Cancer. Such an ugly word. And an even uglier reality. On August 8, 2017, my husband and I found ourselves staring grimly into each other’s eyes, and acknowledging the fact that cancer had now become a part of OUR reality, regardless of how we felt about it in that moment. Numbly, we made decisions about surgery to have the tumor debulked, and then there were a plethora of scans and a pile of bloodwork to sift through…followed by many tearful conversations where we discussed the very un-fun reality of the fact that chemotherapy was clinically indicated, and mulled over the ways that this would affect our plans for both the present and the future.

I’ve been a nurse for several years now. But what I’m learning through this experience—this odd sensation of being a family member of the patient instead of being the caregiver—is that somehow, even when the prognosis post-treatment is GREAT, the reality of the fact that cancer has affected someone you love is devastating in an earth-shattering, mind-numbing, norm-changing way that leaves one reeling. And searching. And questioning. And hurting.

Gradually the overwhelming ache of that hurt gives way to a softening and acceptance that opens the door for others to come in and quietly minister, but this has been a process. Let’s face it, yours truly has never been good at asking for or accepting help.

To allow others to glimpse in and see our pain and walk with us through this season of tears and chaos has been acutely painful. Over the years, I’ve become selfishly attached to the idea that we should always strive to appear to have things all together—to be invulnerable, to hide our needs, to smile through whatever might be happening under the surface, and to always be “fine,” even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. And when my Father placed me in this situation where I can no longer pretend that I’m invulnerable—where I’m clearly NOT fine, where our family has needs on many fronts, and where I’m no longer able to pretend that I can single-handedly hold everything together—I was suddenly forced to realize just HOW attached I’d become to the notion of invulnerability. It can be surprisingly painful to have our idols pried away.

We certainly don’t have everything figured out at this point. We’re hopefully nearing the end of Jon’s final round of chemotherapy, but there will be more bloodwork, and more tests…which will tell us if there will be more surgery, and potentially more chemo. Cancer has robbed us of our old sense of normal, it’s true—but what we’re realizing through this journey is that the death of the old sense of normal was long overdue.

It’s still hard. There are still lots of tearful days. Chemo totally sucks. But we’re finding that as we’ve been open—gradually, timidly—with people about our pain, and our needs, and our situation, we’ve been overwhelmed by the love, the support, and the crazy sense of being valued that have flowed back towards our tiny family.

We’ve received so much grace undeservedly, and we are truly grateful. 

Things that tickle my funnybone

Scenario 1:

I came home from clinical rotations the other day to find my five month old lying on her back on our bed with my husband leaning over her.

“What’s up, babe?” I asked as I breezed into the room.

“Watch this,” he whispered.

I looked over to see Raedyn combing carefully through his beard with both hands—very gently, with a look of intense concentration on her little face.

“She does this for like an hour every day,” Jon confessed. “I’m kind of afraid to shave—what if she doesn’t love me anymore?!”

Ah, babies. They learn so early on how to train their big humans…

Scenario 2:

A good number of my clinical rotations involve rounding in nursing homes to assess the health of some completely adorable and yet surprisingly feisty little grandmas and grandpas. Sometimes nursing homes are like having a front-row seat to a bunch of adult sized kindergarteners and their drama.

There is one duo in particular who crack me up on a regular basis. Resident A in this room has very severe dementia, and very little of what she says makes any sense. She asks a lot of questions, but doesn’t remember what she said 30 seconds ago anyway, so she’s easily redirected.

Resident B in this room is significantly more alert and oriented—she tells me frequently with smug satisfaction that she still “has all her marbles.” (Although she tells me this SO frequently that I’m beginning to wonder if some of those marbles might not be rolling away.)

Resident B is greatly annoyed by what she terms the “gibbering idiot” of a roommate that she is forced to put up with, but her way of handling it is what cracks me up.

You see, Resident A will frequently lie in her bed during naptime or at night and ask very loudly, “God? God, is that you?!”

At which point, Resident B will holler from behind the curtain that divides their room: “This is God! Shut up!”

And Resident A will look amazed that she has just been visited by the Divine Himself. Her little mouth drops open a few centimeters, and then she says, “Oh! Thank you, God!”

At which point Resident B chuckles like a naughty little school girl and goes back to watching her television in relative peace.

Oh. My. Goodness. I about died the first time I heard this interchange. But staff assure me that it occurs not infrequently…

I realized this morning that, while my 3 month old has more adorable outfits than she will probably ever wear before she grows into the next size (this happens approximately every 2 weeks), her mother has been wandering around the house in the same old ratty nursing bra and workout shorts for the past three days.

Which caused me to realize three things:

• I should get out more. It would force me to actually get dressed like a normal human.
• I should order new nursing bras.
• I really wish I looked better in onesies and footie pajamas. That would just be so fun.

My husband and I recently had a brutally honest discussion about allocation of housework within our home. It may or may not have been preceded by a bit of a melt-down by none other than yours truly…

We had gone out to eat together, sans baby—the first date we’d been on since the baby came almost three months ago. And as he watched me picking at my sushi, he asked, as well-intentioned men will,

“How are you doing, babe?”

I, of course, said that I was fine. And looked down at my sushi. And burst into tears.

At which point, of course, my poor husband began to realize that I was, in fact, not fine. Not at all. He was probably thinking, “Curses! I should know better than to ask that question!”

Anyway, all of this led to a conversation about who was doing what within our household, and since we reached the conclusion that he was (sometimes) putting his dishes in the dishwasher, and I was doing everything else, we decided to maybe divvy some things up a little differently.

Which is how it came about that my husband is now doing the laundry for our family. And he’s doing a fabulous job of it, I must say—he’s a good deal faster at folding things and putting them away than I am.

But the other day, I walked into our bedroom and saw my husband looking at me ruefully from the other side of a veritable Mount Everest of clean laundry.

“Babe,” he said, shaking his head somewhat mournfully, “I really liked it better when the laundry just magically got done.”

I probably got a smug little grin on my face as I started helping him fold clothes…because inwardly, I confess I was thinking, “Cool. I’m a magician. A magic laundry woman. I knew I had special powers of some kind…”

One of my favorite parts about mornings these days is watching my two month old wake up, and seeing her bi-secondly mood swings flit across her face.

