Despite our best intentions, injuries happen.
We collapse from a one-armed plank and tear our labrum and then only days later pick up a bag overstuffed with wine and condiments by our darling husband and separate the rest of our shoulder tearing our rotator cuff to boot.
Stuff like that, crazy dumb injuries, or maybe that’s just me?
Only four months ago I was happily punching bags and sparring with my trainer Ramin at the kickboxing studio. I felt strong and confidant, maneuvering around his swings in my pink gloves and landing an occasional crushing kick (when he wasn’t looking) and then the next minute I’m in the MRI torture machine shoving my wounded shoulder into a box the size of a Twinkie and trying to hold still for thirty minutes of pure hell.
One day I’m on top of the world and the next day I’m down for the count. The doctors said six months before I can (maybe?) box again with my left arm. Possibly surgery if it doesn’t heal and then an even longer recovery.
Wait, What? That’s a long time to heal. And then there’s the physical therapy and pain management and all the junk of recovering.
I still get sad thinking about it.
My injured “red arm,” as my husband likes to call it (cue star Wars C3PO reference) started me thinking about wounds that are difficult to heal.
The kind of wounds you can’t see. The inner wounds. The ones that bleed anxiety and spiritual fatigue.
We expect physical injuries and illness to take time and rest to heal, and even though we resist, we know there is a process. You can’t rush a broken bone in a cast. But what about the breaks in our spirit or the small relentless rips and tears that we ignore as they wither away our heart?
What about soul injuries?
Maybe a part of our heart died with a loss, a death of a dream, or even worse, got WEARY without us even realizing it. Suddenly, we experience bizarre symptoms and it stops us in our tracks. Things don’t work like they used to. We aren’t exactly depressed but the spark isn’t shining as bright as it used to.
Unfortunately with soul wounds, the recovery period isn’t as obvious or predictable as a physical injury. Maybe you don’t even know what’s wrong? Hearts are tricky like that.
What if we need to go on a journey to fix this broken thing we can’t even initially articulate?
That’s what happened to me. I didn’t have the words (or the emotional awareness) to even describe what broke. I just knew something was off. Mainly one big area was off.
My son asked me one day, “Mom are you still writing? I mean, I know you write for work but what about for you?”
This is the dreaded question I heard on a weekly basis for the last 365+ flipping days.
“Nice to see you Sam. How’s the writing? What project are you working on now?”
Cue the dumb look from me… “Oh, ummmm…vacant stare.”
When we feed our dog Zeus in the morning he does the same stare. We ask him to sit, then “stay” and drop the Kibbles in his bowl. We make him hold his position before we tell him to “get it.” The funny thing is Zeus won’t make eye contact while he’s waiting. In fact the sheer act of waiting makes him twitch like a lizard. He physically can’t look us in the eye. Instead he herky jerks his head around and looks everywhere but at the person giving him his sustenance.
Basically, that’s me when I get asked about writing.
I either change the subject or stammer out an evasive response. My head probably does the weird Zeus thing too because it makes me so painfully uncomfortable.
Why? Because I didn’t have an answer. I quit the magazine I was writing for because I burned out. I had zero projects lined up because of said “burnout.” I thought I’d take off a few weeks, refresh and get back at it, not stall indefinitely.
One day I churned out words. I was a writer. The next day I was a?
What was I?
Basically my writer mojo broke. You can call it whatever…but I was STUCK.
Not a little stuck. A big colossal sticky stuck that lasted an achingly long time.
Did I still write? Sort of. Articles about cybersecurity and compliance. But the stuff that MOVES me, delving into relationships and Jesus and life, just screeched to a halt. I hated everything I wrote and published nothing. My words collected dust in a heap of uncertainty.
The stuck started last June, not two months ago, but the June in 2017.
I woke up one day, grabbed my Bible and coffee, sat down to write (like usual) and nothing came out.
This was a baby red flag. A one-off, i told myself. I’m just a little sad that my son went off to college. Next day will be better.
But it wasn’t. Next day I sat there like a lump on a log too. So I made more excuses.
Normally words pour out of me. Writing is like scratching an angry mosquito bite. It’s compulsive. It takes over. When I write I go into a different realm. Hours can go by in a blink for me and it’s the closest thing I experience to true worship.
For days on end I tried to make writing happen, to force what used to be innate. I got frustrated with myself. Angry. Sad and then finally fed up.
I was MAD.
I cried out. I begged God. I asked for prayer from trusted friends. I threw pennies in fountains and pleaded with birthday candles to restore my heart. I choked out 350 words a day of crap and would then backspace it in angry little finger taps.
