to allow myself to feel and express emotions. I've pushed down and invalidated my own feelings for so long that most of the time I can't tell you what I'm feeling because I don't even know myself. It's amazing how much time I've spent on my psychologist's couch in stumped silence because I had no answer for his questions of what/how I was feeling! It's something we've been working on for over two years... with a frustrating lack of progress. But that week I'd seen my brokenness. I'd seen how it hurt my relationship with my husband. And... I was heartbroken over it. Heartbroken and angry that all I had to offer my husband was my brokenness. I was at that spot where the mess (part of it anyway) was out of the closet. I felt worse. But I was doing better.

I've been going through that closet now for a couple of years. Things have been wedged in there so tightly it's taken a lot of tugging to pull it out. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting a handle on it – times like I wrote about in "Echoes of my Boots" or "Changed by Story." Sometimes I get blindsided by something I didn't see coming – like when a simple devotional recently had me sobbing (and totally freaking out) in my husband's arms. But I'm learning that the mess can just be that for now – a mess. It's okay. God took 40 years to teach Moses humility, patience, and trust as a sheep herder in the desert (after he killed the Egyptian and in preparation for the Exodus). God used 17 years of slavery and imprisonment to prepare Joseph to act as second in command of Egypt. So it's okay if it takes some time. It's okay to sort through it a few things at a time, going through it on my own time, in my own way. It's even okay that sometimes it seems like the mess is bigger, not smaller. That just may be what Joseph was feeling as he sat in that jail! I do wish I didn't have to remind myself of that so frequently, though....

The important thing is to open the door; to go into the mess. If we are willing to go into it, God will bring us through it. The Apostle Paul promises us that "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." ³ So, yes, it's okay not to be "there" (wherever "there" is). It's okay to be a work in progress. It's okay to be a mess. As Ally in the movie "Mom's Night Out" says:

So keep looking; keep going in – because He will bring you through. He will complete what He's started!

-jenn

P.S. I thought the hand-stamped dogtag necklace in the top photo was pretty cool. It's available for purchase at ChariT's Inspirational Creations.

P.P.S  And, yes, now I want to see "Mom's Night Out" again. Great movie!

---

^1. See "Into the Silence" ↩
^2. From "The Wounded Heart" by Dan Allender (I also recommend "The Wounded Heart Workbook" to go with the book) ↩
^3. Philippians 1:6 ↩

Sound Reflections: Echoes of my Boots

It was a beautiful spring morning. I closed the car door and walked across the gravel parking lot, crossing the street and stepping onto the sidewalk outside the church. I smiled inside at the sound of my boot heels on the walk beneath me. I'd noticed it before – a small sense of satisfaction at the sound of the new boots clicking with each step. As someone who is in sneakers far more than anything even remotely resembling a dress shoe, and is far more comfortable in those sneakers, I had assumed the satisfaction was part of the healing from my sexual abuse... finally starting to take joy in being female... feeling good about myself... enjoying a sound which reflected that change... a sound which was... uniquely female. 

As I crossed the walk that morning, though, my mind suddenly flashed back to a conversation in my psychologist's office just a few days before. I'd confessed to him several weeks ago that when I become highly upset, I have a deep desire to throw things. I had been realizing there was evidently more anger buried inside than I'd wanted to admit, even to myself. In my last session I'd told him that as I'd thought more about it, though, I'd realized the desire really wasn't just to throw something. I wanted the satisfaction of throwing it against a wall and hearing it shatter into a million places. I'd come to realize that while there might be some physical release from hurling an object through the air, it would feel empty without the sound of it shattering as it hit the wall. It was the sound my soul was screaming for. The sound... shattering the silence.

I've lived most of my life in silence... without a voice. As I'd thought about that desire to throw something and hear it shatter against the wall, I'd realized that even when I couldn't find my voice... even when I'd wanted to hide what had happened... somewhere deep inside there was still a little girl who needed her pain and anger to be heard. The shattering glass would give sound to the silence... sound to the shattered soul. It would be heard.  It would give voice to the pain that I was unable to give voice to.

All of that flashed through my mind as my boot heels sounded on the walk that morning. As it did, I realized that yes, there was a new "female" sound to my footsteps... a sound I took satisfaction in. It was more than that, though. It was also... just the sound itself. Firm. Solid. The sound of the boot heels echoing into the silence of the morning... breaking the silence... announcing my presence. It was a sound that said "I am here. Hear me."

And in that moment I realized... I had been doing so much more than trading in my sweatshirt for a sweater; my sneakers for new boots. I was trading in my silence... SHATTERING the silence. As I reached for the door I smiled.  My boots sounded on the walk below me, echoing the cry of my soul: I am here. I matter. Now hear me roar... into the silence. 

