The second the words left the woman’s mouth, floating in the air like a little bomb on the cusp of detonation, I knew I had to chime in. While her comment was probably not malicious–if left unchecked –the game of husband bashing could do irreversible damage to the Christian ladies gathering.
I’ve noticed this sport usually starts with a hefty dose of female empowerment masked in affirmations and coy compliments… “Ladies, I have been so blessed by this group and by these AMAZING female friendships to the point where I feel like I don’t even need a man around anymore. Don’t you agree?”
Subtle wink…dainty pout …lips parted with just a hint of an invitation.
And then each woman, happily married, bitter and single, or somewhere in between… makes an instantaneous but crucial decision –do I jump on the bandwagon and annihilate my husband’s (or ex-husband’s) character or defend him and take a stand against the crowd?
Unfortunately, I’ve learned this lesson the hard way. I was the bitter chick for a few years after my divorce that turned tea parties into toxic parties and now I cringe at my past behavior.
(Hurt people hurt people, right?)
Just as the first few lovelies dove onto the slippery slope of male abuse, I jumped in and loudly interrupted, “Look ladies…the beauty of healthy female friendships is how it enhances marriage –not replaces it. When our uniquely feminine emotional needs are addressed by empathetic girlfriends who understand us then we don’t place false expectations on our man to decipher our complicated hearts.”
I paused and waved my arms around for emphasis. “This allows our husband to operate as a real man who loves to fix and struggles to listen to chick-speak without the burden of fulfilling our every whim. My husband is a tremendous man who both refines and compliments me. And while I certainly love all of you, I am first and foremost my husband’s biggest fan and I refuse to act like he is big dolt or a Homer Simpson wannabe.”
The table went silent and tongues poised to launch a volley of verbal assault paused and retreated. The claws went back in and then a chorus of agreement chimed in. “Oh yes, we do need our men…they are so wonderful…I do love my husband.”
I sat back down in turmoil –glad I had spoken up but frustrated I even needed to. Sadly, I see this happen all too often –women gossiping loudly about their husbands faults and complaining to whoever lends a willing ear. I know if the shoe were on the other foot and I discovered my husband trash talked me in public I would be devastated. So why do women act like we have a hall pass in this area?
In an ideal world there would be no double-standards in marriage. And though I far from perfect in this area and still consider myself a recovering gossiper, I try to remember I can’t expect my husband or our children to act differently than the behavior I model. So what am I teaching my son and two girls when they accidentally hear mommy dissing daddy on the phone to her BFF?
What if we –as wives –chose to affirm our husbands instead of nit-pick? What if we saw the best and let go of the little irritants? What about truly forgiving and FORGETING, instead of forgiving and then repeating the offense to the gals in Pilates to get a big laugh?
I want to be the type of woman who champions her husband at all costs. I try to speak of him and about him in the highest regard. And I’ve found, quite inadvertently, my words and actions are helping him become the man he wants to be because he feels supported–even when he makes mistakes and even when he struggles. This allows him to take bigger risks and move towards the best in life because he knows I am his team-mate and not a passive aggressive opponent licking his face and simultaneously peeing on his leg.
Harold Macmillan –a British politician once said, “No man succeeds without a good woman behind him.” I think Harold is on to something. And I think starts by being an advocate of marriage and learning the art of keeping our mouth shut.
For the last twenty-one months I have been hustling –writing early in the morning, at lunch, during baby’s nap and at all sorts of odd times. I have been jotting down notes in the car, at church, on scraps of paper and sometimes even tapping away on my iPhone to pen some fabulous tale of awesome I might otherwise forget.
And it’s all been for this day.
Today, I am officially a full-time freelance writer.
I wrote a while back about a big decision we were praying over and how Tim asked for fleece from God and God provided the fleece by miraculously placing a white van on the freeway with a “Got Fleece?” license plate right in front of my car.
God is so stinking creative!
Well, this was the big decision –to go all-out for my dream or stick with the safe and secure route. In all honesty, moving from a full-time steady pay-check to a life of an eccentric beret wearing writer/artist just scraping by didn’t sound too appealing to my husband.
But God provided the fleece.
