Why?

I once heard that you shouldn't ask God, "Why?". That instead you should ask, "What?" The purveyor of this advice explained even if God told you why you wouldn't be satisfied so you should focus on what God wants you to do with your situation not why you're in your situation...Really? For some reason these words stuck with me. How many pieces of advice like this have I head through my years in Christian culture? Hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands. Why did these stick? I remember being disappointed that God didn't want me to ask, "Why?" but figuring that was just part of learning to measure up to His standard. It turns out, though, that it was terrible advice and the standard is a smokescreen.

First of all, who decided we ought to put parameters on the way we talk to God? Ought I edit myself before I go to God? Making sure everything, down to my diction, is acceptable before I utter a syllable? I don't think that's what the author of this quote meant but it plays into a lie I have believed for far too long: there is a right way to talk to God. There isn't. There is simply talking to God and not talking to God. Jesus wants me to be the most free when I talk to Him. With my enemies I may measure my words, but with my Jesus? Trying to pray right makes me "tarry 'til I'm better and then never come at all." But talking to Jesus brings me relief and freedom.

Secondly, Jesus asked, "Why?" I heard a sermon once about mourning and lamentation. The pastor talked about how openly people in the Bible mourn and lament. Then he said what I've heard echoing in my mind for the two years since I heard it, "Jesus asked, 'Why?' ("My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?") and he knew why. I think you have room to ask, 'Why?'" I hope those words, that idea, that truth begins to weave it's way through your fear, your contempt, your anxiety, and all your "Whys?"

Incriminating Evidence

I'm getting ready to move so I have started mentally preparing for the fact that I'm going to have to go through drawers. In general I enjoy cleaning out my drawers. It's satisfying and always makes me feel lighter. But there is one group of things always stuffed in a drawer that intimidate and overwhelm me. These seem to follow me around for days after I unearth them. They suck me in faster and deeper than any Facebook newsfeed binge. I come up for air suddenly feeling like I was locked in a time vortex. These make me uncomfortable and cause me shame. Sometimes they make me smile and laugh. They bring me to tears, or even sobs. Both for joy and sorrow. Or just for nostalgia. I'm working to redefine them and decide what place I want them to have in my home, but for now they continue to feel like Incriminating Evidence. Part of me wants to throw them all away. Who keeps incriminating evidence? And yet I feel like its wrong to part with them. This question of what to do with them has haunted me through every move I've made, starting when I was 14 leaving my childhood room to go to high school in a new town and a new state. They came with me, even though I was tempted to leave them behind in the name a fresh start and clean slate. Do I have to keep them even now?

They are my journals. Hundreds of pages and dozens of books. They feel cumbersome and they seem to whisper such a jumble of messages I'm not sure if I want to hear or not. Is this how I feel about the stories that make up my life? Can I keep my stories? Can I bless them? Without keeping these stacks of well worn pages? I know the covers by heart. I know which journal goes with which year, or event. Each cover goes with a mental title, but this world of my journals is a solitary place. Only I walk into it. Only I know it's twists and turns. The finality of my written word is isolating. Perhaps it's not so much the journals that overwhelm me, but the paths they construct for me to wander alone.

I think it is not so much about, "Should I keep my journals?", but more about, "What do I want to do with my stories?" I want to share them. I want to bring them to Jesus. I want to let Him unravel the shame and guilt. I want to ask Him my questions and let others study my story with me. I want to honor who I am becoming by blessing who I have been. I want to be tender to the writer of these journals, these thoughts and prayers, these questions and answers, this pain and joy, these hopes and and fears. Just as Jesus is tender with her. As Jesus is tender with me. I hear Him even now say, "These are not Incriminating Evidence, I have held nothing against you. I have loved you. I wander the paths of your story with you. I have loved you through all and never have I turned my face away. I am inviting you to sift through your stories with Me, and with those who love Me and who love you."

...but, should I keep the journals?

