The Best Gift My Mother Ever Gave Me

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash

 

“Are you ever afraid that no one will care about what you have to say?”

The question gave me pause, but only in my mind. I answered far too quickly– in such a way that I’m sure seemed arrogant. Honestly? It’s never really occurred to me.  I instantly regretted saying it out loud. I’ve never been accused of being particularly humble, but I am at least aware, even if never soon enough, how my words must sound.

In discussing the pursuit of creativity, the subject of vulnerability had come up. Somehow my intense Brené Brown obsession was not effective in supplying me with the right words at the right time. I knew I had to explain, to offer some kind of encouragement. I couldn’t just sit there on my high horse and wave as we trotted by. Fear of vulnerability? Never heard of it. See ya later! I had to offer a hand, or perhaps hop off and direct traffic toward the stables where the high horses live.

My mind went blank right before I started my own internal shame spiral. Why would I say that? How can that be true? And then it hit me: This is the best gift my mother ever gave me. This thing right here that feels so foreign and scary to so many people: courage. To be vulnerable, to express myself, to be true to myself without much concern for the consequences.

I spoke briefly of my Mom and this gift before heading home, but the idea wouldn’t leave me long after the conversation had ended. It’s been months, actually, and I’ve struggled to wrap my mind around the extent of the effects of this gift that I’ve been given every day for my whole life.

You see, my mom created a world in which I never, ever once had to question my worth, my ideas, or my possibilities. My mother gave me nearly everything but doubt.

I never really wondered if I was beautiful. It hardly ever occurred to me that someone else might not find me attractive. This wasn’t because of some inflated, superficial idea that I was a perfect 10, but rather a constant reminder that my beauty was simply fact, unalterable and simultaneously unimportant. I have zero recollection of my mother ever commenting on the materialistic importance of my appearance or anyone else’s for that matter. She wasn’t very concerned with the clothes or accessories that I wore. She didn’t teach me much in the way of makeup, and almost never divulged any essential beauty secrets, except perhaps the occasional reminder to moisturize. She didn’t comment on my weight or hers, mostly. She would have been perfectly content to leave my unibrow unwaxed or my shirt on inside out, for I was still, according to her, a glorious sight to behold. I didn’t think to ask anyone else.

I never really wondered if I was smart enough or good enough. My mother never asked for my report card, urged me to study, or pressured me to practice. I did as well as I wanted to at whatever I was interested in, and thankfully, I wanted to do well in all things. Excellence was not a price that I had to pay for affirmation and encouragement or leisure and freedom. My attempts were not measured– I was immeasurably loved.

I never really wondered if my ideas were worth spreading or my desires worth pursuing. It didn’t occur to me that others wouldn’t be interested in what I had to say. Literally nothing seemed impossible or unachievable. I was never discouraged from speaking up or held back from trying. My mother didn’t try to lay my path or even pick out the bricks that would line it. Instead, she tore down every obstacle and impediment within her reach, 360 degrees around the foundation of her love, where I started my journey.

My mother is not perfect, and I am not totally immune to self-consciousness and fear. It’s worth noting that there’s even a bit of a catch to this unending uplifting and affirming: the rest of the world isn’t always on board. And while rejection or dismissal or even perceived failure is initially confounding and frustrating, I am forever grateful for the resilience that comes from knowing that these disappointing experiences are no reflection of me or any indication of my value. My mother gave me that– that firm foundation, that place to come back to, that idea to rest in, that default state of courage.

And perhaps the most astounding part of it all is that my mother, a bit like a little southern lady who stocks up on QVC throughout the year, always, always has this gift to share at the perfect moment. It is her legacy, and it’s got me thinking about how I can carry it on.

Courage comes from believing you’re worthy– of love, of happiness, of a voice. I don’t quite know how people figure this out– this thing that’s really true of all of us— if they’re not constantly reminded in everything that they do for all of their formative years. Life has revealed to me that most people weren’t, so I don’t take this gift for granted. But I would like to think about how I can give it away more often. After all, I’m not very concerned that I’ll run out of it any time soon.

I love you, Mom. I know you’re reading this. Thank you.

The Path of Ambition

Photo by Paula May on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, my mom sent me a video of my 18-month-old nephew that struck a weird chord in me. Mom keeps him while my sister and her husband work, so it’s not uncommon for me to get surprised with adorable pictures and videos throughout the day, but something about this particular video gave me pause. One look would tell you he was just playing– moving rocks back and forth, doing baby things that babies do. A closer look, however, would reveal that he was hard at work, seemingly knowing exactly what he was doing. Which was essentially nothing… but don’t tell him that.

One of my favorite things about my nephew and children in general is that I get to observe the way they navigate the world and compare it to the way I attempt to navigate my own. Sometimes it’s vastly different, given my (mostly?) fully formed brain, mastery of language, and general life experience. Other times, it’s strangely similar. And some other times still, it’s not similar at all but I wish it were.

