Church and Trauma

Church and trauma. 

Those are two words that do not belong together, and yet, here we are. The last two and a half years have been a shaking I was not prepared for. I make some mentions of this online, but want to fully explain. 

First, I do not believe I need or have to explain myself to anyone in particular. However, being able to speak about it openly is healing. 

How did I get here?

This is a question I often ask myself. There are no good answers, or easy ones. I thought I was doing what God wanted me to do....that I was following His lead. It led me to a stream of Christianity I didn't know existed. It provided me with a realness in a relationship with God I had never experienced. I embraced it with everything in me. It changed the entire course of my life. I can't tell, at this point, if it was for the better or not. Maybe it's both.

Fast forward over 25 years later and the entirety of everything I knew about Church, the leaders I submitted under, the people I "followed as they followed Christ" have ALL turned out to be frauds in one way or another. When I say all, that is not an exaggeration. The uncovering of the covering of abuse is astounding. The abuse itself, even more astounding. Abuse ranging from spiritual to physical to sexual. It's all there. And as a young person, I was left unprotected by shepherds who were supposed to protect. 

Where is here?

This uncovering brought me to a place where I physically do not feel safe attending a church service. I try to attend a service and my body immediately reacts in one of two ways--panic or dissociation. The only way not to panic is to dissociate. Great. This is fun. Love this for me.

About a week ago, I finally realized the trigger. Institutional betrayal trauma*. I don't know why I had not put those pieces together before. I studied about this type of trauma, researching dozens of peer reviewed research articles on the subject. And yet, I was dissociating myself from even that. 

When the realization hit, so did the anger. So did the temptation to rebuke myself for even feeling angry, even though I have reasons to be angry. And anger does not equal unforgiveness or bitterness. Anger is an emotion I was taught to suppress, because it was often equated with unforgiveness or bitterness. I was also taught to deny many of my emotions in general. That was an entirely different kind of crash I navigated through between 2017 and 2019. Don't listen to your gut. Ignore your feelings. Don't talk about them. Don't talk about anything negative. That's gossip. SHHHHHHHH! 

The silencing. The stealing of my voice. The theft of my intuition. It's frustrating. All in the name of Jesus. Spiritual abuse couched as Godly wisdom and Biblical principles. 

So here I sit. Misunderstood by some. Understood by others who also had this experience. We've become the misfits. We don't want the traditional way, because that no longer feels safe. But non-traditional ways aren't always accepted by the mainstream and are hard to find. Self-isolation isn't always the problem. Church traditions can naturally create the isolation of those who don't fit the mold; those who make others "uncomfortable" with their questions and experiences...with their trauma. When you dare to speak about the "unspeakable," isolation from the mainstream is often a by product.

"Here" is also where two things can be true at the same time. It's the land of both/and, a departure from either/or. The sky can be both blue and cloudy. There can be both good and evil existing in the same place. Not everything, maybe many things, aren't black and white like I was told. Did I experience good things in all those years where there was also abuse taking place, yes. Were both truth and lies being spoken? Yes. I don't like that thought. It's uncomfortable. But, is it also possible? Yes. Sorting it all out is a steep, uphill battle. It's a mountain I never asked to climb. 

The trauma of shattered pieces.

My nervous system lived in fight, flight, or freeze mode for a solid seven to eight months. The level of consistent anxiety took a heavy toll. The constant fear of what people would say or what they could do to me. Would I be painted as the betrayer? There was a line in the sand. It had to be drawn. I drew it, but doing the right thing wasn't as easy as everyone thinks. 

After the reports were published, injustice continued, accountability skirted once again, the shattered pieces of the world I grew up in surrounded me. And they continue to shatter. All of them. None of them left untouched. The institutions continue on as if the house isn't burning. They blame us for the fire...the one that supposedly doesn't exist. 

Which of these shattered pieces are worth putting back together? Maybe none? Where do I start? How do I start? What does it even look like? It becomes a never-ending process of looking for the pieces that won't continue cutting, reopening wounds that haven't had a chance to heal. 

