The Betrayal

Sting of betrayal.

You took my hand and then yanked yours away.

Fickle liar and swift to let me go. More lies to cover your deceit.

Where is the Love?

My only comfort: the One who held the hands and touched the feet of those who denied their own.

Wet floor. Muddy towel.

“What you are about to do, do quickly.”

He did. They did. Quickly.

Wine still on lips, a kiss, and coins spilled on the ground.

A trail of blood from that red room down the dusty road that bore the grooves of tired feet and a heavy cross.

Pierced hands and side accompanied a pierced heart.

He never spoke of their denial, their hatred, their mockery,

or their sheer ignorance at murdering the Son of God.

He only said, “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” And the blood continued to flow.

His wounds became their healing. Just as they became mine.

Healing for today. Healing for years past.

Healing for when those times collide. Again.

I try to lock it away in an Upper Room. But I bleed. Sometimes I gush instead. My own painful road to the cross.

Darkness overtakes. I stand in silence.

Incredulous response to what is happening.

I look around. Fear.

How will they react when they find out I know Him,

that I loved Him all these years?

I am the one who betrays. I am the one who runs when I want to stand. I am the one who put the nails in the hands that offered me comfort.

Sharing My Dream

“You tell us, Lord, that some shall see visions and others shall dream dreams. Give us courage to share our visions and our dreams with one another. Amen.”  —Enuma Okoro, Reluctant Pilgrim

Tonight I finished reading Enuma Okoro’s memoir. I finished it in five days and am sorry to the Pikes Peak Public Library because I make some small marks in it with a pencil. I promise to go through and erase each one after I write down the quote on that page.

The reason I had to mark this book was because I found myself relating, not only to Enuma’s story, but to her longings and to her ability to weave so many of her thoughts and dreams and doubts into one place.

I have wanted to do this for a long time. Too long. Earlier today I randomly found an old e-mail where I told a friend I needed to write a memoir. For my girls primarily. (Anyone remember I had that thought a few weeks ago?)

The e-mail was dated over two years ago. And I can say the compulsion to put my life onto the page has been there a lot longer than that. I think since 2006. Seven years. Seven!

I think it’s now gotten to the point where I am disobeying God by not at least starting—by not showing up to this particular project. I have been putting it aside because I was afraid of appearing arrogant or something by at least writing it all down. Do you hear that word afraid?

What have I spent the last few years doing if not getting over my fear of the blank page? I know that there will always be a little fear when that cursor blinks but I have also found the courage to discipline myself beyond that point. I think. For crying out loud I regularly encourage others to do the same.

And the beginning of Lent this week provided some much needed space by my choosing to give up a particular aspect of my life that has kept me looking at other people’s stories instead of writing out my own. Yes, I know we’re only two days past Ash Wednesday. God is working quickly on me this year, I guess. I wonder what the next six weeks will bring….(I’d say I’m scared but we’ve already been over this fear thing, and I did survive a full year in Kansas.)

Adding to my belief that this project needs to happen is the fact that I have been going through The Artist’s Way. I’m about a third of the way through and find that her words affirm many things that I have wrestled with and even maybe some aspects I’ve overcome. I say that in the sense that God has walked me through a path of overcoming, when I wasn’t even aware that I had taken that many steps within the creative life.

So, it’s time. It’s the season. The blank page beckons. And I know that is no small thing. For usually it mocks me.

I will answer and remain open to the movement of the One who calls, the One who is faithful to help me at least start.

“It’s not brave if you’re not scared.” –Bounce

“…I don’t like people telling other people they shouldn’t write about their life. All of us earn that right by being born; one of the deepest human impulses is to leave a record of what we did and what we thought and felt on our journey.” –William Zinsser, “The Right to Write”

The Broken And The Beautiful

"Hurt people hurt people.” -Florence Marr, Greenberg

“We are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys.” –Ingrid Michaelson

Last night I attended my favorite worship service ever.