Hit From Behind

11/9/12

Usually I am full of words, but over the past weeks I have been at a loss. I have watched Jamie, Mom, and now Dad eloquently and honestly update the journal with their thoughts and feelings about the accident and I have waited for my words to come. What if they never do? What if I don't have language for this? I feel it sealing off and quietly leaving me, this experience that is. But I want to catch it. I want to integrate it, or some part of me will always live in this trauma. I got a call from WakeMed on October 23rd and now I'll never be the same. I keep thinking 'First Responder'. I feel like I was the first responder to this accident. I know that the fire department and EMS were the true first responders and we owe them so much. They kept my parents alive. But I got the first call of those who know them, who love them. I was sitting in my rocker listening to the wit and wisdom of Julia, enjoying so much our conversation. And WakeMed kept calling and calling until I took it. "Your parents were out for an evening stroll and were struck by a moving vehicle. Do you want to come or should I just tell them I let you know?" I had just been with them. I went to their house after work and we ate fair left overs together for dinner. I walked down the steps and got in my car to go. I still had my door open as dad came down front steps mom calling to him did he want his sweatshirt? I realized they were going for a walk and I thought how nice it would be to walk with them, but my feet hurt and I was tired so I said bye and went home. 10 minutes after I got home I got the call. As I walked up to the emergency room I saw the metal detector and realized I had a pocket knife. Tears were streaming down my face and I felt so confused and so clear at the same time. I had one job: get there. The security guard who took my knife said, "You look like you're hurting." I said, "It's not me." as I rushed past him. The chaplain met me and took me in a room by myself. Why was it empty? There were so many chairs. All empty. The chaplain told me some friends of my parents' and my uncle were coming and wanted me to tell her what they looked like. I think I just stared at her. I repeated my question from the phone call, "Are they ok?" She repeated her maddeningly undecipherable answer, "They're talking but I can't give medical information." I'm going over how hurt you can be and still talk and wading through what I know about chaplains and trying to remember if they'll tell you if they know things are okay. Then I was alone in the room. A policewoman came in and told me they were hit by a drunk driver. The bottom fell out. The room got deafeningly silent. Drunk drivers don't slow down, they don't react, they don't see what's coming. Then I was alone again. Then a nurse brought me dad's wedding ring with blood covering it and mom's phone saying 'No SIM card' in a biohazard bag. I took it and started to cry. The nurse, "Oh honey it's ok. They're talking and your dad's cracking jokes." Now I imagined they just bumped their heads and they're sitting up in bed and just have to get CAT scans. Finally we got to go back and see them, the friends and my uncle had gotten there. I saw mom first. Flat on a bed, legs splayed like a person with a head injury. Her face was the color of concussion. Do you know that color? When someone has a concussion their face turns a certain color and it makes you feel sick and floods you with compassion. Her eyes were scared and hurting. She had dried blood coming out her nose and so much blood in her hair. Her hands were bleeding and there was blood under her fingernails. She was wearing a neck brace and was hooked up to the telemetry. She kept saying, "My shoulder hurts so bad." I held her hand and stroked her head and she said, "That feels so good." She wanted to know what was happening and where she was and where dad was. She kept asking us not to leave. My Uncle Robbie held her feet. Then Robbie was gone and next thing I knew he was standing beside the curtain at the end of the bed and he said, "Kellay you need to come see your dad before he goes to surgery." In that moment I felt the most excruciating splitting happen in my soul. Like I knew somewhere deep this wasn't supposed to happen. You shouldn't have to wrench your hand from your mamas when she's asking you to stay to go see your daddy. He was 3 curtains away. He was covered in sheets and blankets but it didn't cover the brokenness of his body. I'd never seen someone that injured. I saw his feet first and I knew they were his though one was wrapped in some kind of temporary cast and the other was bleeding from a cut. Then I saw his hand which reached to hold mine immediately. It was bloody too. He was wearing a neck brace and his face was completely red. The sight of his blue eyes piercing through his face of blood has haunted me for many nights. He was so happy to see me and told Robbie he didn't want me to worry. Robbie said, "Okay Bill, I'll worry for both of us." I held his hand until they came to take him to surgery. He kept asking about mom. A nurse said, "I want to do something" and a doctor said okay. She ran to mom's curtain and unhooked her from everything and rolled her into the hall where they were bringing dad. They put their beds side by side. They couldn't see each other because neither could turn their heads but they reached for each other's hands. They couldn't find them until I held them together. Mom said, "Oh Bill I love you precious man. We got hit by a car. Jesus be with you." Dad said, "I love you darlin. Jesus be with you. I know." And they continued that way for a time and then dad was gone. Before he left I signed so many papers for both of them. Consent for them to be treated. Consent for dad's surgery. They couldn't sign for themselves. I remember moving the pen across the pages thinking, "How is this down to me?" I am their emergency contact and I know how that happened. But how did it happen?

