Author: Sam

The weekend the protests began, all I wanted to do was make plans-lots of them-to distract myself from the noise of the world and let’s be honest, being alone and over-thinking on this insidious evil that has no easy answers.

I didn’t have my little one to care for, she was with her dad, so I had the luxury of time. But something kept telling me not to fill my schedule and to embrace the alone. To lean into the pain of our country and the mounting tension in my own heart.

So I tried to re-frame it positively, “it’s like a spiritual retreat for your soul, Sam.”

Whatever…it sounded daunting.

And so it begins…I wake up at 4:00am and grab my pile of books and Bible.

This weekend my focus is on shame. Shame within me and shame within us all. I watch the news and I feel shame for being white. If I protest I feel like a traitor to the quarantine. I feel scared and sad for all those diminished by racism AND all the good cops diminished by police brutality. I sense there is some unspoken litmus test on social media regarding all this. If you don’t say something you are bad. But what if you get it wrong? Then you are bad too. I want to put my flag on my patio and tell everyone to just be kind and get along but I’m scared to put my flag on the patio because I read online that people are targeting homes in Ladera with flags. It’s like a shame fear fest multilplied 10x by CNN.

Shame is always there lurking in the corners and stalking us. And it’s something that keeps coming up and festering in my heart.

I was out with a new friend the other day and they were asking me hard relational questions that I didn’t really want to answer. Inadvertently, they struck my shame wound and I emotionally shut down. The silence was painful.

All of a sudden this tidal wave of yuck rolled over me and tossed me into a place of heart racing mini-panic. I felt like I was back in 4th grade pummeled off my boogie board by the pounding surf in HB—so disoriented I didn’t know which end was ass up.

In that terrible awful moment my body tensed up and I wanted to vomit. Fortunately, I was at least self-aware enough to know that the revulsion was a shame spiral and not the taco.

I knew I needed to get to the root of it. So this weekend was a search and destroy type of journey. My plan was come back with only half the stuff I started out with.

Around 8:00am, after consuming two large cups of coffee, I head out for a hike armed with a 90 minute podcast on shame. Right before I leave, I pray for God to speak to me on this journey.

When I round the corner after crossing Antonio, this tree stops me dead in my tracks.

It’s like an “atta girl” someone left just for me. Seriously? Thank you Lord.

As I walk I listen to the podcast.

And I get unraveled.

Oh my goodness y’all… if you listen to anything, listen to this. It’s long and it takes a bit to get into but then it hits like a mack truck. I can’t tell you how much this impacted me. I literally burst into tears on a sidewalk in Ladera and bawled for about thirty minutes thinking about the deep and relentless love of Christ dying for the shame I cling to like an old baby blanket. Here’s the link…

Dr. Curt Thompson-On the Enneagram and Shame

Ephipany #1-Surrender the Shame to the only one able to destroy it

Only Jesus is capable of bearing the weight of my shame. He is the only one who offers us freedom from racial divide, injustice, white privilege, prejudice and the sins of our own hearts and our fathers. Only he can bear this burden. It’s too much for any of us on our own. We weren’t made to carry a collective pain like this. Like Pastor Mark Francey says, “sheep aren’t pack animals.” And yes…we are the sheep in this metaphor.

I spend the afternoon listening to music, reading more and reflecting. Eventually my eyes get heavy and my tired body rests and falls in and out of dreams. I almost never nap because I can rarely turn my brain off, but today is different. My soul is at peace. Sometimes a good cry is like fixing a clogged pipe. Once it’s cleared out, clear water flows through again. But boy was I exhausted from the spiritual roto-rooter.

I wake suddenly at 5:30pm on the nose and feel like I’m supposed to go down to the Dana Point Harbor, Its like Harry Potter with his liquid luck. I just know “it’s the place to be” but I have no idea why? The feeling is so strong though I can’t resist. So I grab my headphones and head out. What’s a few more miles?

The beach is glorious in the waning sun. It’s warm and the unmasked folks are smiling which feels like melted butter to my heart. The pandemic stole our smiles and I’m on a mission to find them.

I decide to do something a little wild so I tentatively hit the classic rock playlist. I know, that sounds mildly lame, but I’ve always played it safe with music. But not today.