There were clergy from all over the United States and overseas, sections of worshippers from other Anglican churches in town, and a whole host of other individuals from our city. Every row from the front to the back was filled with a patchwork of broken and beautiful believers.

How do I know we were both broken and beautiful? Because among this group gathered to worship and celebrate were people whom have both hurt me and offered me healing.

Yet, I love them all.

I love them even though they are the crazy uncles Donald Miller wrote about last week. They are the people who hold my hands up when I can’t go on anymore. They are the ones who help me know that forgiveness is a real and possible thing, even if that realization comes by what they have done to me. They are the ones who lead me in worship. They are the ones didn’t give up on me. They didn’t give up on the church in North America. They are the ones who turn me to Jesus.

Let me tell you, we are broken and beautiful bunch.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how I have experienced spiritual abuse. When I stepped out of mainstream evangelicalism and fundamentalism, I vowed that I would never, and I mean never, put myself or my family back in a place where we would experience abuse at the hand of people who said they were believers.

Well, that did not turn out to be the case. I was exposed to such along the Canterbury Trail too. There is no right or wrong denomination. We are all susceptible to sustaining hurt at the hands of others.

Hurt people hurt people.

And among us are leaders who are wolves rather than shepherds. Among us are leaders who struggle with narcissism and probably have other personality disorders. Among us are people who live in denial rather than reality. I have been the victim of their contradictions, their manipulation, their delusions of grandeur, their lies, and their own hurt they are projecting among the flock. That is a fact.

The other side is that I have received healing from those among us who love Jesus with a love that can’t even be put into words. Some of them simply put their hands on theirs Bible, and they are moved to tears. They move me to tears.

We were all in that chapel last night.

During the sermon Bishop John Rucyahana, told our pastor (and now our Bishop), not to take the Gospel lightly. We can’t because we know there are these deep and dark places where the Gospel needs to penetrate. These places are among our own churches.

Dear people, we can’t take the Gospel lightly because we can’t take sin and hurt and abuse and denial of truth lightly. We can’t turn our back on what needs to be handled and forgiven and brought out into the open.

It must be dealt with. It must have The Light shined upon it. It must.

And I will not be silent about this.

This is a time when we need to turn ourselves inward and ask if we are taking the Gospel lightly. Are we? And, if so, why? Is it because we are afraid to admit that among us is brokenness—in our own families, our own churches, and in our own leadership?

What is to be done about the brokenness? For we cannot be effective in our charges to go and preach the Gospel among the nations if we have not been changed by the Gospel ourselves, right here in our own pews. If we have not been utterly undone by Jesus Himself in spite of the hurt we have sustained.

The work that God does in our life includes choosing to live into pain and hurt, just as Jesus did when He went to the cross. When He entered our world for that matter. It involves love and forgiveness, just like Jesus taught and just like He lived when He said, “Father, forgiven them. For they know not what they do.”

I want to be the first to say that God can work out love and forgiveness. He has done it for groups of people in Rwanda who murdered each other’s family members.

He is doing it for me in my own relationships.

I believe He grieves when we hurt one another. I believe He sits with me as I work out the wounds from the abuse. I can’t understand why He didn’t choose to stop it. But I can believe that He has never removed His hand from me or from any of His children all of these years.

That is why I can sing among the broken and the beautiful, just like I did last night. That is why I can walk forward to receive Eucharist with and among those whose actions played a difficult part in my life.

Hallelujah, glory be to our great God!

The Retreat: A Holy Battle

I am not supposed to be home in sweatpants right now.

In fact, just this morning, I was across town with a lovely group of women retreating in the upper level of a coffee shop. But the call came for me to pick up a sick little girl from school. So off I went.

Initially, I was very disappointed and frustrated about the turn of circumstances.

See, today is no ordinary day. Today is a day of celebration. Our pastor is becoming a bishop this evening, and there is a full schedule of activity planned for the clergy in our network.