When I sit in a church now, my nervous system is constantly scanning. Is THAT a piece that will cut? Maybe it's THAT piece. What about THAT piece over there? Surrounded. Suffocating in the sea of shattered pieces. How do you explain the cuts; the wounds; the injury that takes place to the soul? 

Well-meaning believers come with statements that begin, "You JUST have to...", "You JUST need to...", or "You...." All the responsibility on me, none of it on the institution and the ways that it operates to protect abuse. Imbalance is the standard. The scales of justice weighted only to one side. All of this silences, whether intended or not.

The funny thing about trauma is that there is a disconnect between what your logical mind knows and what your nervous system is screaming at you 🚨. While it is true that I am responsible for my reactions, tell that to my traumatized nervous system. Regaining control of the part of my brain that consistently sounds an alarm that danger is near it not as easy as switching a button. If it were, I would have pressed it a long time ago. That's not how trauma works. 

Finding my voice. 

The journey can be long. Climbing a mountain isn't fast. It is slow, meticulous, and often takes the breath out of you. Some days I'm tired. My spirit is tired. My soul is tired. My body is tired. While I have learned to have more patience with myself, be kind to myself, and be gentle with myself, the same postures are not always easy to find among other believers. I get it. There can be a lack of understanding in this area. A resistance to learning about trauma because it might challenge certain theology. It's messy. It's uncomfortable. 

That word again. Uncomfortable. Being uncomfortable is part of the process. None of this has been comfortable. I sit with the discomfort. I don't love it. It's like trying to unknot a massive knot in your favorite thin-chained gold necklace. It's one you loved wearing. Knots and tangles created over time and then you're left to "just" figure it out. The process of untangling it is tedious, but you can't wear it again until it's out. 

This is the journey. Climbing the mountain to untangle the knots of spiritual abuse, silencing, bad theology from good theology, and betrayal from the people who represented what it meant to follow Jesus. It requires patience, grace, and understanding all the way around. Each step creates the rope that I can hold on to to keep climbing. 

Slowly, I work to untangle the knot. It might not be at a pace that makes others happy, or comfortable. But it's the pace I need. Victory in the small steps. It's genuine and authentic. It's honest and raw.

And...it's not silent anymore 📢.

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*Institutional betrayal trauma is a subtype of betrayal trauma theory developed in 1996. It occurs when "an institution responds inadequately to the reporting of abuse. Organizations cause institutional betrayal trauma when they fail to acknowledge the significance of the abuse and the need for the victim's safety and support. Often, these organizations protect and defend the abuser or their intentions and assign blame to the victim." 
Source: Green Cross Academy of Traumatology - Adult Clergy Sexual Abuse Survivors, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, and Institutional Betrayal Trauma by Sandra Moncrief-Stuart and David K. Pooler from the School of Social Work, Tulane University and the Diana R. Garland School of Social Work, Baylor University respectively.

The Ministry Machine Tornado

 On the night of May 16th, London, Kentucky experienced an EF4 tornado with winds of 170 mph. Nineteen people were killed. The cleanup is massive. Homes were leveled. London is about 2 1/2 hours from us and the weather was forecasted to be bad in our area so I watched the news coverage live as it happened. This could have been our neighborhood that night. Somehow, our area was spared. 

God has often used creation and things in nature to speak to me about situations or trials I’m walking through. I have been in the process of detangling from an organization I have been part of for my entire adult life due to leadership mishandling of clergy sexual abuse/misconduct and the systematic cover-up, deflection, and lies for over 20 years. It has been incredibly painful, triggering because of my own story (you can read that HERE and HERE), and disillusioning to watch people I once respected refuse to listen with eyes to see and ears to hear. 