I watched my nephew hustling, running around in circles, and I saw myself. His passion and focus were inspiring, but what was he actually accomplishing? My nephew is a baby, so his imaginary, nonsensical playtime is perfectly normal, but it made me examine my own life and begin to wonder, in what ways am I nonsensically striving? How often does it appear that I’m hard at work, when in reality, I don’t even know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it? And what good is Ambition without direction?

I’ve long considered myself to be a girl who knows what she wants. I got my brown eyes from my mama and my curly hair from my daddy, but I inherited a whopping serving of Ambition from both sides. Ambition is good, but its not-so-distant cousins, Competitiveness and Perfectionism, have a tendency to show up when that girl who thought she knew what she wanted forgets what she wants… which happens more often than she’d like.

I am not the originator of the word and therefore its definition is probably not up to me, but I’ve decided that Ambition requires direction or else it’s not Ambition. Ambition is about who you are, what you [uniquely] can do for the world, and where you will go to do it. On the other hand, Competitiveness and Perfectionism are about who you think you’re supposed to be, regardless of what you’re doing or where you’re going. If Ambition is a well-laid path, Competitiveness and Perfectionism are, at best, stumbling blocks, and at worst, malfunctioning GPS systems that lead you nowhere, or perhaps to a place you don’t even want to be.

Occasionally, as I’m strutting down my path of Ambition, I catch a glimpse of something I could do. Or I stumble upon an opportunity that somewhat interests me. And for some reason, my ego lights up at a chance to prove herself, even if it means delaying or straying from my truest and most honorable desires.

Ambition doesn’t latch on to every nearby opportunity. Ambition doesn’t have to climb every corporate ladder. Ambition doesn’t need to be in charge to be effective. Ambition requires direction. Even if you’re not totally sure where it will take you. Ambition requires context– it is attached to a meaningful pursuit.

Mistaking Competitiveness and Perfectionism as Ambition makes for a life of unfulfilling accomplishment. It is why many successful people are still not satisfied. Achieving via means of Competitiveness or Perfectionism may equal success, but achieving via means of Ambition equals joy.

This shift in thinking has helped me to distinguish between the energy I exert on fruitless pursuits of the ego and the energy I put toward my long-term goals. It’s helped me to consider the bigger picture when I find myself leading just to lead, or achieving just to achieve. It’s helped me to recognize Competitiveness and Perfectionism for what they really are: fear.

Ambition is a virtue. It’s an honor to have. And it’s a big, fat finger in the face of fear. So when you find a moment to take a break from your hustle, consider where you are on your own path of Ambition– if you’ve taken a detour, or gotten caught at a stumbling block. Perhaps you’re navigating it well, or chilling at a rest stop, or maybe you haven’t even left the house yet (even though you just told your friend you were on the way). In any case, thanks for hanging as I work through these ideas. I’m excited to be writing again as I’m hopping back on my path after a prolonged stint at a rest stop. I hope you find my introspection to be thoughtful, helpful, or at the very least, charming.

Blissful Ignorance

This morning as I drove to work, I saw a pretty typical thing happen on 75: a big SUV swerved out of an exit lane and back onto the interstate only to swerve immediately back into the exit lane and… you know, exit. I wasn’t the unfortunate soul directly behind this car, so I wasn’t directly affected, but I did notice that I had a pretty swift and harsh reaction to the swerve. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS IDIOT DOING?” I thought out loud. Another thought came so quickly it almost interrupted my original reaction: “This person is probably just confused. Actually, I have no idea what is happening in that car.”

I was taken aback by the shift in perspective. It really felt like I was experiencing the whole angel/devil shoulder thing. It seemed perfectly normal for me to make a bunch of negative assumptions about the driver, but the fact that I stopped myself so quickly made me feel like an alien. It was like slapping myself in the face… with a big fat handful of grace. Who am I? I have started meditating in the mornings. Or maybe it’s the new multi-vitamin?

It reminded me of a few of years ago when I (mistakenly) thought another car was going to let me over when I found myself in a left turn only lane. Instead, I was forced back into my lane because the car behind me started speeding up. Half a mile later, after another car showed me some kindness (or more likely was texting and didn’t realize he could go), I landed at a dead stop right beside the car that rushed me, because Atlanta. It was a beautiful day, so I had the windows down. I noticed the car next to me, but stared straight ahead like the non-confrontational little lady that I am. My arch enemy, however, decided this was a fine time to roll her window down and let me know that I was a “BITCH!” I rolled my window up as my little 18 year old heart sank. I’ll never forget thinking how strange it was that she would react like that. If only she had known that I had just misunderstood– that it wasn’t intentional, and I wasn’t a bitch… Ok, I’m probably a bitch, but not for that!