For me to get our family ready to attend events today, there were babysitters to call, schedules to make, bags to pack, and work to push through so I could have one day off. I was so looking forward to being with other clergy and their spouses throughout the day.

But, as usual, life circumstances happened. I got sick earlier this week, which made working hard, and I finished a lesson at 4:57pm last night, instead of the 3pm I had hoped for. I was a bit frazzled as I shuffled off for a network dinner last evening.

Now poor Kyla is lying on our couch. She’s disappointed too because she was looking forward to having fun at a friend’s house while we were at the service tonight. I was able to find a relative to watch Kyla tonight so I will still be able to attend the service, which is good.

But here I am in sweatpants for the moment.

And I can’t help but reflect on the utter battle this week has felt like. I have been trying to faithfully pray for our pastor and our church during this transition. I just want to take a moment to say I have never been under a church leader like our pastor, Ken. He has no desire for control or manipulation. There is grace and freedom in the way he leads. I am so grateful for his leadership. I can’t even express it fully here in this post. And I think there is no small thing afoot now that he is taking over a whole network of churches. Really. No small thing.

I wasn’t much aware of spiritual warfare until these last couple of years. Now I can see it. I can sense it, and it is here this week. I am amazed at how quickly discouragement or frustration set in, and how the enemy can twist and destroy and steal.

Today kind of feels like it could be stolen easily. I’m tearful about missing the meetings this afternoon and wonder where the week went. All my careful planning feels like it was in vain. My selfishness is showing, I know. But it’s hard to be at home sitting when I want to be lunching with people I rarely get to see.

However, I think maybe this is exactly where I’m meant to be. Kyla is feeling better. At least emotionally. She’s not so sad anymore about leaving school or missing out on going to our friend’s. You should have seen her sitting in the office alone waiting for me to get here. My mommy heart felt so sad for her as I gave her a big hug and walked her to the car. Now she’s curled up on our couch, and I am serving her instead of being served.

Plus, now that I am home, I am not so concerned about details anymore. There are no more to take care of. I am going to use the time to just be. With my little girl. With my heart and with my God as I pray for tonight. For all involved. For the days ahead and for the work that is surely to take place among a group of people I am growing to love. At the dinner last night, we had a prayer time. The Holy Spirit was there. I could feel Him.

The sense of being exposed or vulnerable to attack was absent, at least for a little while. Those moments deserve to be cherished. For, we can’t stay in those places. We gain encouragement so we can be sent out to do the work that needs to be done in spite of likely and imminent attacks.

So I pray for tonight. I pray for that same Holy Spirit soaking. I pray for God’s hand to be on our leadership. I pray for our hearts to be listening when He moves. I pray for us to be able to continue working in grace and freedom that comes from the True Source of all grace and freedom.

I don’t know what kind of prayer it might take for those things to be a reality. I am just one woman sitting in sweatpants on her couch. But I am also not called to be concerned about that. I am called to trust. I am called to believe He works good out of the sad and disappointing circumstances, whether big or small. Even if they involve leaving a retreat.

Choose Life

“Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life…” –Deuteronomy 30:19b-20

I’m going to speak plain.

Because I’m no Ann Voskamp or Sarah Bessey, and I have no desire to be.

I’ve been tripping over poetry and metaphors for the last few months. Sometimes I have enjoyed the craft. Other days, it has been frustrating because I want to say what I mean.

For reals, okay?

Last Sunday during communion (Yes, sometimes I still call it that instead of eucharist because I was raised in fundamental evangelicalism. Other times I feel all Anglicany and go with eucharist. You know what I mean…), I was startled.

Nothing major, other than I looked slightly to my left and spotted a little girl looking right at me. Piercing gaze. She was barely higher than the sixth pew, where we sat, and was ready to receive the bread with everything in her. I could tell. When it was almost her turn, her father had to pull her back because she almost jumped in front of the person just before her. Not once did she put her hands down. She held them out in receiving position.

I watched her with a lump in my throat.