I secured a couple of steady writing gigs and negotiated a deal to do a little contract work for my tech job.
We won’t starve, although I still may wear the beret and start mumbling in French, and read all of the works by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and maybe 50 Shades of Gray (if they offer a PG version).
I am pinching myself this morning and blown away by the grace of God and his mercy.
Sometimes our dreams do come true with plenty of hard work and spit and gumption.
And a loving God who provides the fleece and doors of opportunity no man can shut.
What is your dream job? What can you do today to move towards a career that resonates in your spirit and makes you feel alive?
I took a stress test yesterday but strangely enough it wasn’t too stressful. It might have actually been the most relaxing part of my week.
A stress test involves getting hooked up like the Bionic man with wires and sticky patches that suck your hair right out of the follicle. Then they place you on a treadmill and slowly turn up the pace from a leisurely stroll to a Mt. Everest run/climb. I was holding on for dear life at the end and panting like a dog on a hot day.
But it felt good to run hard and work off some steam.
Work has been extremely stressful, finances tight thanks to our new Lion(i.e. private school tuition for Kyle), Kolby had the hand, foot, and mouth virus all week and then there’s my pesky little heart issue –which makes me more stressed. It’s like a slippery slope of heart palpitations, fever blisters and sweaty pits.
I know I’m supposed to give this all to Jesus but clearly I’ve been grabbing my burdens back and stuffing them in my backpack.
My Dr. came into read the results. He almost didn’t let me take the test because my blood pressure was all wacky when I arrived-probably because I came straight from work, but then he remembered he had the day off on Friday and he didn’t want to miss his golf game so he let me take the test.
Here’s the crazy part –after I worked out my heart rate looked all pretty and even –in nice little up and down rhythms. Once I let go and relaxed into the run my body fixed itself.
The Dr. looked at me strangely. “Usually when we test, it goes the opposite way. Which means you are stressing yourself right into a pace maker. Do yoga, cut back on the stress and figure out how to relax young lady.”
But Dr. Gandhi doesn’t realize how much I hate yoga after a bad experience with a man in front of me who forgot his underpants and wore tiny shorts.
So, unless I want a pace maker I guess I better learn how to chill. The funny thing is I’m a pretty mellow person and I don’t even realize I am stuffing stress. I have a secret little pocket in my heart where I hide emotions and cram pain into a bunch of toxic ickiness. Then it explodes into shingles or heart issues.
I keep singing “Jesus take the wheel,” in a raspy little voice hoping for a Holy Spirit band-aid when I should probably be on my knees begging for a fire-hose washing of the gunk weighing me down.
I really don’t want to go to Yoga…
But maybe I’ll try to run again and whisper to God and find my rhythm.
If Real dude spiritual leadership starts with getting to know God, then what does KNOWING look like? I hesitate to give any sort of rules or a 3-step plan because I know (all too well) it’s far easier to check off a list than to pursue a relationship, so maybe the first tip simply is this:
1. Throw Away the Rulebook
Religion is about rules, relationship is two-way engagement.
Getting to know God is a lot like meeting a best friend or a spouse and the space between the initial spark and eternity. One day you are alone and the next –a son or daughter of the King. You have become the bride of Christ (not a super masculine metaphor here) but the point is –you enter into relationship and it is sacred and set apart and it is good.
Getting to know God starts with a yes. You ACCEPT his invitation. You say giddy-up to a grand adventure. It is jumping into a wild river and not knowing where it will take you. Faith is your only rope to hold onto. Grace is your life-preserver.
2. Seek Him not Stalk Him
As a bookworm-y sort of gal, I determined to know everything about God. So for the first ten years as a Christian I became what Bob Goff calls a Jesus Stalker.
I read through the entire bible six years in a row. I attended two to three bible studies at a time. I listened to preacher pod-casts (actually we called them tapes back in the day) and I memorized plenty of scripture. I read every Christian book on the market –including the men’s section and the care section and even the exegetical section. I had a prayer journal with pictures (I used Christmas cards and pasted them in –all pre-Pinterest). I had a sermon journal and a reflection journal and a “I’m clearly the best Martha” journal. I even enrolled in seminary.