-- jenn

Stained Glass Masquerade

Is there anyone that fails?

Is there anyone that falls?

Am I the only one in church today feelin' so small?*

Yesterday was a hard day for me. Not many people know this (until now, anyway!), but a couple of years ago I was diagnosed with a mild mood disorder. It's not pervasive enough that I've sought relief with medication, but it's there. I am aware of it and can compensate most of the time. Yesterday wasn't one of those times. Yesterday several of my triggers came into play at the same time. Schedule changes can be triggers for those with mood disorders and my schedule had been disrupted somewhat by a quick road trip with my daughter. We'd returned late the night before and I was tired from that. My husband, being the sweet guy he is, volunteered to take my other daughter to school and let me catch up on sleep (which was another step away from my normal schedule). I also had some emotional stress – I'd had a counseling session several days ago which had left me feeling rather frustrated with myself. To top it all off, I had some biochemical/hormonal fluctuations going on. Strangely enough, I don't get the typical grouchy PMS. But at a point in my cycle where most women are feeling great, I can sink into a few days of mild depression. Yesterday was that day... and the depression was heightened by the frustration and introspection caused by last week's counseling session.  

It was bad. Really bad. Honestly, it was one of the worst depressive episodes I've had in quite awhile. I knew I was in trouble when, after sleeping in way past my normal rising time, I still couldn't bring myself to leave the quiet isolation of my bedroom. Seriously, it was after noon before I managed to make myself crack open the bedroom door and venture out. That's not me. I do better with mornings than I do late nights. I wasn't tired. I just didn't want to face anyone.  I wanted to curl up and disappear inside myself – dead to the world and numbing myself with sleep.

As miserable as I was, though, the last thing I wanted to do was to admit it to anyone.

'Cause when I take a look around

Everybody seems so strong

I know they'll soon discover

That I don't belong

So I tuck it all away, like everything's okay

If I make them all believe it, maybe I'll believe it too

So with a painted grin, I play the part again

So everyone will see me the way that I see them*

Truth is, I wanted to hide – even from my husband who knows and understands the mood disorder I struggle with... the husband who was there in the counseling session last week to see and understand the frustration I was feeling from that. The man has never shown anything but love and support in those times. And yet... I still desperately wanted to hide, even from him. I wanted to pretend everything was okay:  I'm "normal" (whatever that is); I've got it all under control....

Are we happy plastic people

Under shiny plastic steeples

With walls around our weakness

And smiles to hide our pain?*

I knew I should be honest with my husband. I knew I should let him know so he could at least be praying for me. But... I just couldn't seem to do it.

Is there anyone who's been there

Are there any hands to raise

Am I the only one who's traded in

the altar for a stage?*

I managed to pull myself together enough to pick up my daughter from school, but I skipped the trip to the grocery I should have made on the way home. I just didn't have the energy for it. Once home, I sat in front of the TV with my daughters, numbing my mind and snacking on potato chips and chocolate. Not the best idea for a diabetic... but the overwhelming depression overrode my usual caution and restraint. Eventually, I could no longer ignore dinner preparations. So... still concealing the problem from my family, I made up (i.e. invented) a new casserole from the few ingredients I had on hand. For all anyone knew it was planned that way in advance. I never said a word about making it up as I went, and they enjoyed the new dish.

The performance is convincing

And we know every line by heart

Only when no one is watching

Can we really fall apart*

We sat in front of the TV after dinner, allowing me to continue in my hiding. I knew, though, that the time of disclosure was coming. Once we are snuggled into bed each night, my husband and I spend time talking and have a nightly devotion. I knew that once we were behind those closed doors, I really did need to admit to him what was going on.  

But would it set me free

If I dared to let you see

The truth behind the person

That you imagine me to be?

Would your arms be open

Or would you walk away

Would the love of Jesus

Be enough to make you stay?*

In truth, I don't need to ask those questions when I'm considering disclosing to my husband. I'm not sure why it's still so hard to admit to him that I'm struggling when I know I will only receive love and support. It's amazing how overwhelming the desire is to hide – even from those we know will love and support us. Once we were alone, though, I swallowed hard and admitted to my husband that I was fighting depression. Then, in an effort to be even more honest, I corrected myself: "No, actually I'm not fighting it. I'm sinking into it." Even at that I still had trouble bringing voice to just how deeply I was struggling. I felt his arms tighten around me, and his breath on the top of my head as he began praying for me. I had known that would be the outcome... so why did I find it so hard to do? Why is it so incredibly hard for us to be real?