This morning made me think about how much easier life would be if we didn’t jump to angry conclusions the second someone swerves in front of us. What if our initial reactions to another person’s weird behavior weren’t always “She must be a bitch” or “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS IDIOT DOING?” What if we didn’t take everything so personally? What if we didn’t assume that the client breathing down our necks is inherently evil and out to get us? Or that the person who hasn’t responded to our text message hates us? She’s probably feeding her kids, or walking her dog, or at the gym, or, like, pooping. Although I find the bathroom to be the perfect place for catching up on text messages… but to each her own.

Who knows why people do the things they do? We can humbly and intentionally choose ignorance, and we aren’t dumb for doing it. We’re probably fuller, yet lighter, and a lot better rested.

Sure, some people suck and some people just straight up don’t like us, but I’d be willing to bet that 90% of the assumptions we’re making aren’t true at all. It’s not that hurtful or dangerous behavior is okay, but here’s the thing: there’s nothing we can do about someone else’s hurtful or dangerous behavior. We only have control over how we react to it, and I can tell you from personal experience (okay, one singular personal experience that occurred nearly 14 hours ago) that spiking down the assumption and moving on makes you feel like freakin’ Mother Teresa. Or at least that’s how it makes me feel. One ninja assumption chop and I’m practically a wise, old bird, sitting at the top of a tree and shitting grace all over everythang… Okay I’ll stop…

It feels good. And I tried my best to carry that Mother Teresa swag into the rest of my day. And I failed. But I’m gonna try again tomorrow, and I hope if you’ve made it this far, you’ll try with me. And if you haven’t made it this far (why am I writing this sentence cause you’re not even reading it), that’s cool, and I won’t assume you hate me or my writing. Also, how would I ever know? I guess ignorance really is bliss.

 

Right Now

I’ve been learning a lot as I’ve transitioned into [faux] adulthood over the last couple of years. One lesson in particular keeps showing up, reminding me that growing older is often just a matter of unlearning all the things you once knew to be true. The longer you’ve carried a belief, an idea, or an attitude, the harder it is to peel off as you break the mold of who you were and step into who you’re becoming.

So what have I been unlearning lately? The idea that decisions have to be made now, that situations must be rectified now, that shit must get figured out now. The idea itself once served me well. It probably made me better, faster, stronger at one point, but now I find that it holds me back. It brings anxiety, and often, helplessness and hopelessness– the temperature at which depression’s bacteria grows quickest.

I remember as a child and a teenager having doubts and questions about my faith. Hell, I’ve still got doubts and questions– probably more than I did then. At that point, however, an urgency would rise up in me to solve the issue immediately. It came from this [not terribly helpful] teaching of “if you died today, where would you spend eternity?”. This really popular hand-raising-now-i’m-saved tactic instilled in me an idea that I didn’t have time to let questions linger in the air above me. I had to get it together or burn in hell. I had to assume that my time was limited.

The problem is, most important things in life leave us with a lot of questions to be answered, and we might spend our entire lives answering them. Even when we think we’ve got it, we’ll find out later that we don’t, and we’ve still got so much to learn. That’s not to say that we should avoid making major decisions, but we’ve got to be willing to accept the reality that life is ever-changing, and few things are final. Even contracts are revisited and commitments are amended by shifting winds or selfish hearts. Things change. We change.

I’ve avoided committed romantic relationships for literally all of my [faux] adulthood until recently. The minute I found something I didn’t just love about someone, I ended it, because of the mindset that every decision was final and every decision needed to be made now. I can’t tell you how happy I am that my boyfriend happened to be passing by at a time in my life where I am finding the freedom to enjoy what is currently working. I understand that there might come a time when it doesn’t work anymore, and I have a peace about that. *DISCLAIMER* I am not suggesting that we flail about our lives like those giant things in front of car dealerships every time the wind changes. Please don’t go home and divorce your husband.

Commitments are important. They’re a necessary part of adulting, and thankfully, they can be really fulfilling. But part of adulting is deciding what kind of commitments you’re ready to make, and pushing through the fear and anxiety that come with them because you know it’s worth it. My point is, I’ve long carried fear and anxiety into every (somewhat) consequential decision of my life. And it’s not always worth it.

Losing sleep over boyfriends or classes or spring breaks or jobs or friends or Friday night plans is just not worth it for me anymore. It might be, at some point, but today, it’s okay if I don’t have it figured out by morning. It’s okay if we go to sleep mad at each other. It’s okay if things are awkward for a little while. It’s okay if I mess up. It’s okay if you mess up.