This situation has made it difficult for me to cross the threshold of a church. When I do, my body instantly feels unsafe. Knowing that there are people in pastoral positions who do not believe survivors when they come forward is the trigger. How do I know which ones will or won’t? So much of my own story was framed by the way the Church spoke about this issue of sexual abuse. It took me twenty years to fully understand that what happened to me was rape because I blamed myself. I was an equal participant in that “sin.” I was equally at fault for various reasons. I believed this because of the theology coming from the pulpit. I knew I couldn’t talk to anyone in the church about it at the time. And it still wouldn’t go over well today in many churches. Hence, the physical response of anxiety when I walk into a church.

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As a side note, if you are in ministry and you doubt a survivor for any of the following reasons:

• They waited years before coming forward
• Others are telling their story
• They have an agenda against this favored minister
• They are offended or have unforgiveness
• They are on a witch hunt
• They need inner healing

I implore you to get some training and education in this area. You have massively missed the mark and caused people to stay away from churches. With the amount of public discourse in this area and the amount of resources available, there is no excuse. You are accountable for choosing not to inform yourself for the betterment of the lives you serve in your community.

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As I watch the news footage on the aftermath of the London tornado, I am baffled by the physics. I don’t understand the physics of how a tornado can cause major damage to a home, ripping apart the roof and structure of a home, but leave a toaster sitting on a kitchen counter, or a bathrobe hanging on a door hook, scenes I saw on the news in the following days since the storm. I don’t understand how one house can be stripped clean off its foundation, and the house next door only has a few missing shingles. This is the reality in some London neighborhoods. You can see it in these pictures:

(AP Photo/Carolyn Kaster - Link to article) 

(Photo by Ben Childers Link to Photos)

As I have been processing all that is happening within the community I was part of, the disillusionment with the ministry machine, the lack of trauma-informed anything in many church spaces, and the tension of holding the good experiences with the bad, this tornado damage spoke to me. 

The tornado is the ministry machine. It’s the ministers and people who prop them up that roar through the lives of people like a freight train. Onward, they shout! The Gospel at any cost, they loudly proclaim as they “lead the charge.” All the while, never looking back to see the trail of destruction, the ground scarring, and shattered lives left in their wake. While some people’s lives are completely destroyed, others who went through the same experience were untouched. The ministry machine often leaves various levels of damage. While my life was not completely destroyed by it like others were, I was definitely hit with some debris. I have some scars from those hits. I’m still healing from wounds I didn’t know existed—internal bleeding, if you will.

Imagine for a moment that you are in this situation. Your neighbor’s home was completely destroyed, but your house was left untouched. Would you help your neighbor pick up the pieces? Or would you deny their reality simply because it wasn’t your own? The answer is obvious, right? I don’t know anyone who would not help their neighbor pick up the pieces, or deny that their home wasn’t destroyed just because their experience with the same tornado was different. 

So why, then, do we do this in the church? Someone comes forward with their broken experience, and we deny their reality because it wasn’t our own. The ministry machine and the minister become the only authoritative voice in this space. Why? Because they are bigger? They have EF4 level strength, a mile wide in size? The shattered homes and people are so small. Their voices pale in comparison to the roar of the ministry machine. 

As I watch how communities rally around each other, communities helping pay for unexpected funerals of neighbors lost tragically in the storm, the roar of chainsaws echoing as debris is cleared away, I am reminded that in the aftermath of a storm we see the true strength of a people who have been through the unimaginable. The community gets stronger as they rally together to pick up the pieces. It’s beauty for ashes. A collective voice gets stronger and louder with unity. I believe that is what we are seeing. 

Cleaning up from a tornado or other natural disaster isn’t pretty. There are tears, anger, survivor’s guilt, anguish, and lots of questions. There is also gratitude, perspective shifts, and new bonds forged throughout the process. Beauty for ashes. It’s not agendas, vendettas, accusers, offense, or unforgiveness. It’s the process of getting healthy and whole again. It’s making things right again and rebuilding an even stronger community. It’s hard. It’s painful. But it’s necessary and it’s time. 