Are we happy plastic people

Under shiny plastic steeples

With walls around our weakness

And smiles to hide our pain?

But if the invitation's open

To every heart that has been broken

Maybe then we close the curtain on our stained glass masquerade*

And I remembered... just the day before I'd been listening to the song "Stained Glass Masquerade" and had felt frustrated (once again) by the lack of authenticity in our churches. Our churches should be a place of where we can be real and find healing and support. Instead, all too frequently, they are a place where we paint on the face and answer, "Oh, my week has been fine.  How about yours?" Our shared prayer requests are filled with requests for our co-worker's daughter, neighbors, extended family members...  but where are the pleas for our own broken hearts? I've seen friends leave the church because they were tired of playing the game; wearing the face; feeling so alone... so isolated... so different than all the other "happy plastic people" they saw there. We've traded the altar for a stage and people are tired of the performance.  I'm tired of the performance.

But if the invitation's open

To every heart that has been broken

Maybe then we close the curtain on our stained glass masquerade*

I constantly question what we can do to help bring about that change... to extend the invitation. I ask the question even as I fight it myself... even in the comfort and safety of my husband's arms. It is SO STINKING HARD!  But I can only think of one way: one person at a time... starting with me.

Is there anyone that fails?

Is there anyone that falls?

Am I the only one in church today feelin' so small?*

Hi, I'm Jenn.  I sometimes struggle with depression. And yesterday was a hard day... a really hard day....

-jenn

*"Stained Glass Masquerade" by Casting Crowns
Listen here.

Into the Silence....

When I was six or seven...

I adored him.

He shared his secret with me.

Brought me into his confidence.

I wouldn't betray that.  No way would I betray that.

I adored him.

And so I kept... SILENT.

Later... he was in trouble.  Someone had told.

It wasn't me.  I frantically told him it wasn't me.

He knew.  He knew I'd kept his secret.

I didn't betray his trust.  I wouldn't betray his trust.

I adored him...

and now I'd proven my loyalty... my ability...

to keep... SILENT.

So he asked more.  And I gave more.

At least I thought I gave more.  Actually, he just took more.

He took... my innocence.

He abused my trust. He abused my loyalty.  He abused... me.

But I didn't know.

I thought I was special.

I didn't know... that I was just used.

I thought he liked me... thought I was special.

We shared this secret, he and I.

I adored him.

And so I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was eight...

I knew.

I sat beside my mom, a book in her lap, as she explained:

Ovaries. Eggs. Fallopian tubes. Uterus.

Sperm.

A beautiful gift of love

within a marriage.

And just like that I knew.

And I knew that he knew.

And I knew that he knew that I didn't know....

And I knew anger.

He knew.  He should have protected me. He didn't.
He knew. Yet he led me into it.
He knew... that I didn't know.  And he used it against me.
He didn't care.  He didn't think I was special...

just a little kid... too dumb to know any better.
Used.  
Silently raging inside.

And I did feel dumb.  I did feel foolish.

For crushing on him... for believing he cared.

For not knowing.

And so I kept... SILENT.

And I knew shame.

It wasn't really mine, but I carried it anyway.

Children of divorce and children of abuse.

Somehow we take the blame.

"It was my fault.  I let him."

My fault.

"I wanted his attention...
wanted him to like me."

My shame.

 And so at the tender age of eight

I knew.

I knew the wrong.

I knew the anger.

I knew the shame.

And I knew that no one else could ever know.

I knew.

And so I kept... SILENT.

But little girls can't keep silent.  Not entirely, anyway.

I acted out.

Things I shouldn't know.  But I did know.

And the older I became, the more I understood.

And the deeper the shame.

Not just for his actions.  But for mine.

And I knew... no one could ever know...

what I knew.

And so I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was eighteen...

I told.

Circumstances forced my hand.

And I told.

I told what he'd done.

And I told them I knew... it wasn't my fault.

It was something he had done... to me.

I told.

But not everything.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from my little girl crush.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from letting him touch me.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from wanting his attention

even after it happened the first time...

wanting his attention...

 to know I was still special

the next time.

I didn't tell the shame I felt... from the things I'd done.

I didn't tell the shame I felt... from things that still controlled me.

I didn't tell.

I still believed no one could ever know the whole.

I told.

And yet I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was forty-five...

I realized.

For the first time I put a name to it.

I'd known what had happened

but somehow

inexplicably

I hadn't put the name to it.

But then

I saw his actions... named in a book.

A book for survivors.

Sucker-punched... I saw the words

in black and white... on the page in front of me

and I realized

exactly what had been done.