This instant that you grace the Earth’s surface is your entire life, and you have the privilege of using each fleeting second to figure out the questions hanging in the air above you. It’s a paradox. We must find comfort and peace in the fact that we have all the time in the world, but our world won’t last forever. We have all the time in the world to figure it out, but our pain and confusion and discomfort won’t last forever. Things will change. We will change. Things will get better. Things will get worse. We will get better. We will get worse.

But I bet we will get better again if we remember that our lives are not a series of puzzles to put together each week. Our lives aren’t daily to-do lists. They’re unfinished masterpieces that we work on a little each day. And sometime’s we don’t. Sometimes we Netflix and chill instead. And sometimes we spill wine on our masterpieces and have to figure out how to make even that look beautiful. Or someone tears a piece off for themselves, and we have to decide if it’s worth it to hunt them down and get that piece back or just find something shiny to take its place. Our lives will even end as unfinished masterpieces. If we must make any hasty decisions right this second, maybe we could decide to be more gentle with ourselves and with others. Maybe we could give a little more grace as we just keep adding beautiful things to our lives as they come, and give even more grace as they go.

Small Town, USA: I Owe You An Apology

I never felt comfortable in my home town. It never quite felt like home. My skin would crawl when I had been there too long, and my heart seemed to ache for all the places I had never been… but never for home.

As a teenager, I was terrified of getting trapped in my small town. I thought small towns were for people with small dreams, small talent, and small wallets. I made sure that no one and nothing could tie me to the quiet mountains I was taking for granted.

I think I subconsciously maintained that attitude for years, but as visiting there becomes more of a rarity, my reasoning for getting out has changed. I realize now that Small Town, USA can’t provide the occupational opportunities that I’m both skilled at and passionate about. In fact, there are days that I wish it could, and I’m beginning to understand that there is nothing wrong with that place, and there’s nothing wrong with the people that live there.

I went to church with my mom this weekend. When I got there, my eyes immediately found the back of the head of the only boy who’s pull on my heart has ever been strong enough for me to even day-dream about a future together. My heart stopped beating in a way that was unexpected and completely new to me. I was knocked breathless, and in my search for oxygen, all I could see were these twenty-something married couples who were praising Jesus like they really believed in him and smiling like it had never occurred to them that they were settling… because they weren’t. I was astounded because I was jealous. I was angry at myself for my own choices, but also for my own judgement of these people.

The pastor began preaching on “how we can know the Bible is reliable.” As soon as I heard the subject, I kind of tuned out. Anyone that knows me knows I consider myself to be a spiritual person in relationship with Jesus, but I don’t find apologetics to be useful in matters of faith, because there is simply no way of convincing anyone that the giant book that contradicts itself in a few places and contradicts science in a bunch of other places (depending on your interpretation) is “reliable.” Not to mention the fact that Old Testament God and New Testament God seem like completely different beings. I’m not here to slam Christians and the Bible in general, but what I’m saying is, I have questions. I have doubts. And I’m sure the citizens of my home town do, too, but I’ve chosen a life in which I have to answer those tough questions because people are asking. I’ve chosen a career in which I have to justify my beliefs, because people are skeptical. I know it’s not easy anywhere in this world, and I guess I have a grass-is-greener mentality to a degree. I don’t have the privilege of, for the most part, being surrounded by like-minded people. I am more often surrounded by people who make me doubt than I am people who encourage my faith. And that doesn’t make me better or stronger, but it’s something I rarely dealt with at home. It’s different. Here I am, jealous again, because I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’d have more peace if I had stayed.

I wasn’t even to the car before the tears were dripping off my chin. I had left before I had the chance to attack that curly-headed boy with a marriage proposal. I think it would have gone something like this:

Hey, I know I exploded on you for treating me badly a few months ago, but I’ve been thinking, and I’d like to quit everything I’ve been working for my entire life and get married instead. To you. And you can work. And I can blog and take care of my dog– our dog. What’s mine is yours. Whaddya say? 

Because what if picking a mate for life isn’t settling so much as it is having someone promise to stick with you through the shit that is imminent?

What if staying in your small town isn’t settling so much as it embracing a peace that only comes from being surrounded by your tribe?

I’m not saying I’m gonna drop everything to go back home and give up on what I feel is my purpose. I rode that emotion out, and I still landed in 30308. I’m just saying that the people at home have a purpose, too, and maybe their path to fulfilling it has a different terrain than mine– with its unique advantages and disadvantages. It might be quiet and less crowded, but there’s an incline I don’t have to deal with while I wait behind a billion other cars whose drivers are flipping me off. That path leads to somewhere. God, forgive me for ever thinking it didn’t. Help me to trust that I’m on the right path, and please, let that path take a detour to the mountains every once in a while.

I’m writing.

I don’t really feel like writing, but here I am, and I’m writing. I haven’t written in months, so I’ll go ahead and apologize to my inner circle for having to listen to all the words that have been falling out of my mouth instead of making their way gracefully from my brain to my Macbook. I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like writing. But I’m writing anyway.