Nothing worked. Month after month passed by.
Words (worthy of sharing) simply evaded me. It’s too bad they don’t have a translator for grunts and groans. I had an abundance of those.
So one day I put my laptop down, along with my pathetic attempts to recreate what was lost and said “Uncle.”
And this beautiful thing In my life disappeared. I felt like I was watching my firstborn drive off to college once again, but this time it was my freaking identity in the driver’s seat.
(Insert a woeful theme song here)
So I figured God MUST be doing something. Maybe I needed to learn a new thing? Maybe it was rest? I suck at that concept. I will rest, God, I will rest so hard, I’ll make you proud!
But I’m not good at true rest so it was a rough go at first. I binge watched Netflix for about a month, which I never had time to do before because I always had three articles due on Monday.
But now, dang it, I only had one job, one less kid at home, and weekends free. What was a few more hours of the Crown or those crazy Gilmore Girls and their clever banter?
I read a bazillion books and then got bored.
Then I went back to my tasks because they comfort me and like I said, I suck at rest.
I put in more hours at work. I got into kickboxing . I watched a million of Kolby’s dance classes. I stage mommed it, and cheer mommed it and college football mommed it. I even learned how to dance mom it, maybe the most stressful of all! I volunteered with hyper second graders at church and organized parties at school. I got into wine and then felt guilty about the wine and did a Whole 30 to make me feel more holy. I went Paleo. I read every book in my house…again.
Basically, I did everything I could do to avoid thinking about my problem. I just avoided it.
Then one day my trainer said to me, “Sam, if I left it up to you, you would never heal.”
Now Ramin was specifically talking about my shoulder wound because I rarely skipped a day at the gym after my injury, I just dropped down to one glove, but his words hit me in the gut with a truth much bigger than my rotator cuff.
He’s so right. I don’t ever want to slow down and heal. It’s like a recurring anthem in my life.
What the heck? God was speaking to me through my trainer. Seriously?
In that moment, clarity hit. I knew if I looked in my heart there might be lingering hurt I’d failed to deal with-bits of remaining grief from losing both my parents, anger from 8 miscarriages in 8 years, sadness from my kid’s growing up and relational wounds from ministry I’d avoided dealing with. Ramin was on to something.
IF IT WAS UP TO ME, I WOULD NEVER HEAL.
Truth, Ramin…Cold. Hard. Truth.
About 6 months in to the stuck, I decided it was time to face it. I was finally brave enough (and desperate enough) to lean into the silence.
But I wasn’t sure where to start? None of my escapism was working and my prayers felt like a hard bounce.
I decided to wake up early before the sun came up and just sit, alone with me and my journal, a stack of books and my Bible.
I was going to wait for God to show up and get some stinking answers.
Each day I crawled out of bed at 5am, brewed a pot of strong coffee and sat in the quiet.
In the beginning, I rarely wrote. I guess the journal was just a prop in case the Spirit moved me.
The first few weeks not much happened. If God was speaking I still wasn’t hearing.
La, la, la…hello?
Then one morning I felt a nudge to read a certain book. I had it buried behind a stack of Kolby’s baby books upstairs and hadn’t picked it up in a long time. I truthfully didn’t even remember what it was about. It was called Scary Close by Donald Miller. The book was about writer’s block.
What? It felt like a little recognition from the big guy upstairs and it made me so deliriously happy! No communication for months on my issue and then a book just for me! Woo Hoo! I inhaled it in about a minute I was so jazzed. The book was wonderful and awful all at the same time, mainly because it messed with me in a good way. For the first time I felt understood, which was such a relief. Don had gone through this miserable pain too! Hallelujah! But Don’s journey and his words exposed things in me I didn’t want to deal with. Insecurity. People Pleasing. Fear. I felt yucky and motivated all at the same time.
Ok, Jesus. I get it. I’m messed up. Can I write now?
Then I felt a strong push to lead a discipleship group called Rooted at our church. I was scared. Yes, I’ve led many Rooted groups before but this was different. I wasn’t in the most Jesus “y” place. I didn’t feel very leaderly. But I showed up obediently, albeit reluctantly. So did the other 18 members of the group and we dove headfirst into the awkwardness of exposing our hearts and sharing our lives.
Weeks later, one of the guys in the group confessed he was super skeptical about having a pastor’s wife lead until the second week when I walked in and said I felt awful because I was acting like a total bitch to my teenage daughter when she did this thing that got under my skin. Apparently my use of the “B” word made him feel better. I later learned the whole group consensus was that once they heard me say a bad word, they knew I was chill and we could bond.