Finding My Voice….Again

In July of last year I wrote a blog post detailing my experience with sexual assault. You can read it here.  It was therapeutic to finally open up about it and the response to it was so encouraging.  I had so much fear when I wrote and then published it publicly for the first time, so to receive private messages from people sharing their experiences and the public support did my heart a world of good.  

Fast forward to about 3 weeks ago.  I am in school pursuing a degree in social work.  I have hardly had any social work related classes thus far, but began a new class that was going to be relevant to my degree. I was happy about this….then I read the first week’s reading and assignment from the text.  The title of the chapter was “Gender, Gender Identity, Gender Expression, and Sexism.  There were no internal alarm bells until I reached a section of the chapter titled, “Examine Rape and Sexual Assault.”  At first I thought this would be good to look at from a social and human behavior perspective.  It would be more clinical and less personal.  The alarm bells went off when I read the definition of rape. The definition reads as follows (please understand that this definition does get specific):

“Rape is forced sexual intercourse including both psychological coercion as well as physical force. This can include forced oral sexual activity, penile-vaginal sexual activity, and anal sexual activity.*”

When I read this definition I was smacked in the face with the reality that what I actually experienced was not sexual assault, it was indeed rape.  You may be asking why this matters.  It’s just semantics at this point, right?  The realization that I was sexually violated is enough, right?  No.  It’s not enough.  Language actually does matter.  At least for me it does.

The importance of language in my story is hidden.  You see, in my mind, for who knows what reason, sexual assault was bad.  It was terrible.  But it wasn’t as terrible as rape.  Rape was a notch above.  When I originally shared my story, calling my experience sexual assault was me still downplaying what actually happened.  I  still wasn’t holding that man to the full responsibility of his actions. I was still trying to protect the person who victimized me in some sort of way.  I didn’t want to call it rape because I didn’t want to be another statistic.  I didn’t want to exaggerate what happened.  I didn’t want to believe that I was a victim of rape.  By calling it something different, I was still avoiding part of the truth.  I felt weak and angry about all it.  

Let me pause and say that I understand that there is no difference between the severity of sexual assault versus rape.  I in no way want to minimize another person’s experience with actual sexual assault as if it’s less traumatic than rape.  When I talk about my mindset, I realized that I was making that distinction unconsciously as a way of coping and self-protection.  Once I had this awareness, I was able to process how twisted my thinking was.  

I continued reading the chapter and didn’t totally process it because I focused on getting my assignment done.  I did have a short conversation with my husband about it and one of the things I mentioned was that I didn’t seem to deal with the after affects that many women do.  As a result, I was experiencing a bit of survivors guilt.  And then a couple days after this conversation, he was holding me while I sat on our stairs crying (my husband is awesome and I am so blessed to have him!).  It was the first moment I had to really process the weight of what I realized earlier in the week. While I still don’t experience a lot of the serious side effects many deal with after going through this kind of trauma, I quickly realized that I’m not totally unaffected either.  This man has had enough power over me in the past already, he doesn’t get any more.  

Why am I writing this?  It’s two-fold.  First, it’s part of a healing process for me to talk about it openly.  I know that I will never get the accountability/apology I deserve from that man for raping me.  I’m quite certain that he would vehemently deny that he did it.  I have decided, for many reasons, not to pursue anything in the legal system or personally confront him.  So my healing process comes in other therapeutic forms.  One of them is through writing—bringing dark things into the light.

Secondly, I hope that maybe my story will help someone else.  Perhaps a woman or young girl will realize her worth.  Perhaps it will help another process their trauma a little more.  My faith tells me that God brings good out of horrible things.  That is my hope.  He makes beauty from ashes.  So I hand Him my ashes and let Him make them beautiful again.  How that will happen, I’m not sure.  What that will look like, I’m not sure.  But that is my hope.  

Last, I want to speak to those who have experienced rape or sexual assault.  Know that you are not alone.  Know that what happened to you was NOT your fault in any way.  IT. IS. NOT. YOUR. FAULT.  You did nothing to deserve it, invite it, or desire it.  You are not a victim, you are a survivor.  You can heal.  Reach out.  Find a trauma informative therapist/counselor.  You don’t have to carry this alone because….me too.