The first song that comes on is “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen and I can’t stop my huge spit eating grin. AC DC is next, then Journey. I think classic rock suits me. If the boardwalk was a catwalk I rocked it. I don’t know what God was doing to me and in me but I felt like a badass bursting with joy.

As I headed back, a new boat caught my eye. I’ve walked this harbor a million times and never seen it. It was called “Darling Girl.” and I just about fell over, because when I write letters to myself from God they all start with…”Darling Girl.” It’s our thing.

Ephipany #2: God will go to the end of the earth to fight for my heart.

The intentional relentless pursuit of God never ceases to astound me. How the God of the Universe shows me one sign after the next in a world raging with pandemics, social distancing, protests, rioting and unrest, I truly don’t know? And yet, God takes the time to reveal to me how much he cherishes me with a sign and a boat and the sweetest nap hugs.

I turned off my phone Saturday night. I buried myself in my journal and prayers and fell asleep with a delicious solace that ran deep into my core.

Sunday morning I woke to the news that my son who lives in Reno and attends the University of Nevada was on lockdown in his downtown home on curfew while a crowd rioted a few blocks away. They looted the courthouse, businesses and the police station, threw rocks, smashed windows and lit a car on fire. Kyle was relieved he had brought his flag into wash because they were lighting them all on fire up and down the street.

My first instinct was to apologize profusely for not calling and texting and then I thought twice. Yes, I missed out on hyperventilating and watching the news and blowing up his phone, but it’s only because I didn’t know. Maybe I was exactly where I needed to be?

In all truth, I probably helped him more on my knees pleading for his protection than helicopter momming it anyway. I’m ten hours away from Reno, and he can certainly rescue himself.

Epiphany 3: Surrender mama. The King is on the throne.

Sunday was glorious, I spent the day working out, listening to church online and burrowed in my books again.

And I was never so glad to be alone. It was a holy water on my skin weekend where I let go of things holding me back from having an open heart. While I certainly don’t have any more answers to the weight of the world than I did before…I’ve at the very least stopped trying to carry them.

And even if my protests are in the spiritual realm I know God hears them and sees his people groan.

The alone was nothing to fear. The alone embraced me.

If I’d made plans to distract myself I would have missed out on the sweet gifts of tenderness displayed for me and what my friend Emmy calls “God winks.”

Doing the work of healing shame both personally and collectively is messy and deep and it takes hard work. It takes loving your neighbor as you love yourself.

But this means we actually have to love ourselves. Letting go of shame is as much about loving me as it is releasing me to love. Because when I do this well I can better love my neighbor.

Love is the enemy of shame. And love unravels us.

“Nothing can make our lives, or the lives of other people more beautiful than perpetual kindness.” —Tolstoy

When was the last time you retreated from the chaos and got quiet enough to listen?

Nothing freaks me out more than not knowing. Not knowing where you stand, waiting for those test results, not knowing if you are going to lose your spouse or your loved one or your job. Living in that awful limbo land of uncertainty is a hell unlike any other.

You know what I mean…it’s sort of like MAYBE living in a global pandemic. We just don’t know.

Or, it might look like my life right now, getting divorced, living in a pandemic and then getting a breast cancer scare.

Wait, what?

I’m at the doctor getting my left orb, for lack of a better term, stared at for a solid five minutes of pure awkwardness when the doctor finally takes off his reading glasses and tells me he thinks it’s a large bruise from running.

“Sam, you do have a rather large bosom, so uhhh, yeah…these kinds of things happen. Runners often have to put Vaseline on their nipples to prevent chafing. You are going to have to wear more supportive sports bras. Obviously, we will schedule a mammogram, but I think you are good.”

And I wanted to crawl in a shame hole and never come out. Was that his best attempt at an impartial doctoral diagnosis, a chastisement of mammary neglect or an ass backwards compliment? And why did this examination take so long?

He went on, “So tell me about the divorce? I didn’t expect that from you.”

Right. I know…Me. The sweet little pastor’s wife now turned rebel. It’s unexpected. Shocking even. And sooooo juicy.

And I sat there and smiled weakly with my mouth closed BECAUSE I’m not dishing. Especially when I have a blue paper robe on with the opening in front.