See, there are many Christians, lots of them close to my age, talking about how they weren’t allowed to ask questions in church or to have doubts growing up and that’s what keeps them away now. Me? I just wanted to be with Jesus. I wanted to run to Him all the time. I wasn't so much worried about doubts. I think I knew that church was a bridge to God, that sacred place where I could receive, and I was ready to be there. Every. Single. Sunday.

I could have cared less about sports or school. I wanted church.

I don’t think I ever could have explained that to someone when I was in elementary school, and this was way before the age when guilt was handed out for missing youth group on a random Sunday. It wasn’t coercion.

It was a source of life.

My feelings about Sundays now come in waves. They vacillate between wanting to be there so much that I nearly run over people on my way in the doors to I can’t do it. I can’t even drive myself to the building. Sometimes, I can’t be in that place because it reminds me of broken promises and expectations and another life altogether that I thought might be what God had for me.

My days are similar. I waver between brief moments of delight and long spirals of regret. The last couple of weeks, I thought the feelings of lament might overtake me. That darkness and death of dreams and all that Satan wants for my life might be my complete undoing.

I prayed for a new outlook. For a source of life that would keep me going each day.

Then there was this about being weary and wounded.

Followed by my reading this beautiful expression of spiritual warfare.

And I remember using the word “defeated” and right at that moment a poster on Pinterest popped up that said, “Never be defeated. Never give up.” And I thought about laughing aloud at God’s sense of humor.

Apparently, You heard me? I chuckled under my breath.

There was this about godforsakeness.

And Kaelyn laughing for no apparent reason on the way to school and Kyla learning, ever so slowly, how to pack her own lunch. She beams when she’s finally accomplished this new feat each evening.

There was also the walk I took outside yesterday when I couldn’t stop staring at the mountains or the only-in-Colorado-could-it-be-that-shade-of-blue skies.

And Elizabeth Esther mustering up her courage to say this and this that made my heart grow wings.

And last but not least, I was reminded of this sitting on my shelf. Morning pages are saving my life right now.

Joshua told the Israelites to choose life. That is what I’m doing. In the midst of the dry and dead moments, I’m choosing life. I can do this because He is life. I can run to Him in those places of inspiration, inside and outside of the church walls, because He defeated death. He looked it right in the face and knocked it down on its ass.

No one has that kind of power to fight for life and to fight for me. No. one.

So, I think I get it. Maybe just a little more here and there, in the moments of my days that seem to be growing longer and more often. And I can say this today:

I choose life.

Finding Freedom

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” –Galatians 5:1

“Don’t should on yourself.”  –I don’t know who said this first, but I heard it from Emily Freeman

Over Christmas break I refused to make a to-do list for myself. I already live, and sometimes it feels I nearly die, by them at work. So, for the ten glorious days of vacation, I gave up being ruled by the neat lines of simple words and phrases on a page.

Similarly, I’ve become a bit weary of being bound by words, lines, and phrases here on this blog. I don’t want to be dramatic with an “I’m shutting this thing down” post, but I’m sure you may have noticed the infrequency with which I’ve been writing these past few months.

It’s not that I don’t have anything left to say. If you know me, you know I have plenty to say on a daily basis. It’s just that I’ve found myself feeling constrained by what I think I should say, what I shouldn’t say in this kind of a forum, and what is the best way to work out where I am right now.

I had wanted to blog regularly for years. I started this blog long before I was able to commit to regular contributions, and I’m grateful for the creative outlet it provided me while I was away from Colorado most recently.

But, with being home, I’m finding I need different ways of expressing myself, and I don’t really like that word “commit” right now in regards to my creativity. I’m committed to creativity but not to having a schedule or a to-do list for posts. I do not sense a call to professional blogging by any means.

I’m craving freedom. And with that freedom is coming the need for working through my thoughts, my words, my feelings, and my concerns in quieter places. Places like the booth at Village Inn where I meet my friend Sandi every other Wednesday.