A form of sex.  Abuse.  Sexual... abuse!

And for the first time

I realized I'd been harmed.

For the first time... in all those years...

I began to see the damage.

Lack of trust.  Lack of confidence.  Not good enough.
Shame.

Counseled:  "It's not your fault."

My head knew. I realized. But my heart still felt shame.

Foolish for crushing... believing... trusting....

Shame for acting out.

I could say I was abused.

I could even begin to admit I was damaged.

No shame in that.  It was something done to me.

But the details?  My part?  My actions afterwards?

No... no one would get to see that.

My counselor knew.  My husband now knew.

No one else could ever know.

I realized.

And yet I kept... SILENT.

....

When I was forty-seven...

I saw.

For the first time I saw how I treated that little girl within me...

telling her she'd make a fool of herself if I let her out.

I saw it wasn't other people who saw her as foolish.

It was... me.

I saw...

how satan had hijacked the woman God created me to be.

And I began to see myself

the way my husband sees me...

the way God created me.

A beautiful creation.

All of me.

I am loved.

I am enjoyed.

And for the first time

I could enjoy that

revel in it

delight in it.

And then...

I saw...

a story.

  

Another survivor.

She broke her silence.  Shared her story.

And hundreds of others followed

bringing their stories into the light.

I saw the beauty.  I saw the hope.

I saw the healing.

I saw just how much...

stories matter.

I saw...

Silence is not protection.

Silence is prison.

Silence is isolation.

Silence allows evil to go unchecked.

I saw...

Freedom and healing

are found in breaking the silence.

I saw...

There is beauty in sharing the story.

Beauty in discovering we are not alone.

Beauty in opening the door for others to step through.

Beauty in shining a light on the path

for others to follow

to share their stories

to break the silence

to find their stories... matter.

They are not... alone.

I saw.

I SAW!!!

And I can no longer

keep... SILENT.

I must... SPEAK.

Share my story.

Open a door.

Shine a light in the darkness.

I must... SPEAK...

INTO THE SILENCE

....

-jenn

Note:  The story I referenced above is an amazing read filled with hope and healing.  You can find it online at at http://inotherswords.com/2015/01/18/1473

Stepping Forward in Freedom

I sat with my finger poised above the "delete" button as I re-read the status I was preparing to post on Facebook. It'd been a great day and I wanted to share it – along with some of the reasons why I was feeling so optimistic. At the end of the post was the sentence I couldn't figure out whether to leave in or delete: "Add to that some continued processing of what ended up being a really good therapy session yesterday... and, yeah.... Jenn's feeling pretty doggone good!" On one hand, I didn't want to get into the specifics of that session... but on the other hand, there had been a real "ah-ha" moment that was a tremendous source of hope and a large part of the positive attitude which had permeated my day. I wanted to share that joy and the hope I was feeling from the discovery. On one hand, I was slightly hesitant to even mention counseling (what would people think?)... but on the other hand, I wanted to do my part to dispel any possible stigma against counseling... to make it okay for someone else. Because... it wasn't that long ago that the person who resisted... was me.

In 2001, at the end of a long email to my friend/pastor, I wrote: "And now I'm beginning to sound like the crazed psycho-analysts that I've always despised. LOL! I'm way over-analyzing, aren't I?" When he saw me later that evening he suggested that if I didn't want to get into the issues I'd raised with him, then maybe "someone else" could help me.  I knew by "someone else" he meant counseling. And that... that is when I came completely unglued. His suggestion both shocked and terrified me. I held my tongue then, but later that night I emailed him again and unloaded on him, "Don't push me too hard, here.... Don't give me a reason to run or shut down – it's not worth it.... You started this, don't you dare bail on me now."

As I think about that night I have to shake my head. What a difference a few years makes. It took me over another decade, but I've come to realize that counseling shouldn't carry the stigma that I gave it for so many years. I never had a hesitation about talking to my pastor about things that bothered me or that I couldn't seem to figure out. So why on earth would I have a hesitation to talk to someone with even more training – someone who could help me even more? Someone who could help me with my kids... my spouse... myself?  I believe seeking that help is even biblical:

• A wise man will hear and increase in learning, And a man of understanding will acquire wise counsel.
  (Proverbs 1:5) 
• Where there is no guidance the people fall, But in abundance of counselors there is victory.
  (Proverbs 11:14)
• The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, But a wise man is he who listens to counsel.
  (Proverbs 12:15) 
• Through insolence comes nothing but strife, But wisdom is with those who receive counsel.
  (Proverbs 13:10)

You don't have to be "messed up beyond belief" to benefit from counseling. You just have to want to be more than what you are... to want to be the best that you can be for those around you.  None of us are perfect... we haven't arrived... Why do we want to pretend we have? Each of us at times could use a little help figuring out the world around us and how to interact with it. Each of us has been broken in ways that impact how we view the world around us – many times without even realizing the impact or ramifications. None of us see ourselves accurately.... Neither do we always see our spouse; our children; our parents; or our friends accurately. We live in a broken world. We have all been harmed. Every single one of us has suffered harm. We all look at the world (and ourselves) through those glasses. Learning to recognize it frees us to become more.