It starts with much (as in, VERRYY much) squirming, grunting, and mini squeals, and then you can pretty much see her little internal dialogue start going:

“Ugggghhhh…I just really really do NOT like waking up. This is so stressful.” Her little face scrunches up like a tiny crinkle-nosed pink walrus pup.

Then one eye squints open, and my tiny human starts looking around with a dazed expression.

“Wait. Whoa whoa whoa. Hold the phone. There’s my mom! Oh my goodness, I just love her so much! I can’t believe she’s here again!”

A huge smile starts spreading slowly across her face--and is replaced half a second later as her eyebrows scrunch together in a concerned expression.

“Um, actually…this is really worrisome. I just realized I’m hungry.”

“Oh my gosh, I am SO hungry! Like, I’m not gonna be here anymore if I don’t eat pretty much right now!”

“Wait just a second. Is that the DOG? How does the dog DO that with her tail? That is just soooo interesting to me. Although I do wish that tail was closer."

She sighs heavily at this point.

“Ok, seeeerrriously hungry right now. Stay focused. Where’d mom go? Oh, right. She never moved.”

And then she leans over, butts me with her nose, and looks up into my face expectantly.

Um, yes. Yes, child, I do know what you want. You make these things abundantly clear.

Guys, I’ll be perfectly honest: on a scale of one to Martha Stewart for housekeeping prowess? I’m pretty close to a one most of the time. Some weeks zero. As in, zero vacuuming happening, zero dusting, very close to zero organizing, and only the bare minimum of dishes and laundry being done.

Particularly since this little chunk joined us, but I can't really use her for an excuse on this one, because, let's be real, I was a pretty not-so-great housekeeper even before she came. (Becoming the next Martha Stewart is on my list of things to do before I die, but so far, I'm a little behind on that goal).

Dustbunnies are the bane of my existence--like, seriously, WHERE do they come from? And how do they get together and make dustbunny babies SO ridiculously fast?!

But I kind of felt like I had reached a new all-time low when I walked into the kitchen this morning and found my dog walking around licking the floor.

Um, dog? Rude. Very rude.

Honestly, I really didn’t think the floor was THAT bad, but clearly homework has displaced housework for long enough. Mop time it is...

Parenting Practice

One of the things that continues to amaze me about tiny humans is how they're capable of producing adult-sized bodily function noises despite their miniature proportions. Sometimes my amazement spills over into my adult conversations with my poor spouse:

Jon, texting from work: "Hey babe, what are you up to?"

"I'm sitting here reading pathophysiology and listening to our daughter fart like a man in the next room."

"Sounds about right..."

She also burps like a drunken sailor and squeals like a full-grown piggy when she feels that her tiny personage is not receiving adequate amounts of parental attention.

And what's super crazy? I LOVE it!

We're baaaaack!

I'm resurrecting the old blog, at the request of friends. But it's been so ridiculously long since I've posted anything that I figured I should probably do a brief catch-up-to-where-we're-at-in-life post. 

Last time I posted, I was a college senior, studying nursing at Liberty University out in Lynchburg, Virginia. While I was there, I met this boy named Jonathan that I really liked:

(I think he liked me too).

We studied together, went on lots of fun dates and some crazy road trips (I got us lost a lot)...and finally, we could officially say we'd survived school, and were all gradamucated and edumacated, and all that there stuff. So fun. 

Then Jon and I had a heart-to-heart, and decided that we still did really like each other quite a bit, despite me getting us lost on all of those road trips, and he asked if I would consider NOT moving back to Wisconsin (gasp!)? I said well...I'd think about it. And then I moved to Arizona, to the middle of the desert, to live closer to this boy that I liked--I know, I know. A cheese-eating, brat loving Midwesterner plopped down in a Phoenix suburb. I'm still not over the shock myself, and it's been two years. 

I started working full time as a nurse, and in between workdays, sometimes we went on fun road trips. I drove and he navigated, and we got lost a lot less. 

That first summer in Phoenix drew to a close. And then that fall, the boy I liked flew me to California and asked me to marry him. While kneeling on a rock at Lover's Point that was apparently very hard and rock-like (he found this out because his girlfriend was so surprised by his question that it took her like five minutes to find her tongue and answer). 

But I said yes, I would love to marry this boy. So he gave me a ring to hold me to my word, and we started planning a wedding to make it official. 

11 months later, we flew to Wisconsin and got hitched, surrounded by happy cows and smiling cheese-eaters. (And several lactose-intolerant friends and family that we were equally pleased to see).

Then, because weddings and planning them and all that stuff is kind of stressful, we took a little honeymoon cruise to the Bahamas to celebrate being done with that chapter. And we had so much fun and ate way too much...and then we had to come home and get back to being adults with real jobs and real bills and all that stuff. But together. Which made it better. 

Well, we decided that being married was so much fun that we should also try being grad school students...and parents. So I started my doctorate, and he started his PhD...and on our one year wedding anniversary, we learned that in nine months, a little squeaky person would be making our lives a whole lot more interesting. Also less restful. But we didn't fully appreciate that fact until later. 

Raedyn Susannah

Fast-forward a few: we moved to a new house the beginning of January. Moving all of those boxes? That didn't start labor. I lifted heavy patients at work. That didn't start labor either. I walked the golf course behind our house for hours and hours and hours. Which also didn't start labor, in case you were wondering. Babies just come when they decide they want to, apparently, and on January 23, 2016, this little chunk finally joined us. All 10 lbs 12 ounces of her, which included a marvelous set of lungs that she's been exercising multiple times a day ever since. 

Which brings us to the present. My daughter, dubbed Squeaky as a result of her verbal contributions to the family airspace, is now eight weeks old. I still haven't flunked out of grad school. My husband hasn't starved to death. And both of us are still mostly sane. So I mean, for now, I'm calling that success. ;-D

Sometimes the most poignant, impactful reminders of truth come from people who are simply speaking candidly, graciously, and truthfully from a heart that has been transformed by a loving, gracious, and truthful God.

