To My "Token" Gay Friend

Dear friend, I want to apologize.

I'm new at this. I might be almost thirty years-old. It might have been a long time coming, but I'm new at this. My life has not been a reflection of welcome diversity. I haven't always practiced well the art of meeting people with grace.

The first time I found out one of my friends was gay, I was 13. Growing up in a Christian home, private school, and being homeschooled had done a really good job of dictating who I was friends with, and who I never even had the chance to befriend. So much so that I almost didn't believe it when I found out. It felt like the ground shifted under me.

Fast forward a couple of years to a Christian homeschool co-op where the moms in charge were banishing a family because their daughter had just come out as bisexual. I sat back silently while the other kids made fun of her and my heart tried to claw out of my chest screaming, "How is this supposed to help anything?!" The ground beneath me shifted again, but this time it felt like it was shifting in the opposite direction. Weren't we supposed to love people? Even if they were "living in sin," how would excluding them like this help us minister to them? How could these people make jokes out of this sort of thing?

Then there was college. I opted out of the Christian college track after my senior year had shaken my foundation a bit. I was becoming a bit disenchanted by the run-of-the-mill conservative Christian bubble I'd spent eighteen years in. I enrolled in the local community college hoping to branch out a little, and met so many different new people, each one of them tweaking how I viewed the world just a little. The members of the LGBTQ community that I met were some of the most influential-- from the Irish Literature professor who encouraged me to stick with writing  because I was "just too smart not to," to my creative writing classmate who, nearly in tears, told me I had to finish my first novel because it was "just so... important."

Two. I met two openly LGBTQ people in the first eighteen years of my life. In college, I had to really make peace with what I learned, and friendship after friendship since has taught me more and more what love really means. I say all of this, not to make excuses for myself, but to let you know why.

And, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for every time I referenced your legal spouse as your partner, because I was afraid of what people might think of me.

I'm sorry for every time I made you feel like a project instead of a person.

I'm sorry for every gay joke I walked past.

I'm sorry for every time I preserved my own reputation at the expense of yours.

For every time I ignored my own heart as it tried to voice what your heart needed to hear most-- that you're way more than my token gay friend.

You are my friend.

It's taken a long time for me to stop believing in the concept of "token" friends. I don't believe in contrived relationship. I believe in meeting people as they come to you. I believe in seeing people for who they are.

I believe in stretching my arms as wide as they'll open, and working on my muscles so they can open even more.

And I believe with all my heart that  the most gap-bridging, selfishness-challenging, wound-healing thing I can learn to say is "I love you."

I love you, I'm sorry, and I'm trying.

On Being Erased

I joke a lot about how I can't say certain things because I "have a reputation to uphold." The people who know me best know that I'm kind of like an iceberg-- what you see is usually only a small fraction of who I am. This isn't an egotistical statement. It's more of a confession. I've always been a quiet, private person. It takes a lot for me to warm up to new people, and if I sense that there are things about me that might offend, alienate, or hurt other people, I generally just won't express them around those people.

I feel uncomfortable talking about social issues with people who are conservative, because I know that what I have to say-- though seasoned with deep conviction and experiences in a very broken and desolate place-- will offend them and possibly make them write me off as just another "bleeding heart liberal."

I feel deep guilt every time I mention my son to friends who struggle with infertility, because I don't know why God gave me a child instead of them, and I've been on that side of the conversation where I had no control over my own grief-reaction to someone else's joy.

I so often hesitate to speak about my journey away from the traditional church structure, because I know so many people who are heavily invested in it, and I don't want them to think that I'm accusing them of being bad people or loving God less than I do.

I think a lot of things I don't say. I value the art of thinking before talking... to a fault. No one wins at this game, though. When I withhold important thoughts and values because I don't want to strain relationships or estrange people I care about, it doesn't keep peace. It doesn't spare feelings. It doesn't even really uphold my reputation. All it actually does is compartmentalize. It takes away my voice. It erases me. It erases me, and I've come to a point where I'm not really willing to be erased anymore.

The whole point of this, I guess, is to say that my writing might look a little different from now on. You'll be seeing a fuller picture of who I am and what I feel, and I'm sorry if it is different from what I've led you to believe. I hope you stick around.

White Noise

"Thank God my son is white."