I've learned that those "crazed psycho-analysts" aren't as off-base as I once thought they were. I thought we were supposed to leave the past in the past and that they were just stirring up what should be left alone. I've come to understand that isn't necessarily the case. Moving on doesn't mean burying or ignoring. Hiding is not healing. Forgetting isn't even necessarily forgiving. Sometimes we need to come face to face with our past and deal with it before we can truly move on.  Understanding where certain feelings or reactions come from can be very freeing. That was part of the positive session I wanted to post about. I had suddenly realized that the feeling I feared and felt here in my present was actually a very intense reflection of something that had happened when I was a child. By realizing it, I could recognize the lies in my head for what they were – lies meant to keep me from being the woman whom God created me to be. While that doesn't automatically fix the problem, it does give me hope and the ability to realize where the lies come from; to recognize them for what they are... and allow the truth of God (and my loving husband) to begin to heal and overcome them. I'm no longer chained by something I don't see or understand. The power of that understanding and the recognition of my brokenness allow me to experience the hope of healing and freedom.

I smiled. My finger moved from above the "delete" button. I left the sentence as it was and moved the mouse to post the unedited status. No hiding. I don't want to be party to the stigma. I want to step forward in freedom... hoping to bring that freedom to someone else.

-jenn

Mess to Masterpiece

I've got a guest blogger this morning: my daughter, Jessie.  She's the artist working on the sketch in the photo I'm using for this post.  She's quiet most of the time, but those still waters run deep.  Sometimes I get a glimpse into her inner thoughts and it just amazes me.  Today was one of those mornings. I woke up and saw the words she'd written below in my facebook feed.  There's nothing I can add to her thoughts on this Christmas Eve morning....

"Even the most haphazard sketch can turn into a masterpiece, a few strokes of paint into a glorious painting, a lump of clay into a fine piece of pottery, a lump of coal into a sparkling diamond. The world around us tears us apart, and yet there is still beauty among us, thanks to the power of transformation. A forest burned by fire grows back greener than before, a broken bone, stronger. There is but one we can thank for that. Who else could change a shepherd into a king, a boy into a warrior, a guy with a stutter into a leader? And He let His own son become a man and die for us so that our sins may be washed white as snow, the ultimate transformation. Do not forget that God is never finished with you. When you look at yourself and those around you, you may see a mess, but He sees a masterpiece in progress. For God can make make a whole universe out of nothing. Trust Him, hand Him the brush, and see what He paints you into. You might just be amazed. Just remember along the way, we are all works in progress."

-Jess

A Cry for Help - Take Two

I recently wrote how I'd discovered years ago in Psalm 50 that God considers a cry for help as praise:  "Calling for help is part of the banquet of praise - the banquet of praise that He longs for, the banquet of praise that makes the "acts of worship" complete. A simple cry for help completes the shout of praise. A simple cry for help that demonstrates our faith, our trust, our dependence...." (See full blog at http://jenndietz.blogspot.com/2014/11/a-cry-for-help.html)

I thought I got it.  I mean, I wrote it, right?  But oh don't you love it when your own words come back at you....  

Not long after I wrote those words I discovered that a friend whom I had stood by in times of struggle had been facing those same struggles again... but this time without telling me.  Alone, without support, struggling had turned to falling.  As I looked at the surrounding devastation, I could only wonder why my friend hadn't confided in me.  Why go it alone when help and support were available?  I would have supported... loved...  helped in any way possible.  I had proven all that before, so why wasn't I trusted this time?  Why didn't my friend come to me? Why didn't my friend trust me enough to believe I would be there to help and not condemn?  The lack of confidence and trust stung.  It even triggered some anger within me.  Just what did I have to do to prove I would be there for my friend?  And then... it hit me:  Psalm 50. 

When I try to pull myself up by my own bootstraps and handle life on my own...  I'm doing the same thing to God that my friend did to me.  I'm shutting Him out when He's proven over and over again that He's there for me. And as much as it stung to discover my friend's choice to go it alone... how much more must my tendency to go it alone break my Father's heart?  Ouch.   