This past week, there were many times when I needed to be reminded of truth. This is a season of change for me, and sometimes the magnitude of those changes is a little unnerving. College undergrad is officially ending. My time in Lynchburg is drawing to a close, and relocation is looming on the horizon yet again. Friendships are going to change, as the diaspora of the tightly-knit community of Liberty nursing seniors takes each of us to different places all over the nation—even all over the world. There’s the pressure of finding a new place to live, of finding a job, of searching for a new church community in a new city, of forming new friendships...

And when I think about all of that, and really sit back and soak in the potential magnitude of each one of those factors, it’s a little overwhelming.

I would like to say that being overwhelmed causes me to pray, sing, encourage my friends, make cookies, read my Bible, or engage in other effective, happy, admirable coping patterns, because that would just be really great, right? Of course right.

But more often than not, unfortunately, I’m afraid I respond with not-so-effective coping patterns like…fuming, being grumpy, making extensive lists of things-I-should-be-doing-but-ain’t, and just generally not enriching the planet by modeling how faith in action is supposed to look. Yeah. Pretty much that.

By Friday of this past week, I had been looking entirely too much at the veritable mountain of homework calling my name, the pile of other responsibilities, and the river of uncertainties waiting on the other side of the chasm called college graduation. I was a little overwhelmed. And more than a little grumpy.

And I was frustrated with myself for being grumpy and overwhelmed, because, I mean, hello? By the time someone hits their mid-twenties, they’re supposed to be practically perfect in every way, like Mary Poppins, and perpetually happy, and able to fly on their umbrella, and stuff, right? Well, maybe not the flying on the umbrella thing. But whatever. You get the idea.

Thus it was that I found myself sitting beside my awesome man on Friday night, apologizing for the fact that I’d been stewing and fussing under my breath all evening, and yet, even as I apologized, I confess I was still feeling more than a little out-of-sorts as I thought about all that needed to get done in the next twenty four hours. (My man, incidentally, I have found to be practically impossible to exasperate, because he seems to have the patience of Mother Theresa and the imperturbable good humor of Robin Williams…God knew he’d need both, I’m guessing).

Jon is also one of the most patient listeners I have ever met, bless his heart, and so he just sat there, and listened, and took my hand, and listened some more, and nodded understandingly, and patted my hand, and nodded again (I talk when I’m stressed, I found out. A lot. Like, a verrrry lot). And then, he smiled—a very patient, slightly-amused kind of smile, and leaning in close, he said in a low voice,

“You know…it’s ok to be human.”

That was all he said. And that was all he needed to say.

Somehow, it was what I needed to hear—to remember that it’s ok to not have it all together. It’s ok to struggle. It’s ok to mess up, freak out, fall apart, and just generally not be superwoman. Contrary to popular personal opinion, the world doesn’t end when that happens.

So grateful for grace. For second chances. For people in my life who remind me that it’s ok to feel and admit weakness. For a God who accepts us as we are, and, in His wisdom, uses those weaknesses of ours to showcase His strength.

Although I still think it’d be really great to be able to fly on an umbrella. Talk about handy.  

You know, I’m now 24 years old, and I have to admit that sometimes, in spite of the official adult status, I am afraid. Like, scared out of my mind, ridiculously afraid—and of things that I ought not to be.

                I normally would not admit these things—even to myself. But in the past few months, I’ve realized in talking to others that many of us are struggling with the same fears…and also that often times, there is redemptive healing in honesty about the things with which we wrestle alone at night in the isolated depths of our minds.

                So yes. I admit that I’m often afraid. Normal people are afraid of things like spiders and falling off the top bunk in their sleep at night, and yeah, I’m afraid of those things too, but some of us struggle with fears that run deeper—fears that are more pernicious, more soul-destroying, more devastatingly undermining of our identities as people.

 Perhaps the biggest fear—the one that has followed me thru three colleges, into other countries, and finagled its ugly way into the gritty details of each friendship in my life—is the fear that somehow, I’m not enough. Not funny enough, not caring enough, not smart enough, not godly enough, not gifted enough, not relational enough, not consistent enough, not normal enough, not observant enough, not beautiful enough, not athletic enough, not polite enough—inadequate. Undesirable. Incompetent. Worthless. Unlovable. Incapable of commanding respect.

There was—and sometimes is—a part of me, deep down, that honestly believed that if anyone truly knew who I truly was in my darkest moments, they would turn their back in horror and silently resolve never to spend time with or speak to me again—and even the thought of rejection on that most personal, most real, most unavoidable, most intimate level was so excruciatingly painful that I resolved never to let anyone get that close. I was petrified by the idea of intimacy because it exposed so much which could be so easily and so irreparably destroyed…and yet I yearned for intimacy, because the human soul and heart is designed expressly for the purpose of enjoying rich fellowship on an intimate level with other humans and with our relational God Himself.  

It’s a painful dichotomy—to be deathly afraid of the thing you can’t live without. To be the jailor as well as the inmate in your own prison…to rebuff the intimate advances of others with politeness, with humor, with pretended invulnerability, with a  show of spiritual depth…anything to keep them at a distance emotionally, to keep them from coming in close, to keep them from knowing, to keep them from rejecting, to keep them from deserting emotionally…because if you don’t let anyone in enough that they really know you or really care, then you can’t really lose what you never had when they turn and walk away.

Deep down, I despised myself, and I despised the realness—the earthiness, the lack of perfection—of the human race. I despised myself for wanting an intimacy and honesty in my relationships which I could not admit to and could not allow. I despised others for failing to see thru the façade when I so desperately wanted them to, despised them for not pursuing anything deeper than a superficial friendship, despised them for what I assumed to be their inability to handle the truth—angrily despised the fact that as humans, we only seem to be capable of loving each other until we actually realize that the other person has issues. Then it’s time to bail out.

It was a tremendous burden—the weight of this mountain of contempt, and an ocean full of a deep, seething kind of rage, all of which had to be hidden, smoothed over with a smile, a laugh, a joke, a kind word, the appearance of having it all together…so that no one would ever guess the truth.

Mercifully, our God has wired us in such a way that at some point, in some way, we reach the end of our physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual strength. The pressure becomes too great, the pain too excruciating, and we snap.

