A Covering

November 5, 2011 by Leave a Comment

If you can’t be transparent, then how can you ever find support? How can you develop community with people who only want to see the smiling, perfect, facade all the time?

We are told to bear each other’s burdens, but we can’t do this unless people can feel confident in sharing their burdens with us.

We are to mourn with those who mourn, but what if they don’t trust us with what they’re mourning over? Do they know that we will receive them in their mourning?

Can we lift up the fallen and support the weak if we tell them not to fall or reject their confession of weakness?

What happens when they’re hurt by ‘leadership’? Or mutual friends and then people feel stuck in the middle? How do you console one, and not get caught up in the emotions toward the one who inflicted the pain? How do you know who to believe? What is gossip and what is truth? Confronting people doesn’t always work, especially if one is lying.

This has been the story of our lives over the last few years. The pain we have suffered is heartbreaking and I wonder if we’ll ever be able to let.it.go.

I mean, really let it go. When can we let go of this pain? Maybe when the wounds can be allowed to heal…maybe when our scabs aren’t being ripped off every so often..just before they fully heal. Maybe then…we can stop crying. If only emotional pain could heal as quick as a skinned knee.

Perhaps people can learn not to tell us what others are saying. If we never hear of it…then maybe we can get beyond it. Because every time we hear of yet another rumor about the false accusations against us…it not only rips those wounds apart again, sometimes they wound us much deeper than before.

And it hurts, because we still love. If we were cold and indifferent then it wouldn’t hurt so much. I don’t want to be indifferent. I just really want to move on.

And so I halted posting on my Facebook account. I made my Twitter account private. I set up a new email. I’m letting the answering machine do it’s job and my voice mail on my cell phone is there for a reason. Part of moving on is to stop all conduits of condemnation. I need to surround myself with positive people, support, and love. I’ve been pursuing, embracing, and dancing with grace for quite some time…if only I could see grace block those fiery darts, squash them totally and redirect their negative energy somewhere else.

Cover me, my friends… I need protection… a covering to allow me some time to heal…and for my family too.

Filed Under: Healing Tagged With: , , ,

Pain Spills Out on the Tile

October 17, 2011 by 3 Comments

I meet this woman, whose face seems so sad. Her eyes are dark, her frown is deep, her heart must be heavy. At first glance a Christian might suspect that she needs Jesus, but do not judge so quickly…she already knows Jesus. This facade that Christianity puts forth that reciting a ritual prayer will make all the gloom depart just isn’t true. The truth is that we continue to face uncertain days, experience heart aches, and depression is common in the Christian community. But no one wants to admit it.

“Come over sometime, I’d love to get to know you.”

Have you ever seen the look of perplexity on a person’s face when you’re just trying to be friendly? People are so down upon themselves that they are clueless why anyone would want to spend time with them. Why is this happening to people in the Christian community?

I wonder if she’ll ever come by. I pray she does.

One day.. knock knock..I hear the knuckles of someone rapping against the door. My little doggies bark, excited to have a visitor.

It’s her, same sad face, but her eyes have a glimmer of hope and I think she’s hanging on my every word… “Welcome!”

Not sure how affectionate she is, I offer a quick hug and she accepts.

“I’ll start the coffee.”

This blessed drink becomes a sacred wine of remembrance in my home.

Hot java fills the cup. We must have large hand holding cups, to wrap our palms around.

Fresh cream and whipped topping, drizzled with caramel.

We make the cozy kind of coffee here, not plain old coffee like the mini-mart serves.

She smiles. She sips, this small sharing of milky latte warms her soul because it’s with full heart hospitality.

And I hesitate to ask, but I can sense her need to vent… “what’s troubling you?”

Tiny glistening tear drops puddle in her eyes…her lips quiver…she takes a deep breath.

Shaking her head, I can tell she’s not ready.

I tell a story of heart ache from my own past. The scars of my mind cry out though I am as gentle as possible, she sees my pain creeping out with each word.

Her hands begin to shake. She puts down her mug and reaches for the tissue box. She can no longer contain the tears, her pain spills out onto the tile.

