scarlet letters

I'm divorced.

::Deep Breath::

That's the first time I've actually said that word out loud.

Over the past two months, I've used varying versions of "my divorce was finalized", but I've avoided saying the actual word.

I feel a shameful sting in the word divorced. I hear unspoken judgments, like What's wrong with her that made her husband leave? and She's used goods and even simply a sigh of disappointment.

I hear them because my heart has also condemned others that way.

My good Christian upbringing left me judgmental. Pious. Spiritually stuck-up. I've unconsciously viewed divorce as the ultimate failure.

And now here I am, walking around with a red D on my chest for the world to see. And I feel not only the weight of others' judgment, but also the historical weight of my own.

Oh how arrogant I have been...

A friend recently spoke some healing and freeing words for my heart:

Divorce is no more a sign of relationship failure than marriage is of relationship success.

And even just typing those words out, my breath catches in my throat. Because I know it is true.

Even when it is hard for me to believe.

I hope someday I won't feel completely defined by my divorce. And that I can eventually say the word without hanging my head in shame, or feeling the need to justify it with an explanation, or wincing as I hear it megaphone my insufficiencies.

Because though it feels like divorced has been written on my heart in permanent ink, I need to remember... So has beloved. Chosen. Loved. His.

And those are my true scarlet letters.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story...]

velveteen heart

I remember so vividly our Sunday morning routine when I was a child. There was screaming and fighting and swatting and tears.

Always tears.

Like an unseen bully, the volatile tension would follow us into the car, its presence thick and heavy and loud.

I'd hold my breath, and silently beg for a ceasefire. The words "please stop" would turn over and over in my mind. All the way to church.

And as we pulled into the parking lot, there came the inevitable instruction: "You better put a smile on your face before we get inside."

I'd do my best to dry my tears. Wipe my snot. Calm my blotchy skin. With my plastic smile crookedly in place, we'd walk into church. Together. A happy family.

And so I learned to live a double life.

I don't have much of a poker face -- my eyes always give me away -- so I tried my best to be invisible. In the church foyer, I'd scurry away from my family as soon as I could. I'd walk close to the wall, stick to the outskirts of the crowd, avoid eye contact. And when I inevitably still heard my mom's voice from across the room -- "Oh, praise the Lord!" -- I'd recoil inside. I'd roll my eyes, let out a groan, and inwardly seethe with resentment.

I wanted to scream; I wanted to run and hide. I hated feeling like a genuine fake. But somehow I knew that exposed truth would hurt more than hidden truth. Besides, who could I possibly tell? And how would I ever find words that could explain?

So I became good at remaining unseen. Master of the phrase "I'm fine". Proficient at simply being quiet. Skills I still excel at, even though I am desperate for different...

And so I live in the tension of my love/hate relationship with authenticity.

I despise artificiality, yet I find it strangely comfortable. I crave transparency, yet I cower away from it. I so deeply long for authenticity, but I am scared to death of being laid bare.

So I learned to be authentic in past tense. To speak of what I've overcome, how much I've changed, what I used to struggle with. But past tense authenticity isn't really authenticity at all, is it? The present tense, bare-boned kind is vulnerable and exposing. Naked, with nowhere to hide. Just me, broken and battered.

Deep down, I want to be Velveteen-Rabbit real: threadbare and worn, and loved even more for it.

But I despise my own frayed edges, torn limbs, matted fur, missing whiskers. Afraid that if anyone really saw me for who I am, there's no way they would love me... There's no way they could love me...

Sigh...

In an attempt at present-tense authenticity, I don't have a red bow to wrap this all together with. I don't have a grace-lined ending or some nugget of Scripture that ties this all neatly together. Just an honest confession of my constant struggle to be really real.

And I keep thinking about that stuffed bunny who became real because he was deeply loved. And how I want the opposite to be true of me.

I want to be deeply loved because I am real.

Maybe not so much despite my flaws and failures and shortcomings... but because of them.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story...]

*photo credit

something's gotta give

Two years ago, when my husband confessed to an 18-month affair, I didn't think things could get any worse. And then he filed for divorce.

And I had to close the ministry I launched 13 years ago.

And I had to give up my home, my car, almost all my possessions, and move back to America. Where I currently am living out of a suitcase, in people's guest rooms, with no income and no plan.

I'd say Transition has slapped me around pretty good.

And, the bully that he is, Transition won't leave me alone.

Change is my only constant. And I've gotta be honest...

I hate it.

It makes me want to scream. It makes me cry ugly tears. It makes me want to cuss.

I've lost so much -- am still losing so much -- to unrelenting Transition.