Last summer, as I navigated the emotional ups and downs and the physical strain of the book field for the third time while trying to keep 23 years’ worth of unprocessed crap locked tightly inside of my mind and heart, I reached the point where I could no longer hold it all together. I snapped…and it was ugly. For the first time in my life, I admitted to myself that I am afraid, that I’m needy, and that I was absolutely furious with the entire human race, including myself. Emotionally, I was a wreck. Spiritually, I felt empty, abandoned, deserted, and worthless.  

But our God is tremendously grace-giving, and even as He allowed me to come to this lowest point, He was preparing my heart for a gift of healing which I could little foresee or even imagine as I stood at the end of last summer looking forward into the coming semester wondering desperately, brokenly, if the pain of working thru all of the ghastliness of 23 years of life lived as a lie could possibly be worth it.

It was at that point that God—thru an incredibly faithful, incredibly dedicated mentor who has been crazy-committed to loving me unconditionally and helping me to realize that most of my ideas about friendship, intimacy, God, and what it looks like to live out one’s faith were horrifically skewed—reached down and planted a seed of hope. It came in the form of a book, titled “Wounded Heart,” by Dan Allender. It was written to help victims of childhood sexual abuse, which wasn’t a part of my story, but the principles and overarching truths dealing with the process of restoration and healing have been a huge part of the lengthy process of healing and wholeness which God continues to work out in my life.

Do I still struggle with a tremendous fear of not being enough, of being personally rejected, or being deemed inadequate or undesirable by my friends and family? Yep. I absolutely do. But now I admit that to myself. I admit that to my mentors. And I remind myself constantly of the fact that we are called to risk much and love recklessly regardless of reciprocity…that it is before an Audience of One that we stand or fall…that God is our Judge, our Lover, the One who has said—and continues to affirm—that we are ENOUGH in His eyes…that we have tremendous value because He has given us worth, and that because of that, we can be intimate with each other, even if we do so timidly at first, calculatingly, fearfully.

I have realized that in the area of relationship, God works thru our imperfect obedience and our initial failures in the process of learning to be appropriately intimate with each other. I’ve made a whole lot of mistakes in relating to people in the past three years alone…and yet as I continue to allow God to change my thinking, my heart, and my style of relating to people, I also can see that He is continuing to change and grow my relationships with those He has placed in my life. And for this, I am sincerely grateful…although the whole process of being real with people in friendship still scares the willies out of me at least three days out of seven. ;-)

Over Christmas break, I’ve had a little more time to sit and theoretically smell the roses (except that they’re all under lots of feet of snow right now) and think about life. Sometimes that’s a dangerous thing, but God has been using it to remind me to live out my faith more effectively in some very specific areas. At the end of this past rather introspective week, therefore, my prayer is that thru the years, God would preserve and deepen in me a sense of compassion, of humility, of a willingness to learn and an ability to graciously acknowledge when I am wrong and where I have a responsibility to change.

We do not fight against flesh and blood, and yet we live in a flesh-and-blood universe where we are surrounded by flesh-and-blood individuals like ourselves. And thus in our dealings with people, there is a relational component as well as a spiritual one, and a physical component which accompanies the philosophical. When we hyper-intellectualize and falsely spiritualize the earthiness of the human journey towards sanctification, we often separate the physical, emotional and sexual components of human nature from the philosophical, relational, and spiritual ones, and in so doing, we create a fragmented, disjointed picture of humanness in which no human can fully recognize himself, because not all parts of himself are there reflected.

It’s easy to become disconnected from reality in our philosophizing about spiritual themes and truths. However, truth is effective only when it is firmly grounded in reality and thoroughly applicable to the human experience as it truly is—not how it is in theory. My heart has been especially burdened for those who struggle with same sex attraction, pornography addiction, cutting, depression, and eating disorders, because I feel that all of these are areas where Christians need to buck up and step up and sometimes shut up in order to listen, feel, and learn how they can effectively help their struggling brothers and sisters in Christ gain personal victory on the moral frontlines.

Walking with someone thru their issues is messy. And nasty. And sometimes it just makes you feel grumpy. But it’s worth it. And sometimes I feel like we need to be a lot better about reminding ourselves a lot more often that it IS worth it, and that we have a responsibility to care even when we don’t feel like it. To refuse to get involved or to stand apathetically on the sidelines when we know that people are struggling and that we have the capacity to help them through self-sacrificing friendship is ultimately an expression of selfish indifference and possibly even contempt.

“Yeah, I’ve been blessed by God. I’ve been discipled. I’ve been ministered to. I’ve been redeemed, and God continues to sanctify me. But do I care enough to reach out a hand and pull you with me? Frankly…nah. I don’t see that. I don’t think you’re worth that. Sorry.” Um, really? ‘Cuz God kinda thinks differently on that one.

It’s Christmas time. Again. And there’s much talk of keeping Christ in Christmas, and the reason for the season, and sharing Christmas spirit with everyone you meet, and a whole bunch of other jazz, some of which may have been invented by Hallmark Corporate. Which is awesome—I’m totally a fan of people being nice to each other. But I think as Christians we need to take it further than that…it’s not about spreading feel-good fuzzies and warm smiles—although those are great. It’s about being a friend, sharing your heart, sharing your Savior, and investing in people. Year round. So Merry Christmas. To everyone. And may we be Christ-bearers in dark places at all times of the year. :-)

Thanksgiving has come and gone yet again. (It's this weird thing that the calendar does--it keeps moving. Takes me by surprise every year, I confess). And so, very briefly, while I should be studying for my final on Monday morning, I take a moment to chronicle a few of the things for which I have been and am incredibly grateful:

 My youngest niece and nephew...both of whom are a little obsessed with technology and capes. Although Lauren may be...just practicing her impersonation of Superwoman. They bless my life with their kissableness and their perpetual sense of wonder at the little miracles of human existence.

 Superwoman smile. Fashion sense may come later in life. If it doesn't, hey, smiling makes up for a lot. 

 My oldest--and most verbose--nephew, who is here leading a demonstration on how to cough into one's shirt. He blesses my heart and is the source of many laughs. 

My man--sweet, sensitive, Godly, and funny, with a sizeable sprinkle of mischief-maker. 

Coffee. Sometimes, it's the primary thing that keeps me smiling at the end of the day. 