Why? Because if I tell anyone all the shitty things he did I also have to tell you all the shitty things I did. Enough said.

Well, let’s be honest, I’ll probably tell you all the shitty things I did anyway because that’s how I process, but since I have to co-parent with my ex for the next ten years, let’s just leave him out of it.

So…here I am, living in an apartment down the street from my old home with my two girls and a dog, starting over and daily embracing a new life, one I never EVER expected to have.

I now get to be my own gym buddy, coffee barista and partner in crime. There’s learning self-reliance and then there’s shelter in place self-reliance. It’s like 2X the alone.

Kolby opened the front door the other day to my apartment and my joint custody dog ran in with squeals, leaps and heavy breathing–this is how he shows joy, by sounding like’s having a freaking heart attack. And Kolby told me, “I think Zeus likes it here best.”

Yeah…me too Zeus. Me too.

My new home is a haven. It’s safe. I can breathe here.

Getting some distance helps me to put things in perspective. I can see how my feelings are all over the map–an ebb and flow of a major life transition and divorce brings them all out. I’m irritated, exasperated, delighted and relieved all in the same moment. I transition between self-confidence and self-doubt, intense productivity followed by Netflix with chips, salsa and wine. I desperately miss my neighborhood, I suffer for my youngest and pray this doesn’t derail her. And I’m now a podcast junkie who runs endlessly listening to Brené Brown and whatever worship or church service my friend Diane sends me daily. Got to war-ship baby!

I helped a friend move the other night and as I sat on her new mattress on the floor playing with her toddler my heart ached. My eyes filled with tears I couldn’t hold back. I missed MY toddlers blond curls and those early days of mothering. I hurt for the life I had, the life I dreamed of and the space in between where the pain sucked the life out of me.

This new life is so different. I’m reinventing my family (and me). I’m spending lots of time with my girls-baking and snuggling, homeschooling and loving. Quarantine life is a crazy confusing and bizarrely healing place if you let it slow you down enough to reflect. Without all this running around to dance and school activities, I finally have time to think and think and think. And that’s good and that’s bad.

I’ve got time for weekly therapy, long runs and challenging hikes, calls with friends and reading everything I can get my hands on. But then I’ve also got extra time for bursting into tears, sleepless nights and kicking a stuffed dinosaur for anger management. I think I’ve had one full night of sleep in the last month. That 2am siren kicks my ass every night. Oh sleep, where art thou?

Divorce is like a death. You go through all the stages of grief. In many ways I’ve done much of this over the last year and a half and I’m finally moving into acceptance and healing-which is a whole new bag of tricks and emotions. It’s like waking up in Oz when you went to sleep in Kansas.

This path is hard but it’s one I’m willing and ready to leap into. And yes, I packed my ruby slippers. But maybe clicking my heels together will take me to a new kind of home.

To all my friends and my therapist who’ve walked with me on this painful journey the last few years I want to say a HUGE thank you. Thank you for the 3 way Zoom calls, the endless talks, the glasses of wine and tears, the prayers, two-0-clock chocolate, the margaritas across the street and the life coaching by Albert. Thank you for teaching me BOUNDARIES. Thank you to my best friends who listened and spoke hard truth and then let me wrestle with it. Thank you to my kids who have supported me every step of the way. Knowing you loved me and had my back has meant everything to me.

Thank you to my readers. Thanks for letting be human. Thanks for letting me tumble off the pastor’s wife pedestal and understanding that what goes on behind closed doors isn’t always the pretty picture you want to see. Sometimes it’s jacked up and messy.

And sometimes you just need to start over and not know the outcome.

“Not all storms come to disrupt your life, some storms come to clear your path.”–Anonymous

–Sam

There are days when my prayers seem like a hard bounce, not unlike the weighted medicine ball I throw at the wall of my gym, that sucker just shoots back at me heavier than before.

“Rescue me Lord, help this situation, heal this relationship, change this circumstance…”

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

And I hear crickets. Or worse, a strong sense that this Holy Spirit Silence means I am to surrender.

“What?” I don’t like that word.

I know I’m not alone when I feel like throwing a mini-tantrum. Why oh why is life so hard sometimes? It’s so good and yet it’s so freaking hard!