Is not a phrase anyone wants to utter.

But, God forgive me, I have.

In the back of my mind

Under my breath

Sitting in front of the television

As I watch another black man killed

While the only right of his we defend

Is the right to remain silent.

Two nights ago, I dreamt of a black mother

Handing me photo after photo of her lost children

Pictures drawn in ragged crayon

Love letters written by innocent little hands

All I could do was weep

As she begged me

"Please, tell their stories."

But, God forgive me. 

I must confess, 

I'm afraid of what they'll say.

These children grow up

We give them school supplies

Food for Thanksgiving 

Coats for the winter

We convince ourselves that our benevolence carries them

That we are doing God's work

That we are building a better future for the poor

Until they no longer look innocent to us.

Until they're criminals for wanting simply to survive.

These men are full of grit

Mistaken for grime.

"Thug" "animal" "up to no good"

This rhetoric might as well be handfuls of dirt

Thrown on top of their caskets

Brothers and sisters, this place has seen far too many graves

Dug by our idle hands

And as the saying goes, Idle hands 

Are the handiwork of the devil.

Rescuer

In your blood, I found you

Your prayers carved into your skin

Like messages in ancient dwellings.

I carried you home.

I bound up your wounds.

Laughter sparked new the light in your eyes.

My heart was as healing salve.

I gave purpose to your scars

I showed you Mine,

But you did not believe Me.

Every kiss from Me singed memory alive.

My love, do not mark yourself for the dead.

My love, I make all things live.

You fled where you thought I could not see,

But I would go the whole earth to bring you home.

You found new lovers

You showed each one your scars,

And each of them fled as you did from Me.

My love, I would have fought them if you asked--

Bound up your wounds again,

Carried you home and healed you.

My love, I did not let you go.

In your blood, I found you

Your lips too parched for prayers

You were shivering and cold, leaning on the door post

As though I wouldn't let you in.

My love, do not be afraid.

My love, I make motion of the dead.

My love, I never locked the door.

11 Things I Want My Son to Know

I've read so many blog entries like this over the years. Most of them are much longer than 11, but I'm a woman of few words. 

It's been a long, hard journey getting to this point, and as I type this and the little wiggle worm is flopping around like crazy inside of me, I am sobered and brought low. So many years spent thinking that this would never happen-- that there was something very wrong with me. That I would spend my entire life in limbo, never being able to be what I truly believe I was made to be. All of that, only to be proven wrong. And it is so good.

I'll just cut to the chase now.

Dear Little Mister Josiah,

1) As a white American male, born to educated parents, with all of your needs met, you are one of the most privileged people in the world. Recognize it. Lay it down. Be the voice for the voiceless. You cannot both indulge in your privilege and help those who do not have it.

2) Your life will be filled with people who are vastly different from you. We're doing this on purpose. Someone looking, believing, acting, or living differently does not give you an excuse to not love. There is never an excuse for not loving-- for not engaging.

3) Chivalry is not sexism-- unless she says no. Being a gentleman can mean carrying heavy things and holding doors open, but it can also mean recognizing and empowering independence in the women around you.

4) Jesus is very real to me. Obviously, you are free to make your own decisions about this, but I feel like I should tell you because it's something I have a really hard time shutting up about. Your father is worse than I am. Just know that it isn't something we have come to by means of ignorance or indoctrination, but by means of true experience and real transformation. This is the only real way to "find religion."

5) Your father hates it when the sink is completely full of dishes, and your mother hates it when dishes aren't rinsed. I'm just warning you. Use the countertop. Rinse the stinkin' dishes after you're done.

6) Knowing who you are is one of the most powerful, intimidating, and irritating things you can do. Do it boldly.

7) Women do not owe you anything for being nice to them.

8) Wealth does not equal success, and it certainly doesn't equal integrity. Poverty does not equal laziness, nor does it determine someone's character.

9) Your name means something. It means something big. Own it.

10) No matter what you do or who you become, there is always a place for you in my heart and in my home. This is not cliche'. I mean this with everything that I am.

11) I waited for you for a very long time. I named you before I really, truly believed that you would come. I prayed for you everyday for years. I cannot put into words how fierce my love for you is. Never doubt this, even if I screw up. Even if I say the wrong thing or treat you the wrong way. Just know... You are my hallelujah. 

