band of brothers

Last night I stumbled upon The Traveling Wall. This half-scale replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC is in Nashville for the week. I slowly walked the full length of it, overwhelmed by the sacrifices of so many.

"Did you find all the names you were looking for?"

I couldn't see him, but I followed his voice across the wet grass. As soon as the four older gentlemen came into view, I knew...

I shook their hands, looked them in the eyes, and told each one how grateful I am for their service.

They invited me to join them, so I sat down between John and Wendell and listened as they reminisced. John had been a medic in the war, and grew emotional as he described some of the things he'd witnessed. "I will never forget those children's faces..." His voice trailed off as he looked away and just stared at The Wall.

There was a lot of solemn silence in our 30 minutes together.

But there was also sweet laughter, talks of fishing trips, jokes about the helicopter overhead, and the kind of adorable flirting only grandpas can get away with. ("Come to the fair in August, and I'll treat you to a plate of concession food on me!")

It was moving and wonderful and such a gift...

When I finally said goodnight, I walked away humbled and grateful for my short time with this band of brothers.

He gave me permission

I've walked through the Valley of the Shadow. Many times over.

So have you. This I know.

Your Valleys look different than mine. Or maybe it's just the Shadows that are different. Either way, we all experience the same-yet-different sorrows, pains, and troubles that come in this life. We are all human. Our bones break. Our hearts hurt. Our loved ones die. We face illnesses, rejections, addictions, losses.

Yet the faith culture I was raised in didn't leave room for acknowledgment of the Valleys. Emotions were indirectly declared evil—the kind of theology that emphasized that Jesus is all we need, so whatever we might be feeling is invalid.

Because to grieve a loved one's death is to disbelieve that they're in a better place. To be disappointed in your now is to doubt that, in Romans 8:28 fashion, it really is for your good and His glory. To express sadness means you distrust that He is in control. To feel hurt by the doors slamming in your face is to disbelieve that He has something else better for you. To be frustrated by your financial position is to forget Jehovah Jireh, God your provider. To question, to doubt, to say "I don't know" is equivalent to not believing at all.

The end result of this sort of theology wasn't a faith community that didn't feel negative emotions. The end result was a faith community that hid them. We wore masks that plastered artificial smiles on our faces. We spouted out platitudes and trite answers instead of being honest.

I finally realized, as I traversed the Valley of the Shadow yet again:

That's not faith. That's denial.

Faith is most genuine and true when it acknowledges the current reality and still says, "Lord, I believe. Help me overcome my unbelief."

I'm struck by the story of Jesus when He visits the grave of His friend Lazarus, four days after he'd passed away. He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but right then, right in that moment, Jesus still felt, acknowledged, and expressed deep grief over His loss.

Grief doesn't negate faith.

Even though He knew that in just a few minutes He would hug his friend again, Jesus wept.

Just as they did for those with Him that day, His tears give me permission to not only feel what I'm feeling, but also to express it. He validated my emotions. All of them.

He's the One who gave me them to begin with—even the ones that are all mixed up and "negative" and un-faith-filled. He put inside me a heart that feels, and He handcrafted me eyes that cry...

So right here, right this moment, right in your Valley, He gives you permission to feel what you're feeling.

It's okay...

Face it. Feel it.

He's right there, weeping with you.

(photo credit: jayRaz)

feeling home

There is something so healing and redemptive about spending an evening surrounded by South Africans... The languages, the laughter, the easy fireside conversations, the familiar sights/sounds/tastes/smells, the sense of camaraderie, and of course the abundance of meat on the grill, makes me feel home. Makes me feel hope.

There is also something about it that stirs up old demons—insecurities, failures, hurts—and leaves my heart feeling raw and exposed. I am reminded of all that I miss, of all that I lost, of all that (and those) I failed, of all that was but will never be again. I am reminded of a life gone by, a life that I loved deeply.