I’d love to say that my months of silence were the result of busy success and other fulfillment, but the last few months, though very exciting, have been a lot of me just having nothing to say. I’ve not done a ton of creative consuming, and I haven’t done much creative producing either. I wouldn’t dare suggest that what I’ve been going through recently is a direct result of not writing, but I imagine writing would help. So here I am. Writing. Even though I don’t feel like writing.

My mom knows me so well. When my internal downward spiral began she asked, “Have you been writing?” No. Why? It recently hit me like a ton of bricks. I was created to create. Made in the image of God, the ultimate creator, part of my purpose is to create, and when I’m not creating, I’m missing a huge part of who I was made to be. We’re not all writers. We’re not all “creative” types, with the connotations that go along, but we are all made in the image of God with the purpose of creating something meaningful in this temporary life we’ve been given. I’ve been stuck. I haven’t been moving forward. I haven’t been creating at all– not screenplays, not blogs, not music, not relationships, not paths to walk along with hope and purpose in this world. This idea got me thinking… If the power of creativity brings us closer to the original creation we are, what else brings us closer?

As I enter into this stage of emerging adulthood, I’m constantly reminded of myself as a child, maybe because I still feel like one. But I’m not the little weirdo that I used to be. Still weird, but lacking in a joy that used to come so easily. I can’t help but wonder if maybe we’re the closest we’ll ever be to God’s initial creation when we’re children. Innocent and hopeful, open and excited. Naked and unashamed.

I’m all about knowledge. I’m a self-described nerd, full of both extremely useful and utterly useless information. Knowledge is power. But is power joy? Were we created for power, or were we created for joy? Before you make any assumptions about my ideas concerning education legislation, understand that I’m talking about personal fulfillment, and thriving in a broken world– not shunning the knowledge and tools that have helped us to survive thus far, but in our personal lives, seeking joy over power. Going back to a mindset that wasn’t shaped around what we had learned to be right or wrong. Where we were more concerned with simply making a new friend and not controlling the people around us. Where we felt secure that our needs would be met even though we somehow knew we couldn’t meet those needs ourselves. Where we yearned to create. Where we weren’t concerned with comparisons because there wasn’t yet a bar set for “normalcy.”

I remember moments like those. I remember a little girl who shot hoops in the driveway and didn’t care if she missed, or if anyone saw her miss. A little girl who wrote songs she though might finally end racism once and for all in her rural north Georgia town. A little girl who practiced monologues in front of her mirror for hours without even considering if that boy in homeroom had texted her. Why did an 11 year old have a cell phone? The world may never know. But I miss that girl.

So I’m writing. I’m creating whether people are watching or not. I don’t really feel like it. But I’m writing.

Stay

The first thing I do when something new begins in my life is slap a big fat expiration date on it. I guess it’s not always big and fat. Sometimes I scribble it on the back out of sheer habit, but other times I pull out the label maker and use the large print. I’m not quite sure why I do this. I suppose it might have to do with the lack of commitment I have observed or been taught to practice. It’s all been temporary– the step father will leave, the basketball season will end, the show (after it goes on NO MATTER WHAT) will come to a close, the boy will realize that I’m __________ (choose one: a) selfish b)crazy c)selfish d) indifferent e) selfish). This, too, shall pass. And that. And that.

I have a hard time committing to things. What most people typically see as well-roundedness, I acknowledge is flakiness. Why yes, I did give every single sport offered in my county a go. If ever something was out of my comfort level or interest, it was likely that I would just quit. And if I couldn’t just quit, there was the assurance that this semester, this school year, this season would end soon.

Looking back, many of my fondest memories, experiences, and relationships occurred within a month or less. Maybe two. In high school, I would decide within one week of dating someone when exactly I would break up with them. There was never a question of if. Ifs break your heart. Whens make your heart harder, and at 16, hard is often mistaken for strong. I would sometimes laugh out loud when my mother would suggest promotion possibilities at summer jobs. That’s the point, Mom. It’s a summer job. Three months tops. I knew the first week of arriving at college that I did not want to be at that school. Unlike boys, colleges are much more difficult to break up with. I moved the next semester.

I make decisions pretty quickly. I don’t typically sleep on things. My history with college and my history with romantic interests are shockingly similar. It’s embarrassing how often I change/add/drop a major. If I realize later that I made the wrong choice, I can always rectify the situation. I’ve essentially built my life around the idea that I can get out of almost anything, and if I can’t for some reason, it will eventually end and I can start over fresh. This idea didn’t seem that problematic until I realized that my college, romantic, athletic, extracurricular, occupational, and friendship history all mirror my spiritual history and the way that I walk (or run away from) God.