- Mama

Cookbook

My friend, please remember how I've loved you.

Not like art, not like a storm.

Not unrequited. Not exactly like that.

Like... our friendship is one of my favorite recipes.

It is full of metaphor.

It compounds flavors and creates something new.

Like... my giggles would draw shy smiles from you.

Like... your quiet kindness would reduce me till only I was left.

Open the cookbook

Find the page

Complete with color photograph and a short introduction

Of how perfect this is for just the right season.

Gather your ingredients

(Some of my favorites are as follows:)

You would sing to me

Love songs, weird songs,

Songs about heaven and your heart

You'd sing just to get a smile out of me

You were the hero in my scars

You were my best friend

The first to tell me I'm worth more

The first to make me feel as beautiful as you believed me to be

The first to fight for me

To cross battle lines that were actually a circle

I'd drawn tightly around myself.

When you were seventeen, you told me that I saved you from yourself

I never told you, angel,

You're the one who changed me

You're the one who unfolded me

You're the one who saved me or

Maybe, it's just love that transforms.

Daughter

I know there are days when you can't look in the mirror
For fear of the outside seeping in.
But, I need you to believe something.
I need you to believe that you are one of the most beautiful dancers I've ever seen.
You are not too much.
You are enough.
I need you to believe that you cannot dance well unless you can inspect your own form.
If you never look in that mirror, you'll never see what I see...

That dance is more than slender movement.
It is bearing pain in grace.
It is moving forward
Over and over and over
Until there is beauty.

I need you to believe that, because you dance.
Every day.
You are a masterpiece of strength
A movement, dynamic in its message.

Little ballerina, don't hate what I've created in you.
Dance like you did once
In a black velvet tutu.
I was your only audience.
Dance like that.
Look in the mirror.

It's one of My favorite memories of you.

The Depths of God

"When you can't touch bottom, you touch the depths of God" - Ann Voskamp

I've spent a lot of the last five years treading water. Who am I kidding? I feel like the majority of my life has been spent treading water. Whether it was trying to muddle my way through college into a life calling that seemed impossible to my deception-addled brain, or simply trying to stay afloat amidst barrenness, juxtaposed with an undeniable desire for children, or long seasons of hard work doing things I don't like to do, and that I'm not necessarily good at...

I can't quite say that my feet have touched bottom at all in the last five years. I can't say that there haven't been times where all I wanted to do was stop treading... stop moving... stop hoping.

In my perception, what happens when my feet don't touch bottom is that I am losing control. I am going to drown and die, and all this treading water will have been in vain, because I will never have reached my destination, or worse, I will die, when I know-- I know-- that God had the power to rescue me from drowning.

What's really going on in those moments, when I'm about ready to stop treading water. When my feet can't touch bottom, and I panic because I can't get them planted firmly on solid ground. When instead of swimming, I'm flailing and losing it. What's really going on is I'm learning the depths of God. I'm experiencing the part of His Spirit that takes over when I can't do anymore. I'm learning that in the absence of my ability, His is all consuming. I will not die before reaching my destination, because this process of treading and treading is exactly where I am meant to be. I will not die without rescue, because daily, I am rescued from my own panic and fear.

"Now God has revealed these things to us by the Spirit, for the Spirit searches everything, even the depths of God..." 1 Corinthians 2:10

If it is the Holy Spirit that searches the depths of God, then I have nothing to fear. When I panic, when I lose hope, when I run out of words to pray or even scream at the heart of God, I have nothing to fear, because it is this same Spirit that both searches the depths of God ans intercedes on my behalf with prayers that are too deep for words... prayers that are straight from-- and to-- the depths of God.

"And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don't know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words." - Romans 8:26

To Princess Ella

Dear Ella,

Oh, Princess... what can I say? You have been my Little Princess since before I ever even laid eyes on you. Nothing's changed. You still hold such a special place in my heart.

You are such a bright spot in my life, Ella. Your smile and laugh and absolutely dynamic spirit have changed me. You keep me young. You pull me out of myself. When I have needed a reminder that this world has good in it, you waltz in, talking absolute gibberish, shrugging your shoulders, smiling at everyone, and absolutely living up to your name-- Ella... Bright Torch. That is exactly what you are.