Bittersweet, yes, but I'm thankful for the vulnerability my heart feels in those moments. Because it's proof of life. And it makes the contrasted sense of redemption that much more beautiful.

Much has been lost, but much has been redeemed. Tears and all, my heart feels at home. Thankful for my newfound South African community here in Nashville...

me vs. the proverbs 31 woman

I'm sure this isn't something I'm supposed to admit. At least not out loud. I'm sure some would even consider it sacrilegious or something. But nonetheless, it's true.

I hate the Proverbs 31 woman.

:: looks around for lightning bolts ::

But seriously. What's not to hate?

She wakes up early. Every single day. She makes things from scratch—clothes, bedding, meals, everything. She gardens and farms and seems to rather enjoy getting dirt under her fingernails. She's a successful businesswoman, wife, mother, and leader. She despises idleness (which, I'd imagine, includes Netflix-viewing marathons). She's wise and tactful. Always. She's a domestic goddess. She laughs in the face of adversity. She's in great shape. Ugh.

And she's been held up as the bar of godly womanhood my entire life.

Maybe I would have actually tried to live up to the standard she'd set, if it weren't so laughable. Instead I've just quietly resented her, stuffing down my hostility and attempting to mask my eye rolls.

But I realize my disdain is misplaced. Because she doesn't really exist.

She's a figment of the Church's imagination—poetic symbolism transformed into a mirage of the woman that we should all strive to be. The beauty of the character traits she displays—loyalty, wisdom, diligence, servanthood, faithfulness, compassion—got lost as I measured myself against the yardstick held out for me.

I could never measure up.

Never have. Never will.

The yardstick became a weapon of shame, telling me again and again and again: You are not enough. It echoed the message I already had on repeat in my heart—one that was reiterated with each rejection, each abandonment, each failure.

My journey of the past few years has been one of moving toward understanding and accepting my enoughness, simply because God says I'm enough.

Whole. Complete. Nothing missing, nothing broken.

So it shouldn't matter what the measuring stick of this fictitious chick says about me.  It shouldn't even matter what the Church thinks of me.

He says I'm enough— even though I like to sleep in, would eat out every meal if I could, don't really enjoy the outdoors, love lazy Saturdays, and have jiggly arms.

He says I'm enough— even though I say stupid things, fail at loving others well, doubt, question, curse, don't pray or read the Bible very often, and make mistakes (big and small).

He sees me and knows me and still declares me enough. Actually, He declares me good. "God looked over all He had made, and He saw that it was very good!" (Genesis 1:31)

So it's time to let go of this grudge I've held against the Proverbs 31 woman.

I'm good just as I am...

photo credit: fiddleoak via photopin cc

icarus wings

I can barely remember that season when words came easily. It seems like ancient history—those mornings when I couldn't start my day without scribbling some heart thoughts... those nights when I'd gladly stay up way-too-late to clothe my wandering wonderings in letters and words and paragraph breaks...

I like to think that season of willful writing was because of the context of my life. I only half joke that there wasn't anything else to do in Africa, so my free time was effortlessly spent blogging—and now I have restaurants and city streets and front porches to enjoy. But I know that's really only a fraction of it...

My life was also bursting with experiences imploring to be expressed, thoughts demanding to be declared, and heart stirrings begging to be shared. My gritty life in glorious Africa was so much larger than myself that I couldn't contain it if I tried. It pressed and prodded until it broke free. In inadequate syllables, it gave my heart wings to see and to say and to listen and to learn...

Inspiration doesn't seem as readily available anymore. I have to forcibly seek it out. Make time for it. Create space and even, more often than not, the desire for it. I have to shake the tree until inspiration falls like ripe apples to the ground, waiting only to be collected and enjoyed and shared.

But I'm realizing how much I crave it—both the inspiration and the writing—regardless of how much effort and exertion and force it requires. The free therapy of "thinking out loud" through written words might be just what my broken Icarus wings need...

And so, I write.

Even when it's only about my difficulty to find words...