And -- sigh -- I don't think I've handled it very well. I haven't carried myself very gracefully through these changes.

I'm pretty sure I allowed Transition to steal my faith, hope, and joy along with everything else.

Something's gotta give...

I ended 2010 so ready to kick the year to the curb. But at the stroke of midnight, things didn't miraculously change.

And now, I find myself looking around, wondering where's the "new" in the new year. Everything's still the same. Only the calendar's different.

Transition's still taking a wrecking ball to my life. Hope still seems scarce. Tears I didn't know I had left, keep coming. The hard days continue.

And I know they will.

So I made the decision to look for God's hand in the midst of the hard.

My eyes have been blindfolded by Transition for too long.

I want to actively search for God in my brokenness. Seek out His beauty in my pile of ashes. Face the continual tide of change on my tip-toes, looking for God where I haven't seen Him before.

I haven't quite mustered up the strength to steal back my faith, hope, and joy. But I'm at least going to start looking for them. Which is more than I've done in a long time.

I can't stop change from coming. I cannot.

But I can choose to remember that He holds my ever-changing life in His never-changing hand.

Take that, Transition.

Originally posted as a guest post on Refine Us >

i am not an island

After a decade in Africa, I finally had a friend fly out to spend a few months with me. I'd had friends visit before, but only for a couple weeks at a time. If that. But I got the gift of Natalie for two solid months. She stayed with me in my house. We ate meals together and paused for coffee breaks during the day. We went on walks and took leisurely lunches. We filled our time with laughter and tears and hearts.

We did life together.

And then she left.

I'd moved to Africa at 19. My entire adult life was spent an ocean away from my closest friends. And I'd suddenly gotten to do everyday life with one of them for two months straight.

It's one thing to miss something you'e never really had. It's another thing entirely to miss something once you've experienced it.

When Natalie left, my heart felt an ache like it never had before. I missed having a close friend in my everyday life.

And when I voiced that to a loved one, I was told I'm not spiritual enough.

"You shouldn't hold people that closely. Jesus should be enough for you."

Along with so much of my Christian upbringing, a Biblical truth was distorted into something it was never intended to be.

Yes, Jesus is absolutely more than enough for me. I don't doubt His all-sufficiency. (Well, sometimes I live like I do, but that's a whole other blog post for a whole other day...) Jesus is enough for my salvation; He alone should be my source of hope and purpose and value.

In typical God fashion, there exists this paradox in our faith:

God is enough for me. But God also created me for relationships.

I was not made to be an island. I was not intended to live life alone. I believe part of the enough-ness of my relationship with Christ comes from my relationships with others. He wants me to bare my heart to people. To be real. To love deeply and be loved deeply in return.

I want to love hard.

To miss to the point of tears.

And I want to be loved and missed that much in return.

Because in the context of that kind of intimacy, I learn so much about intimacy with Christ. I grasp more of His love. I discover different sides of His character.

My heart hurts from yet some more recent goodbyes, but I welcome that ache because of all it tells me... about love, and value, and relationship.

And I realize anew the longing in God's heart...

For me.

Originally posted at Deeper Story...

a deeper story

One of my favorite descriptions of God is that He's the author and finisher of my faith. I love words. And I express my heart through these typed letters on the screen. So it makes me smile to think of God having that same passion. He is the author of my faith. The author of me.

He is writing my story.

I'm just watching it unfold before my eyes. Watching the path appear before my feet, written into existence by the hand of God.

He is the perfect author. He needs no editor. He needs no second draft. He needs no backspace. He writes it perfectly the first time.

Author and finisher. No abandoned writing projects. No half-hearted attempts. No arms-in-the-air, "I quit!" moments.

He finishes what He starts. Completely. Thoroughly.

He is writing my story all the way to the end.

He's writing yours too. Everything that's been and all the chapters you have yet to see... all crafted by the creativity of His mind, the unbridled love of His heart, and the mighty providence of His hand.

And because He's writing them (and we're not), there is power in our stories.

They are meant to be shared.

Life is found in that place where hearts are laid bare. Sermons set aside, opinions thrown to the wind... No soapboxes, only stories.

Jesus loves to multiply meager offerings.

And like the loaves and fish, He transforms our brokenness to create new life. In us. In others.

But first we must hold out our hands.

Open our hearts.

And surrender our stories.

I'm offering my lowly lunch to Jesus along with some other incredible women on a new site called A Deeper Story. Together, we're holding out the simple stories of our lives, trusting Him to make something beautiful and life-bearing from our menial crumbs.

A Deeper Story just launched this week. Will you come hang with us?