 I wanted to write you a special little message on your birthday today. I want to remind you that I love you so very much. I also want to tell you that my love for you will never change, and that you are a very strong, very special girl. I cannot wait to see who you grow up to be, my Princess Ella Jelly Bean.

Love always,
Aunt Kessi

 PS- Never ever feel left out because you don't have a "fancy" princess name like all of your cousins. It only seems that way because you were the original Princess. Princess Ella.

 

To My Slurpee Girl

Dear Madelyn (a.k.a.: Princess Slurpee Munchkin Head)

The day you were born began, for me, with enthusiasm, closely followed by the sound of metal bending into metal and the smell of airbag dust ingrained into my memory. Everything, it seemed, was trying to keep me from meeting you. But, we made it!

When I saw you, I knew it for sure, and I told you-- "We're going to be good friends."

And we have been, little one. Everyday, I see in you glimpses of the woman you will one day become. I see in you a sensitivity and compassion that far exceeds the kind I have seen even in mature adults. I see curiosity, and passion, and love, and intelligence. Slurpee, you are, indeed, so full of everything.

So today, as you turn the big number two-- even though you can't read this yet-- I want you to remember two things today, on your second birthday.

Number One: Never forget that you are a princess. You can be a sad princess, a happy princess, a serious princess, a goofy princess... whatever kind of princess you have to be, but never forget that you are royalty.

Number Two: Never forget that you are loved for who you are. You might grow up to do incredible things, you might decide to be a technological genius who designs smartphones (let's be real here... that's a good possibility.), you might become a pilot (it's not technically "holding" planes, but it's as close as you'll ever get), or a paleontologist (dinosaurs, 'nuff said)... but, whatever you decide to do, remember that I love you because you are Madelyn. Princess Slurpee Munchkin Head.

I will love you forever and ever,
Aunt Kessi

Today, He whispered in my ear
Cut through the crap
Untied all my knots:
Yesterday is over- unchangeable.
Tomorrow isn't even here yet.
Today.
I only have today.
Today, He loves me.
Today, He is good.

Timeline of a Prisoner

I was six years-old the first time I was called "fat" on the playground. Technically, it was "hamburger," but I've never really been one to mince words.

I was 7 years-old the first time I heard someone tell me, "I don't want to be your friend anymore." The first time my being a "hamburger" excluded me from being in their club, going to their party, being seen with them.

I was 9 years-old when I first thought that maybe... just maybe... food could be my enemy.

I was 11 years-old the first time I realized that I could decide to be happy.

12 years-old when I found out I could be strong if I needed.

I was 13 years-old when I had to tell my parents that my grandfather had molested my baby sister.

13 when I decided that "strong" was all I would allow myself to be.

13 the first day that I decided not to eat.

13 when God took me to Isaiah 51 and told me "The cowering prisoner will soon be set free. They will not die in their dungeon..." 13 when I just barely knew what that meant.

I was 14 when I had my first "love," and subsequently my first heart break.

I was 14 when I moved from my first real home.

I was 15 the first time I cut myself with a kitchen knife. 15 the first, second, third, fourth, fifth time I swore I would stop.

I was 16 the first time I told someone "I think I'm going crazy." 16 the first time they looked at me and said, "No... you're just fighting a battle, and you're going at it the wrong way."

I was 17 the last time my pain left a visible scar. 17 when I started killing myself slowly. 17 when I was "90 pounds down, only 25 to go." 17 when I couldn't possibly be good enough.

I was 18 years old when I decided I preferred caffeine and pain killers over sleep and food.

19 when all of my mental plans to marry that one guy fell through.

19 when I wept and cursed the number 14, because it was on all of my jeans again and if I could just be skin and bones then maybe I could finally disappear.

I was 20 years-old when I really met up with God again, this time in the conference room of a Days Inn.

20 when I finally forgave.
20 when I was healed... OCD, Depression, Eating Disorder, my broken and beaten and starved-for-love heart.
20 when this cowering prisoner was finally set free.

Medley

Before there were days, there were nights I could not see Your face. But the night couldn't keep me from grace.

I remember the moment , I remember the pain. I was only a girl, but I grew up that day. Tears were falling. I know You saw me hiding there in my bedroom, so alone. I was doing my best, trying to be strong.