I chuckle now at my incredible pursuit to learn about and SEEK Jesus –and then slightly vomit in my mouth when I think about how annoying I probably was. I was a modern-day Pharisee in a mini-skirt running hard and fast on a spiritual treadmill trying to win the approval of God.
3. He’s Got Your Back
The problem with the spiritual treadmill is eventually you can’t keep running any more –usually when a monster storm of circumstances hit and you lose your footing and go flying through the air and land in a sorry heap (At least that’s what happened to me)
One day, Jesus determined I had enough head knowledge and he picked up my ordered little universe with highlighted chapters and sticky notes and chucked it against the wall.
In this season I learned to DEPEND on Jesus and apply everything I had so earnestly learned into a real and working faith. I learned to listen and not just ask, I learned to be still and rest in him and I learned freaking HUMILITY. I grieved and wailed and groaned to my God until the tears ran dry and there I remained –somehow still standing before a Holy God.
And I learned he never left.
4. Don’t be a Martyr (unless Jesus renames you Stephen)
Time marched on and then I married a pastor and we planted a church and like Isaiah I said, “Here I am God, use me.” Only I forgot to set good boundaries and it came out more along the lines of “Here I am Church, abuse me.”
This was my entry into the Martyr season of my life, unfortunately I to had to crash and burn-out (again) before I listened to what God actually wanted me to do and not want I thought I should be doing. I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t tell me to work outside the home and lead a women’s ministry and build a freelance writing career and raise three children and start a church all at the same time.
Only Satan could be such a masochist.
But the enemy of my soul didn’t have the last word. Jesus picked me up –again- and gave me a lesson on boundaries and we started over. Much of my journey has been trial and error, but certain activities do draw me closer to God.
5. Spiritual Disciplines that ACTUALLY work
a. A life of Prayer
b. A life of Worship
c. Space to Reflect
d. Jesus with Skin On (friends who keep you accountable)
e. Occasional Fasting(from food, tech, muffins or anything you obsess on)
f. God’s Word
Here is what this looks like in my life…
I do only what I am called to. I say no more than yes, but when I say yes I am all in. I mother, I write, I go to the park and swing in the sunshine, and I have time to love my husband. I volunteer within my giftedness and serve when I see a need and where God opens a door. I lean into friendships.
Life is much quieter now –more simple and yet far more abundant. I pray constantly but it’s more like breathing and talking to my best friend instead of me picking verses and promises and expecting God to move in my time. I journal when I want to probe my heart. I read to grow deeper and I try to find solace and encouragement in the scriptures –not as a to-do list or a way to gain the approval of God.
Part of getting to know God was also getting to know myself and the depravity of my own heart.
So when I reflect on getting to know God –I can only describe it as a long journey with a good friend who just so happens to be the creator of the universe.
And the Real Dudes I see who are near to God seem to roll with the Big Guy too.
When Christian husbands hear the words Spiritual Leadership they often cringe and move into an emotionally defensive ninja posture. They cover their ears and hum “nu nun nu nun” to drown out the sound of the “oh so subtle” but fully loaded assault they know their wife is about to lob at them.
“Did you hear what Pastor Awesome did for his wife for their anniversary? OMG…he flew her to a chapel in Tuscany where they ate biscotti and strawberries dipped in crème fraiche. Then he knelt before her, gave her a monogrammed gold leaf bible and prayed for world peace. Wow, what spiritual leadership!”
And then this sweet, loyal and loving husband, who goes to work every day, provides a home and provision, plays horsie with his kids, coaches baseball and takes his wife to brunch every Sunday after church hunches his shoulders, looks morose and feels completely inadequate.
And the reason he feels like a schmuck is because too many women confuse Spiritual Leadership with a cross between Fabio and their youth pastor –a Jesus-y James Bond sort of guy with a golden tongue who waxes poetic spiritual metaphors about car-care and the football draft from his pre-dawn quiet times with the Lord.
All too often, Christian wives inadvertently adopt a distorted idea of Christian manhood as a spiritual measuring stick for their husband. They take a few examples of biblical application regarding humility or faith (or any fruit of the spirit for that matter) from the pastor’s Sunday message and apply it with a broad stroke to beat their husbands up with after the service.