Blogging Again...

I'm back! I'm so excited to re-enter the blogging world after a long hiatus. I'm going to start with a blog I wrote for another site this past November. I feel like I have to post it before anything else because it's where I'm coming from. I am setting aside time this summer to ponder and heal from the trauma this post begins to describe. For better or worse it is the back drop for my coming blogs. Thank you, dear reader, for reading.

Jesus Didn't Kill Me

I grew up singing a song I never really liked and I now hate at youth group events all over the Southeast. "You must increase I must decrease..." That's from the chorus and the only line I can actually remember. It is nearly universally acknowledged that suicide is not "the answer", that it's not our place to take our own lives. Yet in the Christian culture suicide is unabashedly promoted. Not physically, but spiritually or soulfully if you will. We tout verses, "If anyone is in Christ he is a new creation. The old has gone. The new has come", "It is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me." Jesus made us with beating hearts that desire, are passionate about, talented at, angry about, broken-hearted about specific things. If we believe that Jesus is trying to make us less ourselves then why did he make us all different? We talk about "Who I am in Christ" but then we say things like "I just need to die to myself. Put away my flesh. Be more like Jesus."  As if being more like Jesus means being less ourselves. I believe being more like Jesus means being more ourselves. Jesus is not trying to make an army of people who have quarantined the sinful parts of themselves and made the rest of themselves to match a general, broad idea of who Jesus is. How do I know who Jesus is apart from my heart? My heart that is different from any other heart. It is not easy to know yourself. It's painful, exciting, full, and it always costs to realize your dreams and go after them. But is that not where Jesus is? Jesus is in the pursuit of hearts. That is what he does, how can we join him without pursuing our own heart? When I tried "to decrease", "to die to myself" I felt like I was taking the life out of my soul, but I just thought that's what Jesus wanted so I tried to endure the pain with gritted teeth, a hurting heart, and a confused mind. Personality is one of the most intricate things in creation. God knew what he was doing when he made you, you. I need more of Jesus. I am plagued by sin. I am overwhelmed by living here. I don't know what's best for me or the people around me. But these truths don't require that I kill myself and just let Jesus live. I believe that if anyone is in Christ he is new creation. That the old has gone and the new has come. But who decided that means I must decrease? The old patterns, the old sin, the old ways of coping go and Jesus brings us the new ways. "You were once dead in your sins, but now you are alive in Christ." Jesus came to bring us "life, and life to the full." He came to make us alive. To make us who we were meant to be, our redeemed selves, not a generic "holy person" without individual passions and desires. God is telling the world something about himself through you, something no one else can tell. This requires we be more ourselves, not less. But here's the twist: we cannot make ourselves more ourselves. Jesus is the one who gives us to ourselves. Who opens our eyes, and shows us how to move toward who we were meant to be. As Tyler from Vintage 21 said once, "The beginning of the story is God made you, and it was very good." Now we are on a journey back to Very Good not to Less. I hope I die to myself more every day, I just don't think it requires making myself less. I think it means giving space to Jesus to do whatever He wants, and he never seeks to diminish me. He is the One who knows the difference between the sin and the sinner. He tears down the former and builds up the ladder.  We fell from grace, chose evil, and yet He has come to make us as we "should have been." To make me Eve, as "[s]he should have been."

" 'Yes, I am white now,' said Gandalf. 'Indeed I am Saruman, one might almost say, Saruman as he should have been.' "
-The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, J. R. R. Tolkien

The Sins God Forgives

Until about a year ago the thought I heard most often, my mantra for life was, "Be better." I didn't think this was a problem. In fact the only problem I saw was that some people didn't seem to live by this demand. When I thought I was doing well I told myself, "Be better." And when I thought I was doing poorly. When I was sad. When I was angry. When I was anything this was the burden I laid on myself. I would then turn to God, so angry that He wanted more from me than I could give. I couldn't see that it was I who wanted more than I could give. Not God. "Be better"? Really? Is that the goal? I used to think so. Not anymore. "Be better" is only a version of "Fix yourself", which is completely counter to Jesus. Jesus says, "Come to me. I want you." He doesn't say, "Be better. Fix yourself. Then come." And yet I hear it threaded through so many of our thought processes, "I just need to get better about that. I need to pray more. I need to trust more. I need to forgive anyway. I need to read my Bible more." As if this is what God requires. As if as you are God looks and wishes you were better.