I’m currently in a season of running away. I wouldn’t exactly call it running away. But I guess you could say it’s like when my mom is trying to tell me something as she is walking out of the room. Or maybe it’s more like when my mom is trying to tell me something and I gradually start walking out of the room (as if I’m going to begin doing what she asked me to do, but instead I just go lay on the couch). A little bit of both, maybe? But on the rare occasions that I’ve managed to turn around, one word has been planted in my heart and it just won’t leave me: stay.

I don’t know how to stay. I keep thinking that if I run far enough– if I make it all the way to the edge, it will scare me enough to come running back. I keep thinking that if I make it all the way to rock bottom, when all I have is God, maybe then I’ll come back and stay with him. Maybe if I ignore him he will ignore me, and then I’ll realize that I need him. But it’s not working that way. He’s calling like a lovesick teenager and leaving voicemail after voicemail of blessings upon blessings. It almost makes me mad. If my favor is not contingent upon my performance, why the hell does my behavior even matter? Why torture my shameful heart with undeserved blessings? If this continues, I’ll think I can get away with all of this without ever committing to a life WITH you, God. Why haven’t you just forsaken me?

I’m reminded of Jesus on the cross asking the opposite question. “Why have you forsaken me?” And I imagine at that moment Jesus’s heart was invaded by the image of my face and yours and every face that had ever and would ever grace the Earth as he heard God say “So that I can stay with them.”

Why haven’t you forsaken me?
Because I’m gonna stay with you. Because I have loved you with an everlasting love. Because my mercy and grace don’t have an expiration date. Because what you’ve seen and been taught isn’t how it has to be. I’m staying. Stay.

I don’t even know what staying means. But maybe it means not hiding in the darkness behind a Netflix laden screen. Maybe it means not running directly away from God and directly to the first quick fix. Maybe it means just acknowledging his presence even in the places I don’t particularly want him.

He’s the only one that’s never left. He’s the only one I’ve never truly been able to leave. And boy, have I tried. I’ve walked away and into such darkness so many times, searching for a door that I’ve never been able to find. All I’ve found is pain and shame and loneliness and doubt…until I somehow wander back into the light and start over. It seems like I’m always starting over.

Stay. Just stay in the light where you can see me. I can always see you. Stay where you can see me. You don’t have to run away after one step back. You don’t have to keep trying to start over. Just stay. Be still. Literally. And know that I am God. 

To Be Chosen

“Somebody raise a silent hand and tell me–” FIVE BILLION HANDS IN THE AIR. Okay, maybe not five billion. But a solid 87% of the little ones at the summer theatre camp I work at will volunteer to answer a question before they even know what the question is. This baffled me when I first started working there, but I think after several weeks, I’ve realized why children are so likely to raise an eager hand for literally anything. They’re desperate to be chosen. No matter the question, no matter the possibility of failure or rejection, they are begging to hear someone say their name. Maybe I’m reading a little too far into this, but I can’t help but feel like situations in my own life lead me back to the idea that from the beginning, all we have ever really wanted is to be chosen. 

I’m realizing this in my own life not because I recognize an eagerness or voluntary spirit, but rather because I’m noticing the extent to which I go in order to not be chosen. That’s contradictory, isn’t it? If from the beginning, we were made to desire to be chosen, why would I find myself actively avoiding the call of my name? Because it makes perfect sense to me that over time, my initial childlike desires would be distorted and damaged by this world. It makes sense to me that after bravely raising a hand and being wrong ten thousand times, I might stop raising that hand. It makes sense that after hearing peers talk about plans I’m not invited to, I would eventually just decline even if I was invited, so that I could seem as though I’ve been busy all along. It makes sense that after saying “I pick you, I want you,” and being told “You’re a burden, I don’t want you,” I would stop choosing others and asking them to choose me. And it doesn’t matter how many times I got it right, or how many times I was invited, or how many times I was straight up chosen, because the voice that lives inside your head doesn’t remind you of your victories. It doesn’t tell you that you’re chosen. If you want to remember that, you’ve got to do that all on your own. And I’m assuming that takes time.

It’s as if we think that if we never throw our hat into the ring, the prospect of not being chosen will sting less. If we count ourselves out, no one can not count us. If we reject ourselves, we can’t be rejected. If we punish ourselves, no one else can. But here’s the thing… I still want to be chosen. And I can’t be chosen if I don’t make myself an option. An option that will likely be ignored, unheard, unseen, undervalued, underestimated… Or an option that will be cherished, appreciated, admired, chosen. It’s not about raising a hand and volunteering anymore. It’s not about conforming to the kind of person that is typically chosen. It’s not about desperately trying to be a person’s “someone.” It’s about being open, uniquely yourself, and available to be chosen when someone sees you and thinks, “You. I want you. Specifically. Uniquely. You.” I bet that’s happened for you before. It’s happened for me. I forget about that a lot of the time, but it has happened. I don’t know who didn’t choose you. But I bet someone chose you at least once. Maybe it was a parent or a boy or a casting director or a friend or maybe, if you’d like to believe it, the Creator of the Universe. To forget those times when you’ve been chosen is dishonoring to whomever chose you. So hold onto that when you’re considering counting yourself out. 