They don’t envision a real man, a real life and the day-to-day decisions which encompass true spiritual headship of a family. Pastors aren’t all saints or perfect husbands (although my man is a rock star) and a guy doesn’t need to work for the church to be a true minister of Jesus Christ and strong spiritual leader to his wife and kids.
What men do want to aspire to (and their wives can gently encourage them to) –are spiritual disciplines which will help them develop a closer relationship with God and therefore build strength and leadership within the marriage. So, I’ve got a few ideas culled from the plethora of awesome men I have the privilege to know (and yes…I’m talking about you Mariners MV men) . These are the traits and attributes I see exhibited in their lives which bless the socks off their adoring ladies!
Sam’s Tips to Develop Real Dude Spiritual Leadership
1. Get to Know God
2. Pray with your spouse
3. Intimacy (Christian code word for SEX)
4. Serve One Another
5. Parent with Purpose
6. Rethink Love as an Action Verb
The next six blog posts will address these traits and give helpful suggestions for Christian couples who are honest enough to pull out the jammed logs blocking their vision and get real about their marriage, the state of their own heart and what it means to love like Christ did.
And just in case you think this is a series written only for men…I want to challenge you with this.
I believe, above all these tips, the most important factor in a man’s spiritual leadership is his wife’s ability to AFFIRM, stop nagging, pray, forgive, and become her husband’s biggest champion allowing God to transform her husband into the man of her dreams in his time.
I didn’t grow up a Christian. Pagan might be more appropriate title. I thought Jesus was related to Santa and as far as I knew, he lived in the mythical world of leprechaun’s and Easter bunnies.
But if I’m honest, I’ve always known God. I just wondered if he knew me.
It started in high school with the Christian Club. Mildly curious, I snuck into the back of a meeting one day, but when I saw who gathered, I turned on my heels and fled. It was the goody-two shoe kids –the ones who smiled to my face and gossiped behind my back. I was pretty sure their beaming faces were not motivated by the love of baby Jesus, but were masking a snarky agenda. Beyond skeptical, I figured they were merely looking for a new sucker to clap and sing along so they could get a new patch to stitch on a shiny Jesus vest.
So I kept my distance –I played it safe.
In college, the whole Jesus phenomenon was catching on like wildfire, but once again I held back, despite being surrounded by a posse of friends all dying to drag me to the Harvest –whatever that was? But I watched those who claimed to follow Christ –like a hawk.
Secretly, I struggled with the idea of how someone could say a prayer to Jesus and then all their problems would be magically resolved. A + B = Easy Life. It seemed too simple and trite. Besides, I liked brooding, emotion and drama, and these happy Christians types annoyed me. I perceived phoniness in “my grandma died, my dog died and I ran out of money…but praise the Lord” rhetoric. I didn’t want to be anyone’s project and then there was my irrational fear of being hijacked by a cult of ghastly Sunday singers with tambourines.
I’m not musical.
But one day I ended up in church, because a guy I liked wanted to go, and it wasn’t the saccharin-y sweet crowd I expected. I didn’t have to check my intellect at the door or even sing if I chose not to. It wasn’t the Happily Ever After message –it was simple and straight forward and the words connected to my spirit.
It didn’t feel like a traditional church, but more like a movement. The people wore jeans and flip-flops and offered genuine smiles. The music was like nothing I’d heard before and formed a knot of emotion in my belly – it embraced me like a child holding out soft pudgy arms for a squeeze. And they offered to give me a free book –a big navy blue bible, which I cracked open that evening. For the first time, I tentatively approached Jesus one baby step at a time.
I was in my Jr. Year at UCLA studying history and political science with my head immersed in the postmodernists –reading Nietzsche, Foucault, and Heidegger right around the time I began this tentative dance with faith and hip Christians and wacky liberals. The cacophony of voices shouting for my attention blended into a dull roar in my head.
The two worlds of church and Godless academia could not have clashed more. Every day at school I was exposed to the belief that all truth was subjective and the study of history was not about exploring factual evidence, but rather acknowledging the perspective of certain cultures or a person throughout time.