 I think we misunderstand God's forgiveness when we try to be better. It's as if we think, "God can forgive me for having sex with my boyfriend or girlfriend in high school, or for doing drugs in college, or for drinking too much before I knew Him" and the list goes on. It's close but He'll let it slide since you didn't know any better. We think these are the sins God forgives. When you were 17 and hurting and trying to figure out the world you did things that didn't bring you life. So did I. You didn't deal with your hurt well. Try taking yourself out of the equation. Imagine someone else, who you know or don't. Think of their sins when they learned the world wasn't safe and life was too much, do you feel anything but compassion? I don't. I'm filled with compassion for these stories, those I know intimately and those I know from a far. If I who am sinful and broken don't feel condemnation for these stories and am flooded with grace for these people, how much more is God? How much more does He look at every moment of our stories with kindness and tenderness? You are no different than the person you replaced yourself with. God does not reserve a harsher standard for you. His Grace is boundless for all. Perhaps you can get to this place where you feel God's compassion for you in your darkest moments and see yourself as He sees you. But you think now it is different. Now you know better. Now you have no excuse for your sins so you must be better. You're wrong. As long as we live on this earth, we will live in a world where things are not as they were meant to be. We sin and are sinned against. Our sinning does not end at the point of conversion. That is one of the most destructive and condemning myths in Christianity. Instead the point of conversion marks the beginning of our entering into the forgiveness and compassion of God. Are we called to change? Yes. Are we called to repentance? Yes. Are we called to forgive? Yes. But are these things achieved through our effort to be better? No. They are achieved by a willingness to walk into the terrifying depths of God's pardon, which means a willingness to walk into our own story and the stories of those around us. God is gentle, He is patient, He is playful, He is kind, He is light and life. The voices of "Better" are not God's. He wants to show you the better way, He's not asking you to construct it yourself. He is the tenderest mother, and the best teacher. The fiercest protector, and the kindest father. The truest lover, and the greatest helper. When we decide the sins God forgives we lessen Him, we attempt to undermine His power. We make the gospel less. We mock the work of the cross. These are the sins God forgives: The sins I commit today. The sins I commit with my eyes wide open. The sins I commit as an adult with the attitude of a defiant child. All of them. He forgives them ALL. Without reluctance and with delight He forgives. Is it any wonder He forgives our former sins? I think so, but I think it is an even greater wonder, one which we often don't see, that He forgives our present sins.

My Breath is Ambivalent

  I had a shocking realization in yoga the other morning. I had a new teacher so I listened to her closely, unaccustomed to her teaching style and directions. At the end, pulsing with heat and dripping with sweat, I reveled in the feeling of lying still and breathing. The instructor began the cool down as usual asking everyone to bring their attention to their breath. She said, "Notice how your inhale shows our innate desire to rise towards the heavens and how our exhale shows our innate desire to feel the groundedness of the earth."
  Incredible. My breath is ambivalent. The very thing I must do every day, all day. That I do without thinking except on rare occasions. You could say the very basis of who I am, me in my most simplistic (or perhaps most complex) form. My breath pulls me forward and draws me back every minute of my life. This is at first upsetting and distressing. I am confused. Should I go forward or stay back? Do I want to fly or rest? And what should I DO? "And the two have become one," I hear in my thoughts. Flight and rest go together. One is only a half and will always be lacking if it's not followed by the other. God is a season-maker. He turns the seasons in our very breath. The brave inhale before we jump, the pause our lungs and belly have reached their fullest, the great release of a long exhale. This is God turning our seasons all the time. Never leaving us where we were. My breath tells me ambivalence is unavoidable. It is woven into my very breath. This is such a relief. I don't have to be one or the other, I don't have to feel only one. God has made me to feel, to want, to be both. I want to stay and I want to go, so I run to the One who marries the two in my breath as my pencil moves along this page (or my cursor across this screen).