Christians don’t dare speak of these things. Even the thought of telling how another Christian has hurt them is a bondage to their misery. Many years of threats to never speak negative about the “church of God” or you’ll be bringing “reproach upon the Bride”. So we feel this terrifying burden to keep silent and our hearts are dying.

Her pain is so deep and though she has barely revealed a word, I know. I can see it, I can feel it, the pain is common among us.

She breathes deep again, sighs and picks up her warm mug of comfort.

Sipping again, she contains herself.

Her son had passed on, a suicide. Tragic enough as it is, the pastor puts a yoke upon her that she cannot bear. Her son had not recited the Sinner’s Prayer. He never went to church. He was a college student at a state university and occasionally had visited some religious gatherings among friends. A Buddhist classmate, a Catholic roommate. He had friends who were on some sort of spiritual journey, but the pastor persisted….”But he wasn’t Protestant?”

Her eyes could no longer contain the flood of tears and they streamed down her cheeks…she reaches again for the tissue box. I listen intently and place my hand upon her shoulder. She looks down, shakes her head and barely whispers…”He’s in hell and it’s my fault.”

I can barely breathe. That pastor gave her no hope. She will live her whole life in pain, not only over the loss of her son’s life, but over his soul as well.

She cried out in pain, agony grips her soul.

“Is there any hope at all??” her lips quiver out these words in desperation. She’s reaching out for any ray of light, even a shimmer? Anything from Jesus?

I move to sit right next to her and wrap my arms around her. She lays her head on my shoulder, she sobs.

Death is hard enough as it is…let alone this. What kind of a Gospel leaves this mom with no hope?

She questions the validity of hell. This is when she begins an emotional purging…the anger rises and I see it on her face, her wrinkled brow.

Questioning such things in ‘that’ church brings some really harsh words from the members. People she thought were friends. The look of shame on her pastor’s face when she questions their gospel.

Her son’s death, the torment of his soul, and now she is shunned for questioning the concept of eternal torture.

How can a mother’s heart not question such a thing?

Jesus is the Savior that understands, he listens, and he is patient. He doesn’t lose his cool when we inquire about his plans. He freely shares his plans with us, his friends. He did not treat his friends with disgust when they asked him questions.

I rub her back, she wipes her tears. She asks, “is there any hope at all?”

There’s always hope in Christ.

When she came through my door that day, I didn’t know if she would be able to share what had been weighing heavy on her soul…it was when I shared my own pain that she felt welcomed to share hers.

A new friendship began.

Her parting words with me, “Whenever I have a hot latte topped with whipped cream and caramel, I’ll be remembering you.”

We smile, exchange hugs…”and Him who gives us hope.”

Please come again.

DSC_0400 by farmgirl, on Pix-O-Sphere
{photo credit Clarissa}

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Why Do We Hurt So Much?

September 13, 2011 by Leave a Comment

The depth of your pain reveals how deeply you love.

heart in sand by lady_jess, on Pix-O-Sphere
{photo by Lady Jess at Pix-O-Sphere}

Filed Under: Healing Tagged With: ,

Guilty Prayers

August 22, 2011 by 2 Comments

In all my years of sitting in a fundamental church I can say without hesitation that the majority of the times I caught a glimpse of the Spirit of God was not during the preaching. Sitting there, facing forward, seeing the preacher running all over the platform trying to keep the attention of the people and my mind was wandering back through the lightened path of my memory of that third stanza of the choir special. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…the fragrance of rain..” and I ponder that for a moment…

He smacks the puplit and shouts, “Look up here! All of you,..look up here when I’m talking to you!” As he goes on to belittle those not keeping their eyes precisely on him. Next, a few jabs about being backslidden and in rebellion.

Sigh*

But I was mid thought on hearing God speaking to me in an area to grow my faith.

A few more minutes into the preaching and a cell phone chimes.

“Please turn off all cell phones. You’re interrupting the preaching!”

(Oh, but his screaming was interrupting God speaking to me as an individual.)