The truth is that troubling circumstances test our faith. Job loss, relational discord, family drama, health concerns…they all tempt us to doubt, to fear, to wonder if we are loved. God, do you even see me?

Yesterday, I woke before dawn. Dragged my butt to the gym and came home to read and pray before the cares of the world screamed for my attention (namely packing lunches, backpacks and dance bags).

My quiet time is sacred and I NEED these moments. Don’t mess with Mama when she’s praying.

I thanked God for the trials. I thanked him for the gifts of pain that make me cling to Him. I thanked him with an aching heart for the things I don’t understand. And for a soul restoring thirty minutes I rested in His peace.

Then the shit storm hit.

And it came hard and fast. Troubling emails from a client, texts I didn’t want to open, news that hurt. The reality of painful situations raised their ugly head and it wasn’t long before I broke. Tears held back for too long erupted. I’m the girl who rarely cries, but when I do it’s like a dam erupting. Sobs and hiccups and streaky mascara runneth over.

And I ask myself again for the four thousandth time, God what am I supposed to learn here?

One thing that God keeps drumming into my head is my broken thinking. It’s so easy to focus on the problem instead of the one who solves my problems.

Maybe God wants to change my mind not my circumstances.

I’m pretty sure that sometimes my misery is because of the way I approach a situation more than it is the situation itself. If I hold on to a negative mindset, it just compounds the problem. I chase the pain. If I think the worst, I see the worst. If I think a situation is hopeless, then I believe it is. 

My friend texts me Philippians 4:8. It is a reminder to focus on the good. To train my thoughts like I train my body at the gym. No one wants the suffering of the workout, but we all want the rocking body.

In the same vein, we all want the peace that surpasses all understanding but forget that its in the trials and the tribulations where our faith is exercised and our minds are trained to think on the good–not Jason Bourne every disaster like I’m inclined to do.

Maybe God also wants to change my heart?

Some circumstances might last WAY too long. I know I struggle with this one. Like many of you I have some deep wounds that get triggered. I carry resentment built up over the years when an injustice drags on and on. And yet…I don’t believe God allows these difficult trials and situations in my life to make me bitter or angry. He is teaching me to forgive seventy times seven. Not be a doormat certainly, but not to hold on to the pain either.

Anger over the past doesn’t change you for the better, it only magnifies the brokenness.  A hard heart is worse than any circumstance you face. I don’t know about you, but I do not want to be the angry old lady going postal on a clerk at Walmart because I haven’t dealt with my junk.

I try to remind myself that surrender might simply be one prayer of forgiveness at a time. One day at a time. One plank I pull out of my own eye before I look for the sliver in yours.

Training my thoughts is a daily battle. Sometimes I blow it hard and sometimes I feel the small victories that no one notices but me. I imagine Jesus giving me a high five. “Nice job Sam, you didn’t get butt hurt over that jab at work. I’m so proud of you baby girl.”

We have to remember this journey of following Jesus is hard. We want the easy way. I want the land of milk and honey (or wine and tacos) without the battle to overcome the enemy. And that’s faulty thinking because there is no promised land without a grueling journey.

This peace I am after only comes if I’m willing to pursue it. And we need one another for encouragement and a hand to help us back up when we fall.

I can just make out Taco Tuesday over the next hill. Are you with me?

–Samantha

I like to think I can take constructive criticism like a man. But the truth is, I don’t.

I take it like a woman and over-think it to death.

I chew on it. I weigh WHO the person is that gave me the feedback. I decide if the person has the street cred to speak into my life. Do I even care what they think? Do I respect them? Should I take the plugs of denial out of ears?

As a writer I can get lot’s of feedback (both positive and negative) so I have to be careful of the “truths” I choose to accept or believe. I think that’s just plain old wisdom. I got torched for some stuff I wrote years ago on the detriments of porn to healthy dating. Yeah-never touching that hornets nest again.

But what happens when you get a “constructive comment” that rings eerily true?

And it stings all the more because the person who gave me the insight passes muster on all of the above. They only want the best for me and they are a trusted authority. Therefore, I should probably listen to this nugget.

(Insert bad word)

So what’s my problem?

Apparently, I have a low tolerance for stupid people.

Ouch! Just saying that out loud turns my face red, makes me want to hide, cast my eyes downward and avoid your potential condemnation.