You saw my mistakes, You watched my heart break... heard when I swore I would never love again. And when I was weak, unable to speak, still I could call You by name, and I said...

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists. I find it when
I am cut

How did I get locked up inside? What's this that renders me paralyzed? I lost myself in small pieces. It happened over time. I traded love for a heavy chain. Another link every other day.

There are ghosts from my past who own more of my soul than I thought I had given away. They linger on closets and under my bed and in pictures less proudly displayed. A great fool in my life I have been, have squandered till pallid and thin. Hung my head in shame and refused to take blame, for the darkness I know I've let win.

I wanna feel something sweeter than this sin. Cover me in leaves and roll me over again. I've been everybody else now I wanna be something closer to myself. Paint me in a different light, shed me yet another coat of skin, mark me with ash until I'm clean again. Cause I'm so sick and tired of being sick and tired. I know I can love you, I know that I can.

Oh, You call me Daughter and you take my blame. And, You run to meet me when I cry out Your name. So, I fall before You in all of my shame. Lord, I am willing to be changed.

Ever since that day, it's been clear to me that no matter what comes, You will never leave. I know You're for me, and You're restoring every heartache and failure, every broken dream... You're the God who sees, the God who rescued me.

This is my story.

This is my story:

All this time, from the first tear cried
'Till today's sunrise
And every single moment between
You were there, You were always there
It was You and I
You've been walking with me all this time.

[Lyrics from: "Before There was Time" - Caedmon's Call | "All This Time" - Britt Nicole | "I Am" - Nichole Nordeman | "Cut" - Plumb | "No More Chains" - Nichole Nordeman | "Martyrs and Thieves" - Jennifer Knapp | "Closer to Myself" - Kendall Payne | " Own Me" - Ginny Owens | "All This Time" - Britt Nicole]

Poem

D

[October 11, 2012]

I am not your judge.

Your name says it all.

I cannot move you

I cannot catch you when you fall.

I did not aim to change you,

I never wanted to dissuade you

Only to breathe to you...

You are more than your pain

You are more than any innocence your father ever took from you

You are more than the lies that boy spit at you,

Falling on your 16 year old lips like sleet that never melts

You are more than your mother's absence.

You are more than the girl's kisses that fill you, but drain out when you look away.

I only wanted you to consider,

You only wanted me to shut my mouth.

I am not your judge.

I cannot build a bridge that you would only be intent on burning

I cannot build a bridge between you and me

I can only be a bridge between you and the One who

Makes innocent and melts sleet and sticks around and plugs up all of our holes

I am not your judge.

Your name says it all.

Last Love

From Rachel McKibbens' poem, "Last Love"

"...Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can
point out on a map,
But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only
Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:
The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.
Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us?

Can pull us out of ourselves until
We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,
Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want
And want
And want
And want
Because there is no shame in wanting.
And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.
And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are
Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you
will say: Last Love,
I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself
At the throne of you and lie humbly at your feet.
Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.
Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.
Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.
Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.
Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.
Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.
Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.
Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.
Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.
Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.
Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.
I am all that is left.
Amen"

What Youth Group Taught Me-- And Didn't Teach Me: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Whoah. It's been a while. In honor of this weekend's opportunity for me to speak at a youth group for one of the first times since I was actually in youth group, I thought I'd write a blog. 

I "grew up" in church. I really grew up in youth group. It taught me a lot of things- some good, some bad. It also neglected to teach me some things. I am a firm believer in the Church (Big “C” Church), but my experience has taught me that the Church has very little to do with the building that a lot of Christians go to every Sunday, or Wednesday, or Saturday night. We-- Christians-- make up the Christian church, and if we take that lightly, we end up losing people to lies that look even better than the truth of what we are... a sick bride that lives for her own pleasures. Here are some of my own youth group lessons.

Youth group taught me that friendships are incredibly important. I made friends in youth ministry that have helped me through some really hard times, that attended my wedding, and that still pray for me any time I ask. These are all good things. What youth group didn't teach me is that youth group, or church, should never be the means to an end when the end we seek is solely friendship. Youth group taught me that fellowship is essential, but it didn't teach me that working out your salvation with fear and trembling is considerably more important than that fellowship, and that fellowship should flow out of fighting the battle shoulder to shoulder in word, thought, and deed.