My awesome siblings. For whatever reason, we don't have a picture of all of six of us at any point in the past...very long time. So here are two of my bestest friends in the whole world, and we'll just pretend the other three are in there too. 

Books. The ability to think. The opportunity to study. Oo, and the fact that studies in the formal sense eventually END?! That is a deeply happifying fact in my life right now. 

 Health. Awesome roommates and hilarious friends. And...the fact that none of us got hit by a car during any of our athletic adventures this year is also something for which I'm grateful. 

Dedicated, patient, incredible mentors. Glenn Ransom has poured more into each of us Varsity students than we may ever truly know, and I am deeply, sincerely grateful for his time, his insight, his guidance and love, and (most days) his quirky sense of humor. 

The list could go on and on, because in all honesty, I serve an awesome heavenly Father who has seen fit to bless me in hundreds of ways that I don't deserve but gratefully accept. But, um, my conscience is speaking to me about that final that I really SHOULD be studying for right now, and thus...I must excuse myself without further ado. 

Most of us, if we were truly honest, would have to admit that most days, we want to be known as someone other than who we truly are. We all have our glory moments and our ugly ones…and we’d prefer not to be remembered for the latter.

I was at the library a week ago, pretending to do homework and actually studying people over the top of my computer. One interaction in particular caught my attention and made me wince…and then made me think.

There was a beautiful young lady with lively brown eyes and bouncy brown hair who was in the library on this particular day—and her vivacious personality was oozing out of her along with her warm heart as she flitted from one friend to the next, reveling in the experience of life with them. She probably wasn’t aware of her volume or of the fact that some adults find it difficult to appreciate the vivacity and the joyful exuberance of youth in the context of the library setting.

Thus, the poor little maiden was taken rather off-guard when one of the elderly female librarians approached her indignantly, and proceeded—with cutting words and an angry tone of voice—to demean the child and publicly embarrass her while demanding that she be quiet in the library.

I winced as I listened, remembering silently what it used to feel like to be that little girl. As the little lady marched past me a moment later with her chin stuck defiantly in the air to hide the fact that her little heart was bleeding, I noticed the tears welling up in the corners of her flashing brown eyes, and I wanted to reach out and hug her, and tell her that she was beautiful, that I loved her precious tender heart, and that passion for life is a gift which is often misunderstood and under-appreciated, but no less a gift.

But then my thoughts turned to the librarian. To be honest, I felt keenly angry with her in that moment for the fact that she had needlessly wounded this young woman with her words. There was quite a lot of the Pharisee in my attitude as I judgmentally wondered to myself whether she feels like a jerk when she looks back on her day before going to bed…cuz, by George, she certainly should!

That’s when it hit me that each one of us takes part in this same self-deception on some level or another. If I were to ask this particular librarian how she thinks of herself, I’m sure she wouldn’t tell me she thinks of herself as a vicious, insensitive nasty old woman who says hurtful things to children. She would probably say that she is a compassionate, caring, warm, loving, patient individual who genuinely strives to better the condition of the human race. And you know what? She probably is all of those things on some level and at certain points. But she’s also other things, at times.

And so it is with each one of us. We would love to be defined by who we are in our best moments. But sometimes, let’s face it: we’re just hateful. We say and do things that we are—rightfully—ashamed to own up to when we consider them in hindsight.

Perhaps one of the biggest marks of maturity and growth, then, is an ever-increasing degree of consistency. Do I consistently demonstrate a Christ-like attitude towards those in my life who demand a little extra measure of grace? Do I consistently respond with discernment and love when I’m tempted to be provoked? Am I consistently the person I am called to be? Do I consistently choose to submit to the call of God in my life—to let Christ work in and through me?

The honest answer is, nope, I’m not consistent yet. And I won’t ever be 100% consistent this side of heaven. But my prayer as I walked out of the library was that God would make me mindful of my inconsistencies…and that He would use this awareness to create in me a passionate, humble commitment to first of all, be willing to take responsibility for and own my failures. But secondly, to always be willing to change and seeking to grow in this area…to be transformed into His likeness and to learn to dream His selfless dream for humanity.

For the past four weeks, most of my clinical hours have been with patients who are suffering from psychiatric illnesses, and for whatever reason, this particular patient population really grips me in the gut like nothing I’ve ever done before.

If you had asked me four weeks ago, I might have admitted to you that I believed that most patients in psychiatric settings aren’t really that sick. But what I’m coming to realize is that sometimes, the most serious wounds that we have—the brain hemorrhages and heart attacks that kill people silently and often without warning—are those that can’t be seen. And I think that one of the things that has been most gripping about these psych patients—especially the little kids—is just how deeply wounded they truly are...many of them so much more so than they will ever know.

There are days when I get back into my car after a clinical and put my head down on the steering wheel and cry—cry for my patients, these precious little kids who are so angry and so bitter and so scared that they can’t cry themselves...cry for their parents, who are often so confused they don’t know what it is to love a child or what it feels like to be loved themselves...cry because it hurts to see so many hurting so deeply in numb silence.

But all of this has made me ponder, sometimes throughout the dark hours of the predawn on the days when sleep has fled, about the different forms of human suffering, and how outsiders normally respond to the suffering of others. I read a fascinating article on Boundless.org called “Let’s Talk.” The author, Christopher Riordan, is speaking about communication, but he also makes some interesting points about the way we as people are wired.

In speaking of communication, he says, “I believe all communication begins with who we are (or who we are becoming) and only then moves into the specific ways we speak and interact with one another. If our hearts are ill or fearful, so too will be our interactions with one another. Am I the kind of person who is willing to trust another? Will I share all of myself or hold back for fear? Can I accept what my loved one shares with me, no matter how hard it is to hear?”

Further on in the same article, Riordan continues, “The truth is that many of us struggle with secrets and the dark places of the heart that we dare not share with another. We find it extremely difficult to trust others because we don't see this modeled well in real life. Instead, we witness (and many of us have experienced) what happens when we reveal too much of ourselves. Our partner flees. Isn't this our deepest relationship fear?