A few days later, though, I discovered God wasn't quite through using my own blog against me.... LOL.

Truth is... I hide.  And... I try to handle life on my own.  Not just with God. I can do it with those around me as well.  It doesn't even have to be "big" stuff.  For example:

When my husband has to work late and I find myself jealous for his time, I tend to try to handle it on my own.  I talk myself out of the hurt, telling myself that he's being a good provider (he is!); that he has no choice (he doesn't); that I should be glad he has a job (I am).  I tell myself that it's not fair of me to feel the way I do, and he doesn't need any more stress, so I need to "handle" it on my own (by pretending everything is fine and swallowing the hurt).  But, as my psychologist pointed out to me this week with something else, hiding isn't really handling.  So... (thinking on my own now)... what if... instead of "handling" it on my own... I admitted to my husband how much I missed him?  Not accusing; not angry; just simply admitting that I am struggling?  What would that say to him?  Wow.  I usually look at it from my own perspective of "I know I shouldn't be feeling this way.  My feelings are just wrong." and so I try to talk myself out of it... keep it hidden.  Let me just admit right here and now that I hate to be wrong in any way, especially in front of people -- thus my tendency to hide and handle it on my own.  Looking at it from my husband's perspective, though... if I stopped hiding... if I were open with him about my struggle...  It would not only communicate the desire I have for him (which has to feel good to any guy!)... but it would also show that I trust him with my feelings even when I know they aren't fair.  I trust him enough to share the "ugly" parts of me... to let him in to the areas where I know I'm wrong.  I trust him enough to let him help me.  And when I let my husband in to be the knight-in-shining-armor that every guy longs to be... that has to feel a lot like praise.  And when I don't?  Sigh....  

Those same feelings/questions I felt as I discovered my friend's silent struggle?  I send to my husband and my God every time I'm not honest about what I'm feeling or what I'm struggling with.  That's why a cry for help completes the banquet of praise... that's why my God (and my husband) long for me to quit hiding; to quit trying to handle it on my own; and to just trust them enough to let them in to help.  That's why... every time I don't... I break my Father's heart.

Guess I've got some work to do....

-jenn

A Cry for Help

I originally wrote the following over a decade ago.  Yesterday, listening to Amy Grant's song, "Better than a Hallelujah" brought it back to mind.  As I remembered how I'd discovered the truth of that song in the words of Psalm 50, I realized I wanted to share it here, as it was written then:

It was one of those nights where I realized just how long it'd been.... It wasn't guilt. No, it was an even more powerful emotion that drove me to my knees: the realization of just how much I missed Him. I missed having Him close enough that I could hear Him constantly direct my paths - to the point of avoiding traffic jams I didn't even know where there! I missed having Him close enough that I would talk to Him without a moment's thought. I remembered those times as so sweet... I just... missed Him. And I knew who had moved... but I had no idea how I'd moved so far. So I knelt on the floor, my eyes traveling over the stacks of books I'd made as I'd worked on cleaning up the bedroom earlier in the day. My eyes wandered to the Message version of the prophets - the one I'd been working my way through before I somehow let my life get to the point that the quiet times entirely disappeared. I wasn't even sure where I was in that book anymore. It just didn't "feel right" for tonight anyway. I glanced at the New Testament, then at the new copy of the Message version of the Books of Moses that I hadn't even opened yet. Finally I picked up the most ragged one there - the Old Testament Wisdom books. And, doing something I don't often do, I trusted God to direct me and just opened the book. Somewhere in the midst of those pages were the words I needed to hear, and He was going to have to guide me to them. It opened to Psalm 50....

The Psalm begins to paint a picture of a powerful God, blazing into view with fireworks announcing his arrival. But my heart longs for more than just acknowledgement of an all-powerful, magnificent God....

"He summons heaven and earth as a jury, 

he's taking his people to court."

Sigh. I wanted closeness, not an account of what all Israel did wrong.... I wanted arms wrapped around me, drawing me in, not a judgment....

"Are you listening, dear people? I'm getting ready to speak; 

Israel, I'm about ready to bring you to trial."

Okay. I know I deserve this. I've left Him behind, not entirely unlike Israel. But reading the account of how I messed up just really wasn't what I had in mind for tonight....

"I don't find fault with your acts of worship,

the frequent burnt sacrifices you offer."

Well, that's nice to know. Glad to know I haven't messed up everything. Actually, I'm surprised by the words. I seem to remember judgment against Israel's worship and we're talking trial here.... So somehow I sense a huge "but" coming... I turn the page....