In this scenario: NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE.
Many narratives of the same story (i.e. told by the soldier, the general, the historian and the token woman) gave credence to a historical account, but in a vacuum of certainty everything was up for reinterpretation. My paradigm for accepting knowledge was deeply shaken and subconsciously I began to question everything –not a good place to be when you’re already an over-thinker.
Postmodern thought breeds skepticism, tolerance, distrust, and disrespect for authority. In the absence of truth, faith becomes a childlike malaise that one needs to cure by throwing more knowledge at it. Reading excerpts of Nietzsche is hauntingly similar to the words of Solomon. Everything is meaningless under the sun.
But Nietzsche forgot the “Without God” part.
And that messed with me!
Postmodern thought is completely satisfied with leaving out the conclusion that nothing makes sense without God. To Postmodern teaching, nothing makes sense period!
I couldn’t sleep at night thinking my existence in life was a random accident.
I was twenty-two years old when I decided to hedge my bets on a carpenter from Nazareth. Each Sunday I drove seventy miles from West LA to Newport Beach, CA to attend Mariners Church to learn a little bit more of the person and the message of Jesus Christ. I might have been dragged there the first time but I came back because I heard something different and terrifying.
A STILL SMALL VOICE OF LOVE
I began to consider a life guided by one truth, one absolute, and one savior. Against all my faculties, my heart and mind waged war against the simplicity of the Gospel.
I had constructed a life built on achievement –do more, be more, shine the brightest (and hide the bad stuff) and this tore apart the very fabric of my foundation. I didn’t need a rescuer because I had it all figured out.
But late at night, in the recesses of my soul there was a ravaging fear that I was alone, unlovable, and unworthy.
But Jesus –not religion, or formulas, or a magic pill –changed everything.
Once exposed to the truth it chased me down. God pursued me. Even though the Bible contradicted all that I considered to be true about relativism, something within me responded when called.
I’ve been walking with God now for eighteen years and here is the ONE THING I KNOW TO BE TRUE –God’s love is radical and it’s for you and for me and the redemption of the world.
Tambourines are optional.
God’s word tells me I was created to rest and abide in a relationship with him finding value, meaning and mission. He tells me I am forgiven and loved and worth dying for.
But how do I translate the truth about this reckless love into a culture bombarded by strategic assaults on our very method of interpreting truth?
The postmodern culture or relativist pluralism that I encountered fifteen years ago in college has morphed into a similar but different animal after 9/11. The irrational idea that all opinions or views are equally valid is now juxtaposed with an emerging awareness of “being”.
Threatened with terrorism, a blatantly consumerist culture, the organic backlash of the Occupy movement, and a burgeoning environmental consciousness; modern thought has turned introspective and idealized.
While no one wants to live in dire poverty, our children yearn to live in a more enlightened state of consumption than we did. They are aware of social injustice and their place within a global paradigm. Diversity no longer means a scholarship in the NCAA, but it is the acknowledgment of the marginalized in society. Women, homosexuals, the oppressed, children in Uganda…these voices are being heard by a new generation.
Because of this massive shift, I believe the church therefore needs to adapt and catch up to the culture. It’s not that the message of Jesus needs to change, but maybe the methodology in which we articulate Christianity needs amakeover.
When we view Christianity as a movement and not an institution it changes everything. We don’t have to have all the answers or put God in a Sunday box. It means our faith is dynamic, evolving, and always in flux.
It means Christianity is like the love of a lifetime not a one night stand. It’s the high of racing down the aisle to marry my beloved and the crushing disappointment of day-to-day drudgery as life marches on. It’s the achievements met together, the shattered dreams unrealized and the weary acceptance as I realize conflict is inevitable. It’s looking into the eyes of my aging spouse and aching for something more –an intimacy dependent on the mysterious. It’s the brief moments when our souls make contact and God reveals himself like thunder and rain washing over my heart and I know I am his and he is mine.
Faith –just like love is fragile enough to be lost but strong enough to stand eternity on.
If indeed our faith in Christ is a constantly evolving paradigm, how do we, as ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ, walk on the rushing water of a raging river instead of planting ourselves in a stagnant pool?