Youth group taught me what it took to be a Godly college student. What it neglected to teach me, however, is what it takes to be a Godly woman. It taught me how to say no to sex before marriage, but it taught me nothing about sex within marriage, or marriage at all. It taught me about secret sin, but didn't really teach me how to combat it. It taught me how to defend my faith, but it didn't teach me how to cultivate it. The most beneficial times in youth group for me were when my leaders were much older than myself, and could tell me, “This is what God wants, and here is what it looks like.” I didn't know it at the time, but as a teen, I didn't need to be surrounded by leadership that was fun and enthusiastic as much as I needed to be surrounded by men and women of the faith that could lead me with level heads and compassionate hearts.

Youth group taught me that favoritism is prevalent in the world. This is not a good thing, because it was the people in the youth groups, and the people leading the youth groups that taught me this by their actions. I spent a lot of emotional energy trying to gain the attention of youth leaders-- any youth leaders, because I wanted someone to really see me and to help me see. A word to all youth leaders that are reading this-- Talk to the ones that no one talks to. Be the friend to the friendless, and if you don't have the heart to do so, pray that God would turn your heart toward it-- and then do it anyway. This is not bitterness speaking, this is a fair warning. If it hadn't been for one specific youth leader that would talk to me when no one else would, that would challenge me when I needed it most, and that trusted me to take sound advice when it was offered, I don't know where I would be. When I say this, I don't mean, “I would have been so sad and alone,” I literally mean, “I don't know if I'd still be here,” because longing for attention like that zaps all of your strength, and I probably would have given up. Don't play favorites. There are some really hurting kids out there, and they are usually the ones that won't just come out and tell you.

Youth group taught me that sincere music is a powerful spiritual weapon. It didn't teach me about a whole lot of other spiritual weapons, though. It didn't teach me about fasting, or meditating on scriptures, or serving other people. Most importantly, it didn't teach me that confession is not the same as repentance, and repentance is essential to having spiritual victory. I spent years of my life in a sin-confess-sin-confess cycle, lacking any sort of power over sin because I was never told that I could be free of what bound me.

I'm excited about speaking this weekend. I love that we've been invited to share in ministering to young hearts, but I wanted to take some time to reflect on what it was like for me when I was sitting there on Sunday morning, listening to the missionary guest speaker, and wondering how I could get from where I was as a broken, withdrawn 15 year-old to a passionate, sincere woman.

What are some of the good, bad, or ugly things that youth group taught you?

A Conversation With Annie

      When I approached Annie about this interview, I sensed a lot of hesitation in her voice. She nervously chose the coffee shop that we were to meet in, and gave herself a comfortable week of preparation time. It wasn't until I saw her walk in and step up to the counter to order her drink that I really caught a full glimpse of her anxiety.
       It wasn't the kind of place I would have guessed she'd pick. The art was contemporary, the walls were brick, and the lighting was dark and dramatic. She arrived in clothing that betrayed her usual relaxed style. Her Chuck Taylors had been traded in for knee high boots with a three inch heel. Her hair was curled and set in a side pony-tail. In place of her usual hoodie, she wore a thick scarf draped around her sweater-clad shoulders.

      It seemed as though she desperately wanted to seem more collected than she really was.

      We sat at a table tucked quietly into the back of the cafe. I sipped at my house coffee, and she sat down with a chai tea latte. She eyed my notebook, fiddled with the cardboard sleeve on her cup, and looked around the place with an understated franticness. I decided to jump right in.