Places like my old, abandoned journal where I am forced to think through each word as I write, rather than the quick pace of typing, which can leave some of my thoughts less processed. And I am allowing myself time to sit down and care for me.

I haven’t been doing this well, and setting aside checklists at home over Christmas was a small awakening for me. I’m also realizing that the more I give freedom to myself, the more likely I am to give it to others.

As I have written before, I’ve struggled with the graceless standards set on me by various Christians throughout my life. I think we all do this to each other to varying degrees, but the degree to which I experienced this was spiritual abuse. It has taken me a long time to use that phrase, and please know I do not use it lightly.

I do not want those experiences in my past to be the sole defining factor of my present or my future. And I do not want those events to control the way I live out my relationships either.

For these reasons, you may continue to see less of me on here. I need places to find me, other than the screen I’m looking at right now. I want to write at my own pace and to maybe even put together a memoir for my daughters. (I’m beginning to forget the details of how this awkward fundamentalist teen eventually became the wife of an Anglican clergyman.) In addition, I’m enjoying providing an opportunity for others to express themselves.

And so, for freedom, I am setting myself free to do these things. In my own timing and in my own way. 

Inspiration: Christmas Break 2012

From time to time, I like to share a few things that are inspiring me. Here's my list from this last month.

Movies…

Little Women

Watching this movie is a Christmas tradition for myself and the girls. (We try to get to Anne of Green Gables too but that didn’t happen this year.) Surprisingly, Kaelyn sat all the way through Little Women this year. Kyla is getting to where she knows the story well so she can anticipate what comes next, which is fun. We talked a little about the storytelling element of foreshadowing this time since she already knew what would happen later.

An Avonlea Christmas

Jeff got me this movie for Christmas last year. Having watched the entire Avonlea series when it was on Disney channel years ago, watching this movie is like visiting old friends. I giggle when Mrs. Potts comes to bother Aunt Hettie or when she just has to meddle in Felicity’s life. It’s her duty. Jeff doesn’t get it. I told him he will after I collect the series and he gets to watch all of the episodes with me. He was super excited about that. I could tell.

Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

As has been mentioned previously, I love a good independent movie. This one brought up the age-old quandary of what one would do if they knew they had less than a month to live. In this movie’s case, it was about 21 days before a meteor hit earth. Of course, unanticipated friendships form and there are some other surprises too.

I appreciated the pace of this movie. It was spot on with intense parts and then times when the characters were able to slow down and ponder their past decisions as well as what was currently taking place in their hearts and lives.

The other thing I enjoyed about this movie, though minor, was the fact that the main character’s cleaning lady kept showing up to work. He told her not to come back because who cared about a clean house when the world’s ending? But she was compelled. She loved what she did. She just couldn’t stop.

The King’s Speech

I know. I’m a leeettle behind the times. I just now got around to seeing this movie. And Oh. My. Word. Really, Colin Firth deserved that Academy Award. Where to begin on why and how much I loved this film…the history, the acting, the story, the fact that nearly every person watching the movie could identify with the king’s struggles in some way. So, so good. Also, I just loved Lionel Logue. So sure of himself and what he had to offer. No formal training but he saw a need, a deep and painful need among hurting people who felt they had no voice, and he courageously stepped up to meet the need. I loved it.

Reading…

A Year of Biblical Womanhood

A few years ago, I started following this controversial blogger named Rachel Held Evans. I kind of thought she was crazy, and I really thought she had lost her mind when she posted about her experiments of trying to be the Proverbs 31 woman. In fact, I can recall a particular day when I declared to Jeff that I was going to write her publisher, Thomas Nelson, to ask why they had signed her for a book deal.

But….then I caught on. She wasn’t really agreeing with everything she was doing. She was trying to prove a point—the point that it’s impossible to follow every passage for women in the Bible and totally possible that we pick and choose what we want from the Bible. Palm of hand to forehead. Yeah. I became a fan real quick.