When I was in the hospital a few weeks ago the nurse blew up a plastic glove, drew a carton face on it and handed it over to my two-year old Kolby who promptly named it “Perk.”
I like this name –Perk.
It’s chipper and cheery –rather an invigorating moniker. It reminds me of strong coffee and laughter and liveliness. In a sterile hospital ER, Perk just might be the perfect name for a balloon friend.
Perk had big eyes with long lashes and a five finger-hawk for hair. She was a bit edgy, unpredictable –as far as balloons go and slightly mysterious. In all the craziness of EKG’s and CT Scans, Perk and her friend Joe made my day a little brighter.
Joe was daddy’s creation. The first balloon/glove creature met an untimely pop, so Tim decided to pirate a hospital glove and make his own version.
(I love how both the balloons have coffee references –it’s like these people know me)
Joe turned out to be a survivor. After three weeks, he is still going strong although I do expect to come home one day and find nothing but fizzled plastic and a choking hazard lying where he used to be.
I will always treasure Perk and Joe because they brought me comfort on a scary blue day.
I love balloons!
Their sole purpose on this planet is to garner a smile (please don’t bring up landfills here and rain on my freaking parade).
Balloons are for celebrations and surprises and I don’t know what to say so get yo’ butt better soon!
They are a bundle of “I’m sorrys” in shiny cellophane, vibrant airbags of kisses, and a thousand floating prayers with curly strings.
Balloons mean something.
I imagine Jesus has a few balloons in the back pocket of his purple robe. He probably pulls them out and creates ridiculous balloon animals like rhinos and octopi. I bet he plays around and prototypes new animal creations before dropping them on a remote island to mess with Darwinian scientists.
And sometimes, he helps a little two-year girl in a hospital name her balloon friend Perk to cheer up her mommy.
People keep asking my husband and me if we are knocked up yet. I’d bemoan the lack of modern civility but since I did post our intent to procreate to the entire internet universe –I might have to own this one and take the hit.
So, in all honesty I’m a little conflicted now about birthing another child.
After our recent miscarriage and the most difficult season of parenting I have ever experienced, another baby –even a blond chubby cheeked cutie –represents a future teenager. And it’s enough for me to hide any atrophied eggs at age thirty-nine I have left when my husband gets that gleam in his eye.
We sensed God telling us to try for another munchkin and we obediently tried. It didn’t work. So my thinking is maybe the whole scenario might simply be about listening to God and following his direction. PERIOD. And maybe this is where it ends.
Maybe tragedy can also be MERCY and maybe it doesn’t have to make sense.
Might I need a new equation?
God+ direction=obedience
(Results not guaranteed)
Sometimes the Christian life doesn’t lead to happily ever after and little bow tied Jabez-y blessings.
What if God is more interested in my knowing him and following him than the places and circumstances he leads me to?
They say life is about the journey and not the destination. I think it’s about staying on the heels of the trail guide no matter where he takes you.
I think Jesus is more interested in us saying YES to him when he calls, but it doesn’t guarantee what we say yes to will ever come to fruition.
And isn’t this the mystery, frustration and beauty of the Christian life?
Some decisions are too big to flip a coin over and so we pray and plead and ask the big guy for a sign. But in marriage this gets a little murkier when one person clearly hears God and yet their spouse remains unsure.
So is the case in the Keller relationship. We have a big whopper of a choice to make but there has been disparity between the two of us as to when to pull the trigger. I’d tell you what this big superdeeduper decision is but then I might lose my special agent status and possibly compromise national security.
Anyway, God was clear with me on the details but fuzzier with my hubby Tim.
We faced one another sitting Indian style on our bed one night (certainly the best way to compromise) discussing the pros and cons of our issue and Tim suggested we ask for fleece from God.
Now fleece harkens back to the tale of Gideon in the Bible, who asked for a sign from God after an angel appeared asking him to lead the Israelites in battle against the gnarly Midianites who were terrorizing the Israelite people and forcing them to hide in caves after overrunning their country.