Because obviously you think I’m an asshole. OMG, isn’t she the wife of a pastor? Yes…I am and I sin too. Dang it! Stop imaginary judging me.

I know, I get it… I’m supposed to be in ministry and be loving and kind and float around on marshmallow clouds of NICE. But I guess my wings slipped.

When I say “stupid” I’m not referring to those who are intellectually challenged. (I’m not that big of a jerk) I’m talking about the little nuances that I define as “stupid”–like rudeness, disrespect, low self-awareness, and vulgarity. Basically, stupid behavior by smart people gets under my skin. I believe the way in which someone conducts oneself speaks volumes and so I struggle when I see unsavory behavior and I become less patient with these people.

I guess I have high expectations and maybe a big boulder in my eye when it comes to my own junk (and I can probably work on that too).

So…how does one gain this gentleness of spirit and tolerance with people that drive them up a wall?

What I’m learning is that real patience means not giving up too soon and writing them off. I need to keep trying to connect with people in different ways. Even though it might take ten different approaches, eventually one will stick and then bamm…the “stupid” behavior goes away because I’m speaking their love language.

I’ve been digging into my heart and trying to pull out the reasons why I’m so impatient–let those go–and add on new disciplines.

Like so many, I think I’m pretty hard on myself, so if I want to give others more grace I first have to extend it to myself. Lowering my expectations also helps. Sylvia Plath said, “If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.” Got it Sylvia. My expectations will be lower than low. I’m going to limbo instead of walk.

I’m also working very hard at taking nothing personally. I will not be offendible. I will embrace this freedom and become immune to other people’s actions. My super power will be CHILL. Watch out y ‘all, the difficult people can not touch my bubble of peace.

NOT MY MONKEY, NOT MY CIRCUS! My cousin reminds me of this line and I always chant it when I get stressed. I am not responsible for the actions of others; I am only responsible for me. I do not have to break up the fight on the playground (I’ve done that) or take responsibility for other’s peoples stuff.

Last and most important, I will remember that God is gracious with me, always compassionate, slow to anger, and abounding in love.

And despite my idiot nature and impatience, He still loves me.

Recently I had a breakthrough with a person who frustrated me and drove me freaking bonkers. All of a sudden, with a different approach our relationship clicked and I saw the magic of extended grace. Had I given up and written this person off I would have missed the beauty of connecting. It was a sweet encouragement for me and a reminder of God’s grace for me and his people.

So, I will continue to fight this good fight, confess, pray and embrace this struggle. And it will be a struggle people, because I have plenty of opportunities to work on this area.

–Samantha

As if one wasn’t bad enough…

I have now launched my second kid off to college. This time it’s my daughter. 

Just thinking about Faith not upstairs asleep in her room chokes me up. (it’s 5:03 am and she’s probably snoring logs right about now in Arizona)

My Faith…My joy. My tenderness. The beauty that brightens my every day. The girl with the cat like fierceness that commands attention. This child, my middle child, my greatest struggle as a parent and also the greatest joy, the kid I don’t worry about because I know she’ll kick ass and take names. This strong, independent, sensitive, charming sass of a woman, the invader of my heart and hijacker of emotions left my nest.

NO….yes….NO!!!!

I’m so happy for her (but so sad for me)

And the familiar ache, the one I just spent two years nursing back to wholeness after my son left for college is tugging at me again.

A friend called the other night and we commiserated about losing our children to college and growing up. In the blink of an eye, our crazy busy homes are so EMPTY.

I try to cheer her up but I’m wallowing too. I’m the “lucky one” she says, because I still have one kid left.  And while that’s true, there is an emptiness in the home I can’t get back. It’s like one of those LOL Dolls. Try to put that shit back together after a kid has unwrapped it. 

YOU JUST CANT!

Life is like that too. You don’t realize how many layers of love and struggle and sacred joy there are until you finally get to the prized toy and then the journey of unwrapping is over. But you can’t re-wrap an LOL Doll and you certainly can’t recreate the mystical journey of raising a child.