Let me get this straight…God, you used my potty mouth to help me connect with my group?
Bad word yeah!
I find this so refreshing and personally endearing. It was like a little love note from God to me. By no means do I share this as an endorsement for cussing, but I felt uniquely loved in spite of my total and complete jacked up “ness.”
For ten 10 weeks our group laughed and cried and listened to a universal groan of pain and struggle, and then collectively, we moved towards healing and encouragement. I watched in amazement as people who came to the group the first week looking downright skeptical and burdened with pain transform into vibrant beings. The night we affirmed and blessed one another my spirit felt like it was on fire with a joy and an invigoration that literally hurt my face. The last time I had that big of a grin was on my wedding day. Something powerful was moving.
During the ten weeks of Rooted one of the guys in our group taught us to meditate. When you think of a zen type of personality this guy comes to mind. He has the tranquility of Yoda laced with a surfer heart. Gene taught me step by step to inhale the Holy spirit and exhale prayer. I was so scared the first time I tried it. I’m not sure why? It’s not like God was judging me on my technique.
The Big Breakthrough
One day in the car as I drove little Kolby to an audition in LA, an image popped into my head and I went with it. I visualized myself in a meadow talking to Jesus. It felt so real. I asked him questions and he answered, and his responses blew my mind.
When I told my husband I was so scared, like a little kid afraid to share a bad report card.
“So, you might think this is weird, but I talked to Jesus today.”
Fortunately, my husband encouraged me to just go with and keep talking to Jesus, one of the many benefits of marrying a pastor.
It was the first one of hundreds of conversations. A counselor later asked me if I someone had instructed me on how to do this type of therapy. I looked at her confused and honestly answered, “No, just Jesus. And this is therapy? I thought I was just talking to God.”
The conversations with Jesus started to change me. I certainly couldn’t hallucinate with this type of clarity. It was as if my imagination was baptized, washed new in His holy presence.
There were conversations about loss and forgiveness, images of me being held and comforted, and playful moments where I simply basked in the light and love of my creator. Sometimes we fished and sometimes we danced.
Here’s the thing.
Jesus was becoming my friend. Not a hypothetical metaphor. Not a “Jesus loves me this I know” kid’s song. A real friend. Someone I listened too more than I talked at. A person I loved and received love from.
Now, I have pursued God for most of my life. I’ve run towards him. I’ve often run in front of him. I’ve held on to the end of a rope as he dragged me through the fire. I’ve been in a zillion Bible Studies and studied theology in grad school. I’ve called out to him and cried out to him. But I was missing out on a huge part of the relationship.
Certainly, there was reverence and awe, surrender and a sense of direction, but my relationship lacked the deepest of intimacy.
I was still letting anxiety, pain and worry cloud my vision. I held them too close and gave them too much power. I didn’t cast my burdens on him. I wasn’t Spirit led.
But this Jesus, the one I fished with in my dreams had something else to offer me.
Comfort. Healing. Relief.
And Intimacy…The kind of intimacy I have with my husband. Like a lover staring into the eyes of their beloved knowing they are accepted and treasured unconditionally. Like a father who holds his sobbing child and comforts her.
Every time I showed up to the meadow, something new happened. I let him minister to my old wounds and crown me with love and hope and freedom. I said goodbye to all those babies and named them. I forgave people who hurt me and allowed forgiveness to penetrate my heart instead of pushing it down and wallowing in shame. Tears I’ve pent-up for years broke free and the knot in my heart loosened its grip and finally disappeared.
And then about a month ago, exactly one year after my writers block hit, I was asked to help write a commercial. It was a little thing and they edited my words down into about 15 seconds, but in that moment of being asked to write, I felt an overwhelming sense of sureness and release.
The commercial was about dance and a little girl’s dreams. How insanely appropriate?
For the first time, in a long time, I didn’t hit delete. I presented my words like a sacrificial offering of love. On the day they filmed I brushed away the tears rolling down my face when I heard the little girls’ voice recording the words I penned.
It was a small victory that took my breath away. Words and I finally made our peace.
Looking back at the last year, I don’t think my “stuck” was a writer’s block thing at all, although God certainly used it to get my attention. The stuck was simply a glaring red light for a soul wound He wanted to heal in me and Jesus was inviting me to draw closer and experience him in a new and deeper way.
So what did I learn?
That God’s “no” was not a rejection at all…but a beautiful redirection towards something so much better.
–Samantha
Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin and decay. But look for Christ, and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.”–CS Lewis
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