Gideon was understandably freaked out at the angel’s suggestion. He promised to obey the command: but before commencing the battle he oh so casually requested a sign from God that the Israelites were certain to win the battle. The sign Gideon asked for was this –that when he laid a fleece of wool on the ground, if the victory was with Israel, then the fleece would be wet and the ground dry.
He placed the wool on the ground, and taking it up the next morning found it wet, although the ground was dry. So he knew God was saying “get your sword out dude.”
But Gideon was still uncertain. He pleaded with God for a second sign. This time the ground was to be wet and the fleece of wool dry. God, who is infinitely more patient than me gave him the desired sign and then Gideon humbly obeyed and went out and kicked some Midianite butt.
Now Tim –just like Gideon –was requesting fleece. It would appear he was simply asking for a sign, but I know my husband and in the back of my mind, I thought, “OK GOD, YOU HAVE TO PROVIDE FLEECE.”
Maybe a stinky sheep wool sweater or a wet stuffed Easter lamb on the lawn would suffice? I know how literal my husband is and all the various ways God was clearly speaking to me weren’t making an impact on him.
So I’m on the freeway a few days later and I glance up at this white van in front of me and the license plate reads, “GOT FLEECE?”
It was my Evan Almighty moment! My burning bush, my donkey talking! YESSSSSS!
Shaking and laughing, I risked peril and near death to reach for my iPhone and snap a few pictures to prove the sign to my husband.
Tim studied the pictures intently that evening and agreed this was indeed a sign. He gave me that wise pastor look, “Sam, clearly God has spoken through a van on the 5 freeway.”
But then Tim (being Tim) smiled at me and said tongue in cheek, “Ok, now we wait for a second sign.”
Jinkies! I know my husband is willing to follow whatever God calls him to do, I mean the man left his six-figure corporate income to go into ministry. But come on…recognize the awesomeness of the van!
But then I am reminded how in marriage we don’t always see eye to eye and his quest for clarity might be a gift from God to balance out my more spontaneous nature.
There’s a knot where my emotions live. If I think about the knot it makes me want to cry. So every effort to write has been rather futile this last week. I reach for inspiration and the knot is like a lump of noodles clogging my drain… I mean brain
I’m not that great at grieving. If stuffing had a competitor at Thanksgiving it would be me. Generally my emotions only leak out in intimate small group settings where I feel really safe –and then some sort of emotional dam opens and I break down from bottling emotions that have been pent-up for ages, like a fine wine gone bad with bitterness. It’s a weepy snotty affair and I associate this with weakness.
So the way I protect myself from emotional hijacking is to lead the group and be a great listener. It’s a safer place –always being the strong one.
I realized the other day, after my third round of blisters from shingles in three months, something needs to give. I don’t want to live in this guarded place of protecting myself from hurt. All too often I stay subtlety detached, not wanting to get too close to people, because they might leave me or hurt me, so I hover at a healthy distance and inoculate myself from pain before it can catch me.
But it always finds me. I can’t hide from life. And if I’m honest, I hate this about myself. I don’t want to miss out on passion and laughter and joy to avoid discomfort and devastation.
I married Mr. Fun who wears his emotions on his sleeve and experiences high highs and low lows. And somehow I have allowed myself to live vicariously through his emotional life so don’t have to have my own.
I stand at a distance and remain the steady ship swimming through the churning seas. One is not better than the other, but I recognize the two together don’t equal a whole. Sometimes it’s just two broken pieces patched together and leaking.
I buy into the lie that I need to be the glue in my family. I imagine I wouldn’t be getting shingles if I let myself unravel a little bit more. I have become a secret control freak who only cries at other people’s stories.
You know something’s out of whack when you’re friend has a miscarriage and you are so upset she has to console you. This lovely friend came over last night to be there for me in my time of need and I remained dry eyed and stoic –where are my tears hiding?
So here’s my goal for the next few months –to let go and FEEL deeply. To not hide behind the laughs but to live them, to stop minimizing, and to go to the dark places in life recognizing that even there I am not alone.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. (Psalm 139:11-12)
For all of you covert Type A’s hiding behind being nice and steady and secretly overwhelmed up to their eyeballs –care to join me in this adventure?