The irony of parenting is real

The honest truth is that my darling daughter was a pain in the ass for a few years as a teenager. (I’m sure I wasn’t always parent of the year either) And then like a butterfly she transformed into a breathtaking and kind young woman. Here’s the suck part. She’s so cool now I don’t want her to leave. If you had asked me this same question when she was 14, I might have paid someone to take her off my hands.

A few weeks ago we did a bunch of lasts before she leaves home. We jumped into the car and headed to Starbucks. Then we drove to church, checked in Kolby in kid’s ministry and headed down to the worship center. Kolby chastised me for trying to hold her hand as she entered the 4th grade room with her. Not this one too!!! Can someone still be my baby? 

Faith sashayed beside me, looking like a model in her black boho hat, animal print skirt and black tank tied just above her perfect belly button. Her new flower tattoo on the wrist caught my eye. All grown up but still my little girl. And for the last time before she tackled ASU she leaned in to me close and held my arm during the service. 

Pinch me! I kept glancing over at her trying to freeze the moment and capture just one more second of her beauty. 

I wanted to stay right there and ENJOY her adorableness forever but the reality of her leaving trailed me around like my dog Zeus in the morning when he’s hungry. Yapping and nipping at my heels. 

Intense joy and excruciating pain all in one breath. Exulting and weeping inside. So conflicted!

And I reminded myself that..It’s OK to hurt when my babies grow up and leave for college!

It simply means I love them.

So even though this isn’t my first rodeo, it still aches like a mother. And I say that literally because motherhood hurts, dang it! It’s so good and it’s so hard. It feels like with each child I birthed another heart I wear on my sleeve that can swell up with love, get trampled and carry a truckload of anxiety, jubilation, guilt and concern.

Last weekend I drove her up to her new apartment in Tempe and moved her in. It’s an urban oasis of concrete, wood, modern and rustic with a resort pool, dog grooming facilities, clubhouse and a Starbucks on the bottom floor. Wait, what?

Only my daughter finagles a way to not live in the dorms her freshman year. But that’s my Faith. She determines what she wants and goes after it like a tornado. Somehow she leveraged her beer budget to live out her champagne dreams.

In all truth, I have to give her props for accepting nothing but the best. I might also be a wee bit jealous at her tenacity. I want this girl’s mojo and I really want the Starbucks! 

I cried my eyes out when I said goodbye. And the next day. And the next day. A week in and I’m starting to recover but it’s the little things that put me over the edge. One less plate at dinner, less laundry to fold, no more waking up in the middle of the night to make sure she’s home safe. No more trips to Starbucks together and church on Sunday’s. No more hugs and train wrecked bedrooms. She’s got her own Starbucks now and she has to pick up her own messes.

Today I Facetimed her and watched as she cuddled up on the cushy white pointelle bedspread I bought for her new bed.  The good news is she seems totally content and capable despite the 116 temperature outside in Tempe. The bad news is, she doesn’t seem to miss me as much as I miss her. 

But I hope late at night when it’s get’s still (and real quiet) and her thoughts get to loud to sleep that these blankets will comfort her and remind her just a little bit of home where her mama can’t sleep too because she’s thinking and aching about her beautiful girl who grew up to fast.

So for all the mama’s saying goodbye this week to their grown up babies, I want to give you a high five. We did it! Now go and honor those feelings, and grab a box of tissues, a girlfriend and a glass of wine. It’s an excruciatingly long time to parent’s weekend!

The most important thing that parents can teach their children is how to get along without them.” ~ Frank A. Clark

There comes a point in life when you wake up one day and have a freaking “Tiffany.”

And Tiffany’s are terrible and wonderful things to have.

Let me explain…

My nine-year old daughter played the part of a spoiled young lass in the school play this year. One of her lines was, “Oh my goodness, I think I just a had a Tiffany!”

The other young actress rolled her eyes with deep sarcasm and said, “You mean an epiphany?”

Kolby flipped her long golden hair and cocked her head playfully to one side “Yes, that’s what I said, a “Tiffany!”

My girl got a big chuckle from the audience.

Well played baby girl…well played, but back to the “Tiffany.”

I had one of those recently, A Tiffany, or rather an Epiphany.

It was a big and scary and powerful TRUTH that hit me so hard I want to vomit when I contemplate it.

The harsh truth I uncovered is that I’m codependent.

I just puked in my mouth writing that.