Genuine Generosity

I’d like to be the kind of person that gives without conditions, expectations, or ultimatums. I understand that the desire to give and the desire to receive are something of a package deal, but sometimes I find myself giving only in the hopes that I will get a return. I don’t really think that’s giving. I think that’s “generous” manipulating. Now I’m realizing how sexual this probably reads. That’s not really what I meant, but hell, I guess it’s applicable.

If you watch Parks and Rec, think back to when April and Andy were first getting together. If you don’t watch Parks and Rec, get outta my lyfe. At the Harvest Festival, April tells Andy that she loves him, and his response? “Awesome sauce.” Or something like that. April is upset, as anyone in the world would be, because baring your soul to someone without favorable reciprocation sucks. Everyone knows that, and that knowledge festers a fear that keeps most of us from being transparent, genuine, honest people.

So much of the giving we do is contingent upon whether or not we will see a return. Because a lot of us only open up when we know that the other person will too. Because many of us don’t want to give unless it’s tax deductible. Because we can’t serve without Instagramming the experience so that everyone can see how generous we are. Because sometimes we help friends only because we know they will feel morally obligated to help us when we need it. Is that you? I know it’s me. I know that as humans, we have generous hearts. We have hearts that want to give, and we often succeed in that giving. But we also have fearful minds. And desperate egos.

So how do we get past that? How do we fearlessly share? How do we boldly give? How do we selflessly serve? In my experience, I’ve found that I am most genuinely generous with my heart, my time, my talents, and my money when I a) ignore the voice in my head that says I have to have the power in the situation and b) remember that I am dearly loved, protected, and blessed.

The Principle of Least Interest tells us that the power belongs to the one who cares less. This is what holds us back. This is what tells us that we have to play hard to get. This is what stops us from giving freely, lest we lose the upper hand. If I tell you I love you, even though I do, I am throwing the ball into your court. You may very well take that ball and chuck it at my face, so maybe I’ll just keep that to myself. If I give you my heart, what if you break it? If I give you my time, what if you waste it? If I give you my money, what if I don’t have enough anymore? Giving makes us vulnerable, and most of us don’t like to be vulnerable because vulnerable is awkward. But awkward is genuine.

Even as a “fatherless child,” I never hurt for attention. I was deeply loved and cared for, and I still am. So my deep, ridiculous need for love and attention is alarming because I know there are so many people roaming this Earth that have never been loved as well as I have. I can only imagine the fear that genuine generosity stirs in those who were never shown affection or protection. To give is to risk, and to risk is terrifying when you haven’t been given much. It’s pretty terrifying even when you have been given much. So many of us just don’t. Consider the hurt that breeds from selfishness and lack of generosity. Hurt people hurt people, as Mama always says. I can’t tell you I love you first because if you don’t say it back, I will feel unloved. I can’t give you my money because times are hard and I have to protect myself because I don’t feel secure. I can’t help you because I need help. It always comes back to me. And even when I push past those fears and give, it still sometimes comes back to me. But when I trust that I am loved, I am protected, I am valued, I am blessed, I can give without fear.

Genuine generosity is a matter of laying down our pride, picking up our value, and knowing that we have love and time and money and talents to spare. I don’t know how you find that value. I find it in Jesus, and in the way Mama believes in me, and in the way my friends laugh at my jokes. But you have to find it. Because I’ll bet your worth is more than you need. Share it sincerely.

When You Stop Believing In God

I cried a lot on Thursday. I cried in my therapy session, I cried on the bus, I cried in the Target parking lot, I cried in the car on the way to work, and then I got in a big hurry and I forgot to cry the rest of the evening. I think I met my tear quota and I should be good for the rest of the year. We won’t blame these tears on the crazy things happening in my uterus at the time. These tears are much too important to be dismissed as lady business, but I’m pretty positive that the hateful river of blood pouring out of me didn’t help the situation. I was having the most serious identity crisis I had ever had. It was as if each drop of everything I had ever believed was forming puddles in the corners of my eyes and falling to the ground. Well, not the ground. That’s absurd. My boobs would never let that happen. Falling on my chest, then, and weighing heavy on my heart.

The past few weeks have been some of the most exciting and strangely challenging of my life. I think I say that every few weeks, and though it’s exhausting, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never want to stop changing and evolving and growing. I never want to be too comfortable. And God, my wish was granted this week.