      "How are things going?"
      She looked a little relieved, set down her cup, and answered, "They're all right."
      "I wanted to ask you a few questions about the book... about Unvoiced." I said, ignoring the slight pause that planted itself at the end of her answer. She nodded silently, taking a drink of her latte. "How would you describe your years in Clearfield?"
      She thought for a minute. "Quaint." She said at length. "Sometimes, it felt like the only thing that wasn't perfect there was me and what was going on inside of me." She slid the cup's sleeve down and back up again, "I know now that isn't true. But I didn't know it then."
      "What was your reaction to those feelings?" I continued the interview.
      "I guess I let them treat me like the enemy. They waged war on me, and I didn't do a whole lot to stop them. I didn't know how to fight a lie with truth."
       "What truth?"
       Her gray eyes peered past me, as though searching for just the right thing to say. "That nothing is perfect. That I should have been fighting the lies, and not myself."
        My next question snapped her gaze back to me. "Tell me about the self-harm." She locked eyes with me and gave such a slight nod, it was almost unnoticeable.
         "It was..." She paused for a few seconds, grasping for the right term, "It was a slippery slope." She self-consciously traced the deep scars on the palms of her hands-- the same scars that had been there for nearly 14 years now. "It started with scratching my arms until I felt the stinging more than the thing that had driven me to hurt myself. Eventually, I wasn't relieved until I had drawn blood, and with the blood came a sick feeling that would last for days."
          I nodded, knowing exactly what she was talking about. "What pulled you out?"
          She smiled then. It was the first smile I had seen in the span of our meeting. "I guess you'd have to read the book to know the whole story." She wrapped her hands around her cup, absorbing its warmth. Her dark nails glistened from the track lighting above us. "But really, I think it was a combination of things. Someone finally reaching through my wounds to hold onto me, hearing a call to be more than my pain said I had to be, I felt like my pain was finally given a voice, and someone was there to listen. You had it right. I was literally 'pulled out' of it. Someone thought I was worth fighting for."
          I smiled, too. "What would you say your biggest obstacle in overcoming self-harm was?"
          "Internalizing." She said quickly. "I never wanted to get outside of my own head. It turns out that confession and repentance are the only road to healing. You've gotta let it out, otherwise it holds you captive, when it should be held captive by you."
           "So would you consider yourself a recovered self-injurer?"
           "I don't think it's as easy as that." She said. The quiet of the shop was momentarily interrupted by a sudden flow of teenagers, bustling to the counter and shuffling out in a cloud of sweet smelling coffee steam. Turning back to me, she continued, "Saying the word 'recovered self-injurer' makes it sound too much like a medical definition to me. What I experienced was not a medical thing, really. It was so internal. It was so emotional and spiritual... maybe mental, but hardly medical. Does anyone 'recover' from things like that? I don't think I'm recovered. I don't think I'm even recovering, and I know I'm not defined by it. I'm pretty sure I'm just healing. I'm just a girl who was damaged, and who is being healed."
          "So you don't think there's a cure?"
          "Oh, I know there's a cure. It's nail-scarred and reaching out, but I don't think there's a moment of arrival. I don't think that there is a definitive 'I'm good now' moment, at least not in this life."
           "So how do you know you're healing?"
           She smiled again, this time with a soft laugh that seemed to say. I love answering this one. "Even though there's no 'I'm good now' moment in this life, I know one thing... I know that this life is made up of other moments. Healing is when you turn a corner and the majority of your moments are no longer made up of the, 'Where am I going?', 'How did I get here', or 'How do I protect myself?' moments, but they're made up of the recurring moment that whispers, 'My pain doesn't have to define me, because I already know who I am.'"
           It was then that my phone rang, and she got a text reminding her to pick up a few things from the grocery store on her way home. It was short lived, but as I finished my coffee, I was left with the assurance that the novel was not written in vain. What more could a book hope to convey, than the final statement Annie had made?

"My pain doesn't have to define me, because I already know who I am."

[This is a fictional account of a conversation with Annie Larson, the main character from my upcoming novel, Unvoiced. Look for it in early 2013! The photo is a free stock image.]

Challenge Accepted

This is pretty much a copy and paste from my weight loss journal. I wanted to post it here because people actually read it, and I want to invite people to help and join me on any or all of these challenges. Some, I found on Pinterest, and some I made up on my own. I feel like discipline is something I fall short in a lot, and I'm finding that I really do like a good challenge. So, here you are:

Good news: I tried to get into my December-goal jeans, and they almost buttoned. That is awesome, because I set the goal for Christmas, not the beginning of September. I might surpass my goal, guys! That is so exciting! I can't wait to set a new one!