Of all the obstacles to open and honest communication, fear may be the most crippling. We fear not measuring up to society's or our loved one's standards. We fear being revealed as a fraud. We fear rejection and loneliness. So we hide those parts of our lives that we believe would threaten the relationship. We set aside true intimacy, which is to be known and loved, in favor of the cold, shallow comfort of our delusions of safety. We forget that mature love comes not after years of being together, but when we release our fears of rejection, failure, loss, heartache.

In the book Hannah Coulter, Wendell Berry's title character reflects on a lifetime of intimate relationships: "You can't give yourself over to love for somebody without giving yourself over to suffering."

Yet, giving ourselves over to suffering is not what any of us would describe as relational bliss. In fact, many of us get married precisely to end our suffering and loneliness. Henri Nouwen tells us:

Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer.”

The sentence that really stuck out to me was Riordan’s comment that “compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely and broken.” It was precisely that desire/ability/disposition to go into the messy places of the heart and do major restoration that made Christ an anomaly, a puzzle, and an endless source of delight to the multitudes who followed Him.

I feel like, all too often, that’s the last place in the world that we want to accompany our friends—to hold their hand and go down under the façade and help them to unpack all of their filthiness and uncover the putrid infected wounds of their soul. We hate that because it scares us—it reminds us too much of our own carefully hidden rotting mess.

 As I was driving home from one clinical in particular, I remembered a conversation that I’d had with a friend over the summer. We were talking about friendship, and she made the comment that she had a lot of friends, and that she loved all of them intensely. I asked her if she loved them enough to be willing to challenge them when they were wrong, and put some tension in the relationship at times for the sake of helping each friend grow and mature. She got really quiet for a moment, and then said quietly,

“Well, no, I don’t really do that. I really don’t like that part.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, I hear you. I feel like there are parts of friendship that we all like—the feel-good parts. The parts where we get to encourage each other, and cheer each other on, and tell each other what we appreciate in one another…all the mushy stuff. We love that. But then when it gets tough—when they’re doing something stupid, and we need to tell them, or when we’re doing something stupid, and they need to bring it to our attention, and we know that the conversation is going to hurt, and that it might make us unpopular for a while…we don’t like that part so well. And a lot of times we let our dislike for the process keep us from being a part of the other person’s growth…which is a pretty high price to pay for superficial popularity, when you really think about it…”

The conversation went on from there, but I’ve thought of it many times since when I was in a place where I needed to gently challenge one of my friends with an uncomfortable truth. The reality is that sometimes, I’m right with my friend: I don’t really do it, because I really don’t like that part. And yet we serve a God who modeled, during His time on earth, what it means to have the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely and broken.

Riordan went on to comment that Christ chose an unfaithful woman to be His bride. That He “surrounded Himself with people who had utterly — and publicly — failed and called them to be His bride, His body on earth” to remind each of us that God is a Father who “accepts us as the broken people we are and transforms us into what we are meant to be.”

At the end of the day, the obvious question that each one of us faces, then, is whether we’re truly willing to give all that it might cost us to follow His example in walking alongside others into the black despair of their weakness, vulnerability, loneliness, and brokenness? Are we willing to face that same blackness in ourselves?

It’s not an easy question to ask, and it’s an even harder question to answer. However, as I work with the broken little ones who surround me in the children’s psychiatric wards and interact with their parents, I’m beginning to see, in the haunted sadness of their empty, pleading eyes, that it’s a question we really can’t afford NOT to ask and answer…and so my prayer is that we—that I—would be willing to go the distance and ready to plumb the depths with each person God calls me to accompany on this journey to wholeness, healing, and divine redemption. 

Wow, so it’s been a while. No, I didn’t die, but yes, I did sort of...fall off the face of the cyber planet for a few months. (This post may therefore qualify as some sort of indication of resurrection. I may celebrate this fact later by taking out the garbage.)

            Part of the reason for this lengthy sabbatical is that, after solemnly promising myself that I wouldn’t be returning to the bookfield ever again after last summer (for mostly wrong reasons), I ended up out on the bookfield this past summer once again, and in looking back, I’m sincerely grateful, both to have had the opportunity to generate some income and for all of the rich lessons that I began to learn during the experience. (Yeah, baby!)

            In the nearly-month-long gap between the end of my time on the bookfield and now, life has been a little bit of a blur, but the experiences and the memories have been a spectacular eclectic mixture.

            At the beginning of the semester, I moved into the parsonage of an ancient Methodist church with four other young women, each of whom is incredibly unique, ridiculously hilarious in her own way, and is a rich addition to the culture and conversation within our little place.

We’re renting the house, and on the inside, it kind of looks like the last people who lived there were hippies. Or maybe they were colorblind. Or maybe they were colorblind hippies. I mean, come on—who paints their bathroom Pepto-Bismol pink and lays puke-yellow carpet throughout the entire house?!

...in an attempt to preserve our sanity, make the house slightly more homey, and build a sense of family spirit, the five of us have undertaken to do some minor remodeling during the past month. (We watch The Property Brothers for inspiration when motivation runs low). Having armed ourselves with plaster, putty knives, paintbrushes, hammers, a miscellaneous assortment of screws and nails, paint trays, and sandpaper, and thus equipped, we have spent the past several weekends pretending to be amateur contractors (we’re doing pretty good at the amateur part. The contractor part, not so much). The results are somewhat amusing, generally happifying (the house didn’t burn down after we re-wired the light fixture—which was a source of much rejoicing), and the process is...probably one that will go on indefinitely. But whatever. We’re learning, and we’re having fun, and we’re not wrecking too many things in the process. (We hope). 

Since every home needs to have a mascot, the hideous little creature pictured below has been lovingly dubbed Mephistopheles, and because looking at him is almost enough visual stimulation to cause one to experience an epileptic seizure, we try to keep him out of sight as much as possible. We accomplish this by hiding him in odd places for discovery by unsuspecting housemates. This particular day, he showed up in the bathtub. He migrated from there to the freezer, standing guard over the frozen strawberries. The next day, he was found strung up in Kristina's closet with a woeful expression on his face. I really want to hang him by his neck from the chandelier one night after everyone's in bed, but the opportunity hasn't presented itself yet. We're also discussing sending him in a care package to a friend of ours in Iraq (we thought he might make a good addition to someone's dog tag). 