"But why should I want your blue-ribbon bull, 

or more and more goats from your herds?"

Uh huh. I knew it.

"...If I get hungry, do you think I'd tell you? 

All creation and its bounty are mine." 

Sigh. Yeah, I know... but somehow I keep losing track of that. And as I read through this passage I'm reminded again of just how much effort I've put into doing the "stuff" for God while totally ignoring Him in the process. All the effort, the works, the "acts of worship..." doing so much for Him, and so little with Him. I know it's not that the things I'm doing are wrong ("I don't find fault with your acts of worship") but I've let an important part of it disappear. He doesn't need my "acts," He desires my presence. My eyes are blurred with the beginning of tears as I move on to the next section....

"Spread for me a banquet of praise, 

serve High God with a feast of kept promises,"

Sigh. The gathered tears now start to spill as I acknowledge that piece that's been missing. Personal Praise. It doesn't matter what I do for Him if I'm not doing it with Him. If I'm not taking that time for personal praise and to develop my relationship with Him then the "acts of worship" are incomplete. But it's been so long... I... sigh....

"And call for help when you're in trouble- 

I'll help you, and you'll honor me."

I sit in stunned surprise. As many times as I've read through the Psalms it's never hit me before. These two thoughts, "spread for me a banquet of praise" and "call for help," are NOT two thoughts. There is an "and" there, not a period! They are part of one sentence, one thought. Calling for help is part of the banquet of praise - the banquet of praise that He longs for, the banquet of praise that makes the "acts of worship" complete. A simple cry for help completes the shout of praise. A simple cry for help that demonstrates our faith, our trust, our dependence....

And I wonder at the love of a God whom in the midst of rejection by His people cries out "I don't need you to do anything for me. I just want you. Your call for help is my praise. That is the worship I desire."

And so, in awe of a God of so much love, my own (stubbornly independent) heart forms the simple prayer, "Help me to see when I'm in trouble, Father."

And I fall asleep in His arms.

-jenn

Changed... by Story

I've tried to consider what to write about The Story Workshop I attended in Seattle: four days that I just can't really put into words. There was good teaching by Dan Allender in our large group setting. A psychologist and a theologian, he has the ability to really make you think. I loved sitting under his teaching (as I love reading his books). But where the work was really done was in our small groups... and confidentiality for those women keeps me from saying much about what happened there.

It's amazing that we walked into that first group not knowing each other at all and walked out probably knowing each other better than our best friends at home. The intimacy we shared was significant. We shared our stories... sometimes stories that had never been shared as they were there and sometimes stories that had never been shared at all. We helped each other discover our stories; see them more clearly. After journeying together the way we did, it seemed really strange to just walk away from each other at the end of those four days with just a hug and a blessing – most likely never to see or hear from one another ever again. Just a blessing? So much more. The blessings those women spoke over me have changed me. I hope mine have changed them as well.

I can't say that I walked away with an earth-shattering revelation or direction. And yet... I did walk away changed. I did discover some things about myself and my story that I hadn't seen before. And I think I walked away with a new sense of confidence. I still don't know quite what to do with that, but it's there.

So... what happened? Not what I expected. The problems I'd discovered on my own in the weeks before the workshop (e.g. perfectionism as my idol) never really came up. Instead, what came up was my own attitude towards that 6 year old girl who was abused. I had written my story from the perspective of an 8 year old and described what I felt when I discovered what had really been done to me: "Humiliation overwhelmed me as I realized I wasn't special to him, he didn't love me... I was just a dumb kid who didn't know any better... and he knew it." Through that and other statements that had described feeling foolish and stupid, my facilitator pointed out the hatred I had for that little girl. I argued the point, saying I was just describing how that little girl had felt, not what I now believed. Yet... over the next couple of group sessions, and an individual session, I began to realize that by "protecting" her and continuing to do everything in my power to make sure I was never caught unaware again, I was in fact still speaking disparagement to that little girl. Facing that was huge. I now realized I had to reach out to that little girl inside me and stop telling her she was stupid and foolish.

I was still grappling with that a couple of hours later when I walked into the next small group session... where I came face to face with another unexpected truth. Our facilitator had given me a compliment of sorts and as soon as I'd muttered my thanks, I realized I'd entirely forgotten what had just happened (what was I even being complimented on?). When I admitted it, our facilitator pointed out that I'd just left them... where did I go? I hadn't even seen it, but she did. And when she confronted me on it, I knew the truth of it... and the truth hit me with a searing pain. I didn't know where I had gone, but I knew why... I ran from being enjoyed.... and as we explored why I had that reaction, I suddenly knew... "because when I find out it's not true, it hurts too much."