Even though it's going really well, I'm needing a bit more discipline in my life. My schedule is going to start picking up, and I will need a little more resolve to get through the holidays and family gatherings in the next four or five months. So, I'm doing these things that will nourish my mind, body and spirit. I am starting all of them tomorrow, September 10th. Here they are:

My 21 day challenge:

I am cutting out the no peanut butter rule and replacing it with "NO SODA." This challenge is going to be hard because we have about 300 ice cream novelties in our freezer right now. Oh geez. End date: October 1, 2012

My 60 day challenge:

Read 3 books, and write 100 pages in my own novel. End date: November 9, 2012

My 90 day challenge:

Scary, huh? I don't want to do this... so I'm just... going to. 90 days, everyday but Sundays and special occasions, just like my previous rules. End date: December 9, 2012

 My 1 year challenge:

Memorize Colossians in a year from the blog,

I haven't memorized scripture intentionally in a very long time. This will be good for me! End date: September 10, 2013

If you want to join me in any of these, let me know and we can partner up via text, facebook, e-mail, or whatever!

Tree Lessons

Outside my window are the layers of the inner city. Layers of sky, iron, brick, wood, and nature. A red oak tree stands more than three stories tall not even three feet from our balcony. The leaves reach and dance. On sunny days, they stretch out and soak up the sun.

Today, though, a great deal of its leaves are curling in on themselves. There are only two reasons that it would do this... either the tree's going to die, or the sky's going to rain.

It's leaves were curled up like this last night, as well. I watched the weather radar-- watched all of the storms split up and go around our little corner of the city-- but the tree still curled its leaves. It still hoped for rain.

And today, I look at the radar, and I look at the tree. It's the same picture, only more promise of rain. I'm learning a couple of lessons from this old tree.I'm learning that sometimes, when we're all curled up into ourselves, we can remember-- either we're going to die, or it's going to rain. The dead of night is always where my faith falters, when it is so dark that I cannot see a thing, and I begin to doubt that the sun is going to rise again. But, that tree's been around for a really long time. It's grown almost four stories worth of season after season, opening and closing its leaves in hopes of rain. It is considerably more likely that rain, rather than death will come. I'm also learning that hope is not wasted. Hope can't be wasted. Hope is what we were made to do. And, even when our hopes split up and go around us, or someone else gets what we're hoping for, we can still hope.

[P.S.- It's raining now.]

Erosion

Today, I stood on the back porch watching the rain pour down. I thought about going back inside, but the music on my phone and the tiny gifts falling from the sky were too much for me to resist. I found myself grappling with the big lie.. the Big Lie that creeps into my head sometimes, mostly as a question... What if? What if I can't have children?

And the carousel starts to spin. Around and around, up and down, and totally pointless.

Except for today. I was sopping wet. Water dripped from me as if God Himself had taken the form of rain just to hold my hand. My headphones blared as the rain came harder.

“My hands, my feet, my everything. My life, my love, Lord use me.”

The cry of my heart.

It was then that I remembered that not so long ago, my heart had a different cry. It called to God, “Lord, give me this gentle and quiet spirit that You value so highly.” I thought it would be an overnight change. I thought it would be like breaking up with a not-so-good-for-me boyfriend, or deciding to major in literature. I thought it would come quick and easy.

But it hasn't. It couldn't possibly. A gentle, quiet spirit isn't a building up. It's a wearing down. It comes after a long life of constant wrestling and worrying and pounding on the heart of God. It comes when all of your own strength fails beneath your weight and all that is left to do is fall at His feet.

Sarah is the one that 1 Peter 3 was referring to when it spoke of having a “gentle, quiet spirit.” It says that we can be her daughters if we do what is right and do not give way to fear. I am slowly but surely coming to an understanding of why God said this. Fear is the opposite of this spirit. It worries and frets and manipulates and becomes selfish and embittered.

Sarah didn't really have an easy life. She followed her husband, regardless of where God told him to go. She was barren. She waited a long time for her heart's desire of a son... probably more than 70 years. But she believed. She submitted. She might have become jaded and sarcastic at times, but she never threw in the towel. She always pressed forward in faith.

Her trials wore her away. They eroded everything that was not faith. It was those long, steady years of uncertainty, and sometimes pain, that created that gentle, quiet spirit in her. A gentle, quiet spirit that looked at God and said, “Wherever You take us, You are the Lord.”

I asked God to show me what He is doing, and I see... like the blind beggar, I see. He is wearing me down. He's slowly giving me that gentle, quiet spirit that I asked for. He might not be doing it the way I expected, but the only thing for me to do is trust that He is Who He says He is, and He will do what He said He'll do.