Sometimes the inward growing was from the Spirit bringing to my remembrance … that moment when I snapped at my toddler as we were rushing off to Sunday School and all she wanted to do was show me the butterfly that had landed on her nose. But in my hurried and frantic pace, I shew the insect away and command her to get to the car. God was telling me to take it slower, to enjoy the moment of being a mommy as my children get caught up in the beauty of this creative world He gave us. He reminds me that it was a wonderful opportunity to talk about creation and the beauty of each unique butterfly. I could have told her how she is divinely unique as well.

But the preacher thought keeping my eyes on him was more important.

I watch a movie with my husband that makes me think about sacrifice and compassion. A man who gives away his eyes so a blind man can see. Seven pounds of sacrificial love, but the woman teaching bible study says all PG-13 movies are from “the devil” and would seduce  me to forsake God.

I observe a pagan ceremony that gives honor to my ancestors, but other Christian bloggers rebuke me as going down a slippery slope…but it’s ok *if* I have pushed the pagans to recite “the sinner’s prayer”. But the ceremony reminded me of the love of my Savior and solidifies my faith in Christ…and Jesus never said anything about “a sinner’s prayer”.

Boxes seek to define us, but we’re already defined as beautiful..created-in-His-image-kind of beauty.

I see and hear my soul-love in everything…because when you’re looking and listening… he moves and speaks.

But he doesn’t look down his nose at me from the platform, he sees me as equal. He walks side by side with me and holds my soul-hand. He doesn’t scream at me to keep my eyes on him, he speaks in a still small voice. He whispers.. “I love you”.

In all the noise, I tune my auditory attention inward..the noise seems to fade..it becomes distant..like the sound of children playing on the grass when I’m under water. Do you ever hold yourself under water long enough to really listen to under water sounds?

Sometimes the outer noise is religious, but the inward working in the heart is not heard audibly by those around me. Maybe this is what it was like for Paul on the road to Damascus.

Could that rushing river beating against the rocks be the voice of God? Is that the Spirit I see dancing on the pollen on that flower? What am I seeing and hearing?

river side bench by sisterlisa, on Pix-O-Sphere


Tears roll down my cheeks and drop off my chin and pat the dry earth beneath my knees. The tear causes dust to puff above my ankles.

I’m listening and I’m hearing..deep in my heart.

I hear my inner most desires coming to surface and I gulp hard to catch my breath.

Yes, Lord.. that’s what I really want.

But I’m afraid to speak about it out loud.

I have been told on numerous occasions that asking for what we want is wrong and that God is not a geenie in a bottle to be commanded.

I wrestle, I gulp harder.

Listening to the wind pushing through the pine needles above me…I sigh.

He brings the desires to the surface again and I find myself daydreaming about my hopes and my dreams…wishing they would come true..believing it’s the right thing for us…I choke up again.

I breathe deep and sigh..slowly allowing my exhale to escape my lungs.

Yes, this is what I really want.. I dare to speak the words out loud.

Why does prayer feel so wrong sometimes and yet so right?

Why do I feel guilt at communing with him about my desires? Does he not give us the desires of our hearts?

If it’s wrong to expect he’d give me what I wish for, I can at least tell him anyway. I don’t think he’d fault me for asking. I just don’t want to be rude, I don’t want to ask too much, dare I ask for simple things? I’m not asking for a yacht or a Porsche, just a relocation to live in a neighborhood where we are loved instead of hated and gossiped about.

I shout out into the wind that day, “Please help us move!”

Inside my heart is longing to be with those who are beckoning us to come. Is it simple enough? Nothing extravagant.

My heart pounds in my chest..tears streaming again.

I sigh deeply..inhaling the pine scented breeze deep into my lungs.

I close my eyes and the tears mingle with my lashes.

I can no longer follow recited prayers. The bullet point day planner type prayer lists… I throw them away.

He has shown me how to communicate with him.

Spontaneous, life giving breath.

Sharing pain and my tears being caught in his bottle.

Maybe he’ll use those tears to water me when the land seems dry.

No one can tell me what to ask for, how to pray, they don’t know the mind of God.

And God gives me freedom to commune with him and allows me to be honest with myself and with him..about what I’d like to have.

Even if he doesn’t bring me to the place in which I pray for…I know I can still tell him what I desire. I know he listens.

This post has been contributed to the Organic Faith Tour.

You can read about it here.

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