Like…not a little co-dependent, but more like a lot.

Oh…yuck.

And when you figure out a truth like that there’s only one choice.

Get some healing girlfriend.

I’m talking in third person here, obviously to encourage myself.

I think I came by codependency pretty naturally, as most people do. It was a survival thing as a kid. My dad (as a younger man) was a domineering, emotionally and occasionally physically abusive guy-if you count spanking, slapping and a belt as abusive.

One of the ways I learned to cope was to not piss him off.

That was literally my daily goal for much of my childhood

Daddy’s in a bad mood…let’s stay out of his way. Get him whatever he wants. Make sure he has a good meal, a cold drink in his hand and the remote to watch CSPAN and congressional hearings-his personal favorite.

(Just to clarify…this was my real dad not my step-dad who is a darling.)

Always make sure the house is quiet and clean and chores are done. Make sure my grades are good and I am pretty and well mannered and represent the family well.

Tow the line, don’t fight back, don’t piss off daddy.

And then I grew up and got a life and moved on.

But then I wake up one day in my mid forties and realize I’m still stuck in the same operating mode.

What? Isn’t there a shelf life on this type of dysfunction?

I still take responsibility for people’s bad moods. I am a pleaser, a peacemaker, and I do whatever it takes to keep our home drama free, even if it’s killing my own heart in the process.

It’s hard to let yourself be all that God created you for when your caught up in the cycle of never inconveniencing anyone.

It means I rarely ask for help. I try to meet everyone’s needs and neglect my own. I become a lesser version of me. I apologize for everything. “Sorry” is my freaking middle name.

But somewhere along the line I woke up.

I had a freaking “Tiffany” a few months ago.

And now that I know…there are no more excuses for my behavior.

Things are changing because they have to.

I’m learning big words like “boundaries” and “No.”

I’m back in therapy with a new onion layer to peel, because healing comes like that, in thin opaque layers, one sting at a time.

Goodbye doormat layer…

I now get the opportunity to call “bullshit” when I am treated unkindly. I get to stand up for myself and start the painful process of developing a backbone.

Right now it’s more of a gummy bone, but it’s hardening by the minute.

And I’m not going to lie and say it’s easy for everyone to accept my new boundaries. Like I said, Tiffany’s are terrible and wonderful things and they upset the status quo.

To some degree I’ve confused spirituality and being a “good Christian woman” with being a bottomless pit. I’ve let myself believe that pastor’s wives always smile and play nice. They turn the other cheek over and over and over again… even when it’s emotionally damaging.

They don’t piss off (fill in the blank).

And what a mistake I’ve made.

Jesus called me to forgive not roll over and play dead.

I wonder how many women confuse these two concepts misinterpreting WWJD?

The more I understand emotional health AND spirituality, the more I think Jesus might knock over some tables and call people out when they behave badly.

I’m learning that my spirituality will only go as far as my emotional health and they are intertwined, for better or worse. The only thing holding me back is me.

I sense Jesus standing by my side, my biggest cheerleader, whispering to me to stay strong, to stretch myself and step out of my comfort zone.

Courage, eyes on the prize, stay in my own lane…

Big gulp…

When I read the scriptures I am reminded that Jesus was anything but a doormat. While he went to the cross, he did it with FULL cooperation and at any point he could have taken back his sacrifice. He was God after all… it’s not like he couldn’t interrupt the plot line. The cross was an intentional and dedicated act of love.

Why? Because…he valued people. He respected people and he willingly died for them.

Which begs the question…

How did I forget that I deserve to be treated with respect?

How did I forget that Jesus paid a huge ransom for me to have life and have it abundantly, not live life walking on eggshells.

Dr. Phil likes to say, “You teach people how to treat you.”

I got some work to do…

Today I’m thankful for the Tiffany’s in my life even though the truth hurts.

Sticking my head in the sand and hoping things will fix themselves is crazy—as is setting my expectations on the low side.

These days my expectations about how things should go have moved upward. My bar sits higher–it’s based on grace and truth, on what I would love to see happen, not what I wish wasn’t happening.

And that’s a recovering co-dependent’s love story to herself.

What a gift to take the chaos from within and from it create some semblance of order.–Katherine Paterson

–Samantha