It's sure to be an interesting year, and hopefully one filled with as much growth as laughter. I must be off at the moment to spend a few hours administering CPR to plastic men without hearts (I confess, I feel the outlook for this particular patient population to be rather...grim). 

Musings and Muddlings

"It is by the grace of an eternally loving heavenly Father that there is an intolerable inner conflictedness that results from the incongruousness of living with irreconcilable inconsistency in our lives. It is the pain of the tension between what we claim to live by contrasted against the ugly reality of what we actually do that forces us to reexamine our moral and spiritual underpinnings and identify the areas in which we are desperately in need of repentance and renewal.

Do not allow the conflictedness of another to become your own. If you have an answer from Scripture, the fact that another questions its veracity or strives to evade the pain of applying it in their own lives does not make the truth itself less true. You will never save a drowning victim by drowning beside him so that at least he dies in good company."

This is an excerpt from my journal 10 days ago, as I was wrestling deeply with what it means to walk beside someone through difficult circumstances, empathize fully and meaningfully and with compassion, and yet not become entangled in the same web in which they--whether by choice or by happenstance--have become ensnared. For whatever reason, this has always been a tough one for me. It's difficult for me to empathize/sympathize/pray for and with someone without on some level taking personal ownership of their problem and becoming just as distraught--or sometimes more, perhaps--over the situation as they themselves are. Which...is totally not helpful. Yeah. News flash, eh?

What's more, I find that the devil--or is it the weakness of my own heart and mind?--is ever alert for opportunities when I am at my weakest emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and it is usually at these lowest of the low points that I find I am suddenly faced with a series of temptations that brings to light all of the darkest ugliness of my past and present failures with a venomous force that is both frightening and infuriating.

And...it always hits during finals week or the week before. Inevitably, relentlessly, and without fail, there will be a situation that is emotionally and spiritually taxing going on in the backdrop of the academic chaos that already has every nursing student at her wit's end mentally and physically. (Next year, I'm going to start marking these things on my calendar so I can be more fully prepared psychologically).

The past two weeks have been tough, in all honesty. There have been a number of very intense, very draining situations in a number of different friendships that have seemed to demand every ounce of emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical energy that I had...and then just a little bit more. But I'm convinced that frustrated tears, the moments of desperation, and the feelings of helplessness are all ordained by an omniscient Creator to guide each of us--and in this situation, one particular blonde--to realize and accept the fact that we are desperately in need of repentance, renewal, grace, and divine intervention.

May my heart be willing and open to accept and embrace the things that my Father is teaching me through these next several weeks.

What is it to love someone well? I find myself wondering this again as I lean over her bed, trying to help her sit up so I can maneuver her shriveled, crippled body onto the bedside commode, a process which has taken the place of the multiple trips to the bathroom which used to occupy her day.

Do I really care for her—and about her—as I would want someone to care if this were my mother? If this were the body of Christ Himself that I’m touching?

As I’ve witnessed—and gradually become a participant in—this sweet little woman’s journey towards death, I’ve had to ask myself some tough questions about what it means to love someone unconditionally, selflessly, and well.

Do I consistently treat her with respect and courtesy and fight to protect her feelings of personal dignity, regardless of how many times she accidentally pees on the floor, dribbles food all over herself, soils her bedding, or tips over a drinking glass?

I didn’t expect it to be hard to feel the right things in these situations—but sometimes, it IS hard for me. Sometimes, I want to feel impatient…because I forget to remind myself of what it probably feels like to be her right now—to have a mind and a body that are withering away, becoming less capable and less under her control with each passing day. That must be hard. Really hard.

Being in this position—having someone be almost completely dependent—has made me think a lot about friendship, too, and how people are wired.

I feel like it’s a tremendous weakness of human character that would cause us to show less respect for people when they’re physically or mentally incapable of demanding it—and yet I see this. I see this tendency in myself, and I see it in others as well.

And yet, if the measure of a man—or a woman—is determined by what he or she does when no one is there to hold them accountable, then what kind of people are we if we’re less kind, less compassionate, and less considerate when the accountability of answering to a person as capable as we are is removed? Do I provide the same level of care, same kind of compassion, and interact with the same degree of respect for the relational nature of the person for whom I’m caring when they’re unable to respond to me, unable to complain, or express appreciation? Sometimes, I’m ashamed to admit, the answer to that question is no. Which is inconsistent, because for several years, I’ve claimed that I believe that the value of personhood and the sacredness of humanity is in no way diminished by lack of physical or mental capacity. Our actions have a tricky way of betraying what exactly it is that we really believe, regardless of what our mouths say.

Sometimes, the circumstances that make us think, or challenge us to look deeply into the depths of our own character and honestly evaluate what we find there—sometimes these things are part of our own personal journey, which just happens to overlap with someone else’s. And so, in an odd way, I have found that my own personal journey towards exploring—on a new level—the superlative virtue of love has been oddly interlaced with my little landlady’s journey towards meeting the ultimate Lover of her soul face to face.

Over and over again during the past two semesters, I have been brought face to face, in an uncomfortably honest way, with the question of what exactly it means to love someone well.

We live in a generation where it is considered normal—and culturally acceptable—to stand up front and sing in the choir on Sunday and smile in a very spiritual and ever-so-holy fashion at all of the dear parishioners (unless they don’t clap after the choir finishes—then it’s probably acceptable to frown most disagreeably and possibly to send angry glares at certain people), and yet be a completely nasty, ungrateful, whiny and basically dreadful person to be around for six-and-a-half days out of the week.

Yet the Master we claim to be whole-heartedly serving says that men will know us by our fruits…and that we are known not by our words, but by our spiritual power…that the greatest commandment is to love God with all of our heart, soul, and mind, and to love our neighbor as we love ourselves…and that those who are truly sons of God will obey His commandments.

So my question then, is…in a world where we are called to shine as lights—to be counter-cultural, to be different, to be beacons of hope, and life, and love—how are we doing? If we’re failing to be even minimally nice to the homeless guy inconveniently blocking the sidewalk or the annoyingly slow cashier with the crazy hair in the express lane at WalMart, or the waitress who is distracted and distraught and providing rather poor service at Olive Garden, can that really be considered radical, God-inspired supernatural love?