I did a lot of thinking and writing that night....

I think I walked into the next small group session with a little more confidence. It must have been noticeable, because our facilitator finally turned to me towards the end of the session and said, "Okay... I'm curious...?" I ducked the question for a moment asking, "About what?" but when she just grinned and asked again, I pulled out one of the journal entries I'd written the day before and read it to the group: 

I'm shaking inside. As I question why every muscle is tensed, it occurs to me... I have fought hard: fought to maintain control; fought to deny the weakness of my own feelings; fought to portray an image of strength and self-sufficiency... to mask the quaking little girl inside me. 

I thought I was protecting her; shielding her from the world around her. She was too little; too innocent. She needed that protection. And all the while... all the while I was the one whispering to her, "You'll make a fool of yourself if I let you out." My protection condemned her to a life of silence. My protection took her voice... confirmed... confirmed what? I don't know. That she wasn't able to do it herself?

I called her names without even hearing it: Stupid... Dumb... Foolish.... I fought to make sure she would never face the humiliation of not knowing ever again; would never be made the fool of again. And by fighting... I pronounced her guilty of the very thing I wanted to protect her from.

So hear me now, little Jenn... you were the victim of an abuser. You were gloriously innocent. You looked up to his face with the glowing admiration and the unwavering trust of a small child. He abused that trust. It was his sin, his mistake, his responsibility. You weren't foolish. You were trusting. No one had ever given you reason not to trust before. You didn't know because you couldn't know. You gave him the gift of your trust. There is beauty in that. The evil of abuse marked that beauty, but it is beauty.

The problem is, little Jenn, that you've had a hard time with trusting ever since then. You don't trust others... and you don't trust yourself. I haven't trusted you.

So... dear, little Jenn... lift up your sweet, innocent face and look into my tear-filled eyes. Take my hand as we learn to trust... together. Truth is... I'm still scared of looking foolish... but somehow... I think maybe... just maybe... you... can teach me... how to play.

When I finished reading and looked up, tears were streaming down our facilitator's face.

After some discussion and affirmation, someone asked what I needed. I fumbled for a moment, not knowing. Then I realized... I told them I had to risk looking foolish. I needed to share something growing within me... I hesitantly stumbled over the words as I admitted that even before the workshop I'd been considering pursuing the lay counseling certificate... just to take something back to my home church. I was asked why that felt foolish... and I had to answer that I didn't like admitting desires... I'd prefer not to admit them even to myself... and that I didn't feel like I was good enough... that I struggled with having something to say... who was I to think I could help someone else? That's when nearly every member of the group looked me in the eye and spoke to me of the power of my words... of the way the Spirit had used me there in that room. I have a hard time writing that, actually... it feels like patting myself on the back and I hate that. But what was happening in that room was important... was working to tell that little girl inside that she wasn't stupid or foolish... that her voice could make a difference.

One woman looked at me and told me, "Every time I think of my breakthrough, I will see your face." I honestly didn't have a clue what she was talking about... what I'd said... but I couldn't doubt the look in her eyes. Her words to me were a powerful salve. I already knew another woman had shared something she had never shared before simply because I had shared my story. Now someone was telling me that something I had said to her had changed her as well. I walked out of the room a slightly different person than the one who had entered. Slightly more confident... contemplating what it all meant... willing to contemplate what it all meant....

The next day we had our large group celebration service. I sat until almost the very end, trying to deny the still, small voice inside that told me to get up and speak. This wasn't our small group, but the entire large group! I finally gave in, stood up, and spoke into the mic... not sure anyone could even hear my voice over the pounding of my heart. I spoke a few moments and then read the journal entry. I was still shaking when I sat down. One of my small group members leaned over to me and whispered, "You just changed lives." I didn't really believe her, but at least I'd been obedient. A little while later, though, at the conclusion of the celebration, another woman walked up to me from across the room, pressed a card into my hand, and asked me to email her what I'd read – saying it was something she'd needed to hear. I can't really say much beyond that except to say that the emails we've shared back and forth since then have confirmed what my small group member had told me: my obedience, my words... changed at least one life that afternoon.

So... now what? I'm not sure. I've still got my own issues and my own broken spots. And yet... there is such a strong desire to change lives... to just sit with someone in their story... to give them the freedom and the space to tell their stories. But what does that look like in reality? I really don't know. I'm at a loss... and more than a little scared of it... of even admitting it, actually. At a crossroads, too, I think... but more open. Changed... by story.

-jenn

For More information on The Story Workshop, see http://theallendercenter.org/workshops/story-workshop/