I’m someone with mommy issues. You’d think with a dead daddy, I’d have daddy issues. And I do, but they pale in comparison to my mommy issues. I mean, how do you really have issues with someone you don’t know? The issue with my mother is that she is my everything. My dependence on my mother has gone far beyond the natural, physical dependence that a child has on his or her mother– it’s been a deeply emotional dependence that most people grow out of after, oh, I don’t know, infancy. I was, at one time, so very emotionally dependent on my mother that I couldn’t function without her constant attention and communication. I begged and prayed for God to make me a normal young adult that was independent in an emotionally healthy way, and I believed that after some time, he had answered those prayers… Until my best friend in the world fell off the face of the Earth for two weeks. Although this was something I had never experienced before, I recognized a very familiar feeling, and it seemed to me as though my prayers hadn’t really been answered, but that I had just shifted from dependence on my mother to dependence on my best friend because of proximity. Key words being “it seemed to me as though my prayers hadn’t really been answered.” That phrase was planted in my mind, and after a couple busy weeks of treating God like an old high school friend that I swear I’m gonna text before the end of the week, the phrase had grown into a belief.

When it comes to old high school friends, I have a tendency to contact them only when I’m reminded of some magical teenage experience we shared. There are some that are more prevalent on my heart, but the vast majority of people I used to spend time with are really only worth talking to when something random makes me remember how happy they used to make me. I was treating God like an old high school friend, and as if that’s not problematic enough, every time I remembered how happy he used to make me, all the mountains he had moved for me, every blessing he’d poured out, that phrase kept crashing into my memories like the Kool-aid dude, but instead of saying “OH YEAH,” he’d say “maybe your prayers were never really answered.” Can you imagine how awkward that commercial would be? Maybe I had just shifted an issue, an idol to another place. I kept finding evidence that supported this idea, and what that meant was that everything I had ever believed had been a lie. Issue after issue, idol after idol, I kept tripping over things that I thought were behind me, tripping over chains I thought I was free from.

When I confessed it out loud, when I admitted that maybe I didn’t believe in God anymore, I immediately felt five billion times worse. I can’t even begin to describe the utter emotional and physical sickness that almost incapacitated me. I expected to feel relief. I expected to be at peace, embracing who I was, but what I realized was that I couldn’t embrace that person as myself because that wasn’t me. Because God is me in and I am in him.

“Why can’t you find meaning and purpose in your life apart from this… thing? Why can’t you find meaning and purpose in your relationships or your art or the things that you learn?” My best friend was trying to help. At the time, I had no words. I had no idea. I had nothing to say, but I knew that I couldn’t. “Why can’t you find it in your relationship with me?” Still nothing. Relationships and art and learning are my favorite things. Why couldn’t I just find meaning in that apart from God without feeling sick? I can’t find my purpose in that because it’s not enough. So many people will let that be enough for them, but it’s not enough for me. Because people, even the ones I love the most and who love me the most, are selfish. They disappear for weeks or they marry men that hate you, and I’m even more selfish than that. And art? It’s subjective. It’s a labor of love, but I will never be pleased with my own. And the things that I learn change every day. Things I was once sure of are things that I can no longer believe, and I’ve never had such a hard time parting with something I once swore to be true. I know what it feels like to find meaning and purpose in life. I know what’s enough. Why would I walk away from that?

After some time to think, I had a much more thoughtful (I mean seriously, my brain was not so tired that I couldn’t form thoughts) conversation with another friend, younger than I but wise beyond her years. After some of her words of wisdom and understanding I said “I just hope that I can come out on the other side of this and be better for it.” I’m still praying for that. I’ve made it through the worst, but I know it’s not over, and that’s okay. I think one of the most paralyzing feelings I recognized as I considered breaking up with the creator of the universe was comfort. Not peace, not rest, but comfort, which is something I run from. My biggest fears include, but are not limited to, bumblebees, pickles, wobbly sewer cover things on sidewalks, and settling. One of my favorite things about life with God was an inexplicable peace, but a constant discomfort– a desire to never stop growing and changing and being better. And it wasn’t because I thought I would earn God’s favor by being better, and it wasn’t because I hated myself and wanted to change. It was because I was excited to become a little bit more like Jesus every day, and I never stopped searching myself for pieces I could tweak to look more like him. When I started to walk away from God, I felt comfortable, but restless. There was no peace, but I seemed to be okay with that. It was terrifying.

“What are you so afraid of? Going to hell?” my best friend asked. No. I’m not afraid of going to hell. I’m afraid of waking up without Jesus because God didn’t send Jesus so that we could get heaven. God sent us Jesus for this very second. We could’ve kept offering burnt sacrifices. It would have been hard, nearly impossible maybe, but we could have still gotten heaven. I’m afraid of waking up in the morning without Jesus because he is LIFE.