It’s easy for me to point fingers at the ways that Christianity in America has failed—or to get indignant about the fact that the church in America is not living up to her calling. But what I’m brought face to face with over again is that I am a disciple. I am a Christian. I am a part of the church. I am an American. And I have failed to radically show the love of Christ as I’ve been called to do.

Radical change in a nation starts with radical devotion in the heart of one person who submits to the radical calling of a God who demands radical devotion. If I am unwilling to be that person, than I have forfeited my right to criticize anyone else for failing to be that person.

And I guess, what I’m gradually coming to through this journey of the past few months is the realization that each one of us has to deeply want—passionately yearn—to be that person.

While I'm not officially in the same state as this child to lavish him with auntie affection (which would probably cause the poor child to develop a phobia of hugs and kisses), I have been feeling all sorts of mushy things as I flipped through my kid brother's latest photo shoot of my youngest nephew.

The mischievous twinkle in his eye in this one leads me to strongly suspect he may have just done something crazy in his diaper...

"Food? Did someone say...eat?"

Practicing his grandfather pose.

My goodness gracious, this little munchkin gets cuter--and happier--every time I see him. But what on earth is up with children growing up so quickly these days?! Seriously, it feels like yesterday that he was a little urping, squeaking, diaper-filling newborn eating machine who simply blinked dazedly at you and wet his diaper when you smiled in his direction. And now he's eating soup ladles, laughing, and big enough to sit unsupported (a life skill that I still use today, so I'm terribly glad he's developed it).

Every once in a blue moon, you meet one of those incredible people who fall into the category of what Anne of Green Gables would refer to as a “kindred spirit.” It’s an entirely biblical concept, which is dreadfully handy, and in I Samuel 18 we find that David and Jonathan were two average extraordinary guys who had that instant connection to the point where it has been written of them that Jonathan loved David as his own soul, and that their souls were “knit together.” (Which is possibly biblical justification for saying that knitting is superior to crocheting, but check the Greek).

I adore the concept of kindred spirits. It just…tickles my funny bone and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside—kind of like a moldy peach on a hot day in Georgia.

Lately I’ve been thinking a fair amount about what exactly it IS that makes those kindred spirit friendships everything that they are…because hey, if you have the formula, technically that might be helpful, right? Theoretically.

I’ve been really blessed in that I have more than one of those friendships in my life. There’s something remotely magical about each and every one of them.

But what’s characteristic of those friendships?

Well, for starters, they’re emotionally safe friendships. When you spend time with that individual, you know without asking—from experience and from everything that you’ve observed of the person’s character—that they love you, that you love them, and that what is said or done in the context of that friendship is done honestly. There’s no pressure to try to impress, or to pretend to be who we’re not—there’s freedom to be honest about our insecurities, our fears, our failures, and our doubts, as well as the knowledge that that person will rejoice enthusiastically with us in our joys, our victories, and our successes.

Secondly, they protect confidentiality. They know when it’s appropriate to share things outside of the friendship, and when it’s not, and if they’re not sure, they’re willing to ask.

Thirdly, they accept you just as you are without asking or demanding that you change. But they love you enough to challenge you when you head off in the wrong direction.

Fourthly, they’re passionate about the same things that are close to your own heart as well. Whether it’s a burden for homeless people, or the drive to encourage young Christians to create and maintain discipleship accountability relationships with older men and women in the church, or simply a joyful enthusiasm for smashing spiders with rolled newspapers on the weekend, your fundamental drives—the things that really make you tick—are probably nearly the same.

Fifthly, there’s a willingness to overlook faults and laugh off idiosyncrasies that could otherwise be annoying. Willingness to extend grace is a huge part of every friendship, but in kindred spirit friendships, there’s a tacit understanding that we will look for the best in each other, applaud each other’s strengths, ignore the quirks that don’t matter anyway, be honest with each other about our faults, and be open to accountability.

Sixthly, there’s a selfless love that looks at the other person and chooses to see the things that make them incredible, regardless of whether or not others recognize the same thing.

And seventhly (which may not be a word?), they’re joyful people whose presence is life-giving, whose enthusiasm is contagious, and whose love for God, life, and people exudes from them abundantly.

And for all of the above reasons, when you’re with these people, you feel like you’re a little bit more you and a little bit more alive than you could ever be without them. Which is so awesome that it just kinda makes me want to go joyfully murder some spiders with a rolled-up newspaper.

Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out! –Romans 11:33

But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by a human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. For I know of nothing against myself, yet I am not justified by this; but He who judges me is the Lord. Therefore judge nothing before the time, until the Lord comes, who will both bring to light the hidden things of darkness and reveal the counsels of the hearts. Then each one’s praise will come from God. –I Corinthians 4:3-5

God as my Judge. What an AWESOME concept it is to know that it is ultimately before an Audience of One that I stand or fall! And that from time immemorial into the boundless infinite of the future, this One is unchanging.

I have been marveling this past week—silently, and sometimes very sleepily late at night over a cup of tea in the kitchen while having stare-down competitions with one of my landlord’s many felines—over the eternal, undying, permanent, life-giving nature of the freedom which is ours in Christ.

If freedom were simply the removal of finite chains, this would be such a poor excuse for liberty, because chains—both mental, physical, and spiritual—are so easily put in place again…sometimes by others, and sometimes by ourselves.

But the freedom which is ours through Christ is so much more than that…something that quietly, insistently, gloriously, permanently transforms us from the inside out, takes all that is dead and broken within and breathes life and health into it again. And we are changed, and made new, and we are given purpose, and meaning, and significance, and worth—because He is the God Who sees, the God Who is there, the God who loves with an undying, transformative, redemptive love that changes and purifies and breathes life into everything it touches…the God who sees us in our insignificance and beckons to us, woos us, draws us, loves us, invites us to be a son, a daughter...to be a part of His worth, to share in His life, to be loved perfectly, to lose our insignificance in the grandeur and splendor of becoming a part of His omnipotent infinite holiness.

To love—and be loved by—such a God is to be changed; to be healed; to be made alive; and to be exceedingly, radically, counter-culturally different for the rest of your life.