Rachel writes intelligent posts on her blog. Even more so, I could tell she’d done her homework for this book, where she chose a different virtue each month for a year and wrapped it with trying to live out that virtue in a way connected to Scripture as well as tradition. My favorite part of this book was the beginning of each chapter where she highlighted women in the Bible, lesser talked about women such as Mary Magdalene and Tamar.

One aspect I struggled with was that it felt a little like she adopted a hodge-podge of many different cultures in her conclusion. Also, in pondering the people she interviewed and observed, I think I would be a little offended if someone picked a particular aspect of my life that I live out with sincerity, for instance Anglicanism, experimented with it, and then wrote about it with a tremendous amount of wit in order to sell a book. I wrestle with that.

In the end, I remain a fan of Rachel’s and am grateful for her insight. I also want to say that Rachel is creative and honest. Though I didn’t agree with all her conclusions, she wrote from her heart and put herself out there in a variety of ways. Well done, Woman of Valor!

Letters to Me: Conversations with A Younger Self

This book is a compilation of words from various individuals. Some I had heard of and others were new to me. A friend and colleague of mine, Kristin Ritzau, was a contributor, and that’s how I came to know about the book. Initially, I thought I would immediately flip to Kristin’s chapter in this book, maybe read a few more, and then skim most of the rest.

Not so. I actually started at the beginning and was easily pulled into each chapter, into each person’s unique story and what wisdom they wanted to impart from hard lessons learned. I did enjoy Kristin’s words, but I also underlined a line or two or more in nearly every chapter. I highly recommend this book. It’s something you could read in a sitting or two, but you could also take your time and pick up a chapter here and there when you need a little encouragement.

Who Needs Theology? An Invitation to The Study of God

Jeff finished seminary in early December. For years we’ve been starting sentences with “You should read….” And so, now we are finally doing that. We’ve decided to pick books for each other. Who Needs Theology? An Invitation to The Study of God is what he chose first for me. Naturally, a theology book.

I must say I did enjoy it. It put words into some thoughts I’ve had swirling around in my head for years. I particularly appreciated a chapter that outlined the difference between dogma, doctrine, and opinion. Oh, how we get these elements confused, and I had been given doctrine for many years that was treated like dogma. On the opposite end, it’s also not a great idea to rely on opinion all the time with no specific beliefs to ground us in our faith. This book is for all Christians. We should all be concerned about theology. How else will we know how to be God’s people in our world?

One side note: Kae saw me reading this and asked what the book was about. I told her it was about God. She goes, “Oh, I like that word.”

“What word?” I asked. “God?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And what do you like about God? What do you know about Him?” I continued.

“Well, He created us. He loves us.”

“Very good. What else?” I wondered.

“He will save us, and He’s bigger than the monsters.”

I think she summed it up quite nicely. Who needs theology? Everyone. Even four year olds.

Family…

Our 10^th Anniversary

Yes, it has been ten years since two crazy kids said, “I do.” We had no idea what we were in for. That first year, Jeff finished undergrad, we moved to another town, and then we had Kyla just before our first anniversary. Life hasn’t slowed down much since. Another two moves (this time to other states), two graduate degrees, three more babies (two in heaven), and here we are.

This morning, I accidentally hit the corner of our dresser with my elbow while I was putting on a sweatshirt. I looked at the dented dressers we still have, that were hand-me-downs from a family member when we got married, then I looked over at our bed with the quilt my grandmother made us. I thought about how there is no one I’d rather be sleeping with under that 10-year-old quilt, next to those old scratched-up dressers.

We’ve had more than a few surprises and disappointments in this last decade. But God has been so faithful and good too. Can’t wait for the next ten years. I love you, Jeff Stone.

My girls…

I love my spunky Kae, who just turned five! She is a joy and says the funniest things. She is a good sister to Kyla and likewise, Kyla, is a great big sister to her.

Here they are helping me make some pumpkin bread: