Hide or Seek?

If you have been around this blog much the past eight months or so, you have probably noticed a recurring theme dealing with fear. I hashed out some of my feelings about it over lunch with my friend Alex several months ago. He shared some of his own feelings about a frightening experience he had and then he shared something else. He said as much as he needed to be able to talk about what happened, his friends didn't want him to. I didn't get it at the time, but I did later. And I certainly do now.

I get that people don't want to hear someone say they feel exposed and vulnerable. Seriously, who goes around saying these things out loud? Why would someone talk openly about the things we try to hide? I can tell you this: hiding doesn't help. I want to be the person who can sit with someone in their pain and not get squeamish because I chose to sit with my own first. I don't ever want to be the person who tries to give the easy answer so I can find the easy exit out of the conversation. I don't want to be the person who deflects with sarcasm or humor. I'd rather be the person who invites with sincerity. It is hard. I get that. We have been taught the safety of silence. But here's what I have learned: we can be the one who pulls the covers over our heads or we can be the one who pulls the covers off of someone else so we can wrap our arms around them. We can choose. Not easily. But we can choose.

Maybe the best thing we can do is ask ourselves the hard question: Who taught you to fear?

Truth Telling

Being thirty-nine has somehow managed to suck and be amazing at the same time. I made a commitment to myself this year to tell the truth more than ever. To myself, as well as to others. When I hurt someone and even more difficultly, when they hurt me. It isn't so much that I have gone out of my way to seek out these conversations--in fact, I have had to take a sit and wait stance on a few I would rather just go ahead and be done with--but I will say this: be careful what you say you are ready to do and be because what you will find is that you are scared and laid bare. And that is only the beginning. And yes, it sucks. But there is peace in speaking into the light the stuff that grows in the dark. 

The following is something I read that speaks loudly to my laid bare heart this morning:

"I believe that by being the best and most healed version of ourselves we can truly make a difference in the world. I’m not an activist or politician, and I’m not able to have any direct impact on the areas of the world where help is needed. But what I can do is make a difference in the small pocket of the world I call home.

I can live with integrity and be honest about my feelings, even when they hurt. I can put my whole heart into my work and pay forward the generosity that was shown to me when my world fell apart. I can look after myself, knowing that by healing my own hurts I won’t be passing them on to anyone else. In a society like ours, filled with so many emotionally wounded people acting out their pain, this is possibly the most important work we could ever do—heal our hurts so we don’t pass them on."

--Susannah Conway

The Fear Factor

This pretty much sums up the way I feel about my life right now. I would much rather admit my fear about all of the many things I'm afraid of as I am walking towards them, than act like I'm afraid of nothing and live small.

Nose kisses

Some days I wonder who I am. Who is this crazy woman wielding a spatula, screaming at her dog to "STOP BARKING AT ME?" Screaming in a way that makes the one other human and the one other animal in the house cease movement and look at her as if a crazed stranger had taken free reign of the kitchen and body of a previously sane woman. A woman who has a personal code against raising her voice in anger against humans or animals. A woman who is ashamed that she can suddenly have so little control over her emotions. A woman who says "I'm sorry," turning back to the dinner she is preparing in tears and shame.

And then there is that little barking dog who not even thirty minutes later stands in the doorway sneaking shy peeks at the woman. There are smooching noises. A wagging wisp of a tail. Nose kisses and forgiveness.

Sometimes our broken humanity comes crashing down on us like that. And we need little barking dogs to remind us we are human, to offer us the forgiveness we don't always allow ourselves.

The Waiting Place, Part III

Tonight my husband lies in a hospital bed just a couple of feet away from me as I write this. He is resting on the edge of what feels like is going to be a long night. An extension of a long day. I am tired and feeling a little more vulnerable than usual. And I have been plenty vulnerable lately.

Today we crossed a threshold in our Waiting Place. And I have to say that it is a relief I can't quite verbalize.  I am all about forward progress, and until today we have only been taking baby steps toward wellness for many months now. Baby steps can wear a person out. Today was a big step forward.

Who knows, in a week we may get news that makes the relief of today nothing but a vague memory. But to be honest, I don't care what we learn a week from now. I care about today. I care about the man lying in bed a couple of feet away from me. All I know is that today is better than yesterday. Tomorrow can worry about itself.

Truth is Beauty

I have become a huge fan of Dr. Brene' Brown, a research professor at University of Houston. She is doing amazing work in deconstructing shame and promoting vulnerability and authenticity. She is real and honest and her work is necessary. You can see her in action here . I hope you will check her out.

"Who am I that You are mindful of me?"

"Then the LORD will create over all of Mount Zion and over those who assemble there a cloud of smoke by day and a glow of flaming fire by night; over everything the glory will be a canopy. It will be a shelter and shade from the heat of the day, and a refuge and hiding place from the storm and rain." Isaiah 4:5-6

Almost every run in my short history of running has started on this street in the picture. It is my safe place. My warm up lasts the length of this street and whether I am anticipating a great run or a difficult one, whether I start out carefree or budened, it is my favorite place to begin. In the heat, the canopy of old oak and pecan trees offers me dappled light and respite from the sun. In the rain, it is a giant, old umbrella of sorts, only letting through a fraction of the storm raining down on me.

And isn't that what it is like to sit under the protection of a Savior? I think I finally understood this idea for the first time last week. As I started down Avenue J, I voiced in my head my thankfulness for the shade. And out of nowhere, I was suddenly struck by this scripture from Isaiah that I couldn't even completely remember.  I was completely humbled to truly understand for the first time what it means to sit in the shelter of God. I have always thought of God as holding me in the midst of storms. I could wrap my head around that thought. I could accept that I would have to bear everything that rained down on me, but at least I could do it if I was being held. It had never occured to me that what I actually experience is just a fraction of the storm. I am protected because I sit under the canopy of God's Glory.

I used to think I had to protect myself, that God had too many other people to protect. And just as dangerously, I thought the enemy wouldn't bother to mess with me because I wasn't worth messing with. I am humbled by the thought that I am worthy of both attack and protection. I have been attacked in the last couple of years in very specific ways. Ways that played on my fear of violence, ways that dragged up hurts I thought were healed, ways that made me feel vulnerable and unsafe, ways that played on my fear of loss and the unknown. But worst of all, ways that made me feel like I had to bear it all alone.

But I am realizing more and more that I am being protected in ways that are making me no longer lean on my understanding. Ways that are making me redefine security. Ways that are making me grateful for the present and vulnerable in the way God wants me to be vulnerable. Ways that are forcing me to rise up when I want to hide. Ways that give me courage and strength and humility. Ways that make me sit in awe and speak with hope. Ways that make me seek refuge. Ways that remind me daily that His ways are not my ways. And for that, I thank God.

The Waiting Place, Part II

Earlier this month I wrote about waiting. I went on and on about waiting with hope and peace. Then a couple of days ago I shared what I still consider to be an incredibly valuable video on a talk about vulnerability. And of course, I made this public proclamation of sorts on the value of vulnerability. I vowed to myself to seek to live in a way that is more wholehearted, walking through the good and the bad in a way that is real and honest.

Let's talk for a minute about what happens when you choose a posture of vulnerability for yourself. It may look like this: You find yourself in a situation in which you risk your personal safety to protect your personal property and hopefully, that of someone else. And as absurd as the interaction with a criminal who has taken too many Xanax can be, a couple of days later you find yourself afraid. You begin to deconstruct the actual events and you begin to realize all that could have happened. And despite reminding yourself the danger playing "What if" can do to a person, you can't help but wonder what is going to happen in the future. You dream about chaotic events and mugshots and you find yourself feeling exposed and edgy, completely vulnerable. And while you are normally pretty big on sucking it up, you cut yourself some slack, realizing that being vulnerable means starting with yourself. You show yourself some compassion.

Then there is the whole waiting thing. You want to sit reverently in The Waiting Place? It might look something like this: Your husband has a rountine doctors appointment on a Friday. After a short discussion, you suddenly find yourself on an accelerated course of treatment.  Radiation after Christmas isn't ideal, for sure, but after some thought and discussion, maybe it is for the best. Let's get this behind us. So the routine ultrasound a few days before Christmas is followed almost immediately by a highly concerned phone call from the doctor. Biopsy. Next week. And then you know that the door that closed behind you and the one that is yet to open leave you in The Waiting Place. So you cry a little bit because who wouldn't, right? Afterall, you are still counting your blessings from the beginning of this whole ordeal when you found yourself sitting in a waiting room holding your spouse's hand. Staring out the window, aware of the changing light of Fall, you asked of yourself and God: Is this what it feels like to have taken it all for granted? You realize once again that you aren't ready to know the answer to that question. So you hope. You promise that you won't rush the beauty and mystery of the humble birth of your Savior to get to next week. You will wait quietly. Actively. You will wait with hope, knowing that one day you will speak of this time as the time you learned to wait with peace. You cut yourself a little more slack and you share your real self, your fear and the questions that go with it in a public way, a way that let's people see you, because you remembered the truth as Brene Brown shared it: vulnerability is necessary. Perhaps you are learning. Just in time.

"Stories are data with a soul"

I love watching TED Talks and reading Don Miller's take on walking in this world. If you haven't done either, here is your chance to do both. I encourage you to watch Brene Brown's talk on vulnerability. She is incredibly wise, insightful, cheeky, and accessible. Then read Don's take on the talk. He is also insightful and completely transparent. I needed both of their words this week. Fear has caused me to want to hide. I know that hiding won't make me safe, it will only make me alone. These words spoke incredibly deeply to me. Take the time to watch and read. Chances are they will speak to you too.

Here you go:Vulnerability as a key to emotional health

Watch, read, consider. I would love to know what you think.