*Understanding Human Behavior and Social Environment by Charles H. Zastrow, Karen K. Kirst-Ashman, and Sarah Hessenauer 433-434

Finding My Voice

I’ve been thinking a lot lately.  Thinking about a part of my life that I’ve never talked about publicly.  It’s part of my story that I didn’t realize for years was even mine.  It wasn’t until I started therapy that I recognized it.  When I started dating Donovan, my husband, I was surprised when these things from my past surfaced.  Small triggers.  Sometimes, not so small triggers.  The realization of what took place hit me like a ton of bricks.  I am not even sure how to process it sometimes.  But, lately, part of processing through it feels like I want to talk about it.  Talking about it is a sign of freedom.  Freedom from the secrets and trauma that want to silence my voice.  

I want to talk about it publicly in the hopes that it might help someone else.  But I waver back and forth.  I waver, not because I want to keep silent, but because I am afraid I will be silenced.  Losing your voice, or having your experience questioned or downplayed... or even worse, dismissed, is an indescribably maddening feeling.  The tug of war is real.  

But, I have decided to give voice to the part of my story I have hidden for years.  

When the #metoo movement began, I didn’t pay close attention to it.  I knew the gist of it and I was saddened at all the sexual abuse, assault, and harassment that has silently taken place over decades.  But I didn’t relate to it.  Maybe because, deep down, I didn’t want to.  Maybe I didn’t want to be one of those statistics.  I have always had a way of remembering the good times more than the bad times.  I think it’s how my subconscious deals with bad experiences.  I spent years minimizing my own experience.  After coming to the realization through therapy, I say it.  No more downplaying it.  No more hiding it.  I was sexually assaulted… by my former boyfriend/fiancé. 

Seeing the words I just typed is still jarring.  Saying it out loud was just as jarring.  It brings it into the light.  It’s painfully honest.  And honesty can sometimes be just plain painful.  But as I have learned over the last couple of years, brutal honesty is freeing.  Being honest with myself, being honest with God in my prayers, and being honest with those in my life whom I trust, has been liberating in a way I couldn’t imagine.  

Unfortunately, until I met my husband, I NEVER had a good experience with men within the context of a relationship.  I have walked away from more than one experience feeling like nothing more than a piece of discarded trash.  I felt used and my heart drug through the mud.  

You must understand that I am the type of person that gives themself to a relationship with my whole heart.  I don’t know how NOT to invest in that relationship.  That’s any type of relationship, be it romantic or not.  I am fiercely loyal and love deeply.  I’m told this is a wonderful trait to have… except when it isn’t.

I was 17 when I had my first boyfriend.  I was never the popular girl in school… or the pretty girl.  I seemed to attract the guys that were… not exactly my type.  So, when a handsome man gave me some attention in a chat room one day, my heart just went for it.  I did my best to pray about it.  But I was young.  I wanted to know what it was like to be loved.  I didn’t feel that from my dad at home, so this no doubt played a huge part of why I ran so fast towards this attention.  

He was 3 years older than me and lived in another state, so we spent a lot of time talking online and over the phone.  He mailed me pictures of himself and said all the right things.  He said he always wanted to be with an American with blue eyes (he was from another country).  He pursued me.  I am rarely one to initiate anything in the context of a relationship because I’m shy.  I don’t want to be rejected.  But this would be a pattern over the years, even after this relationship.  Someone would initiate.  I would hesitate, but eventually decide to allow my heart to open, only to be treated with various kinds of disrespect.    

When I finally decided that I would give this long distance relationship a chance, it went from casual to serious, immediately.  “I love yous” were exchanged as soon as we officially became boyfriend and girlfriend.  We talked all the time and he said all the romantic things.  It was all so new and thrilling!  I couldn’t believe that someone as handsome and romantic as him would be interested in someone like me.  I saw myself as just sort of average.  Nothing special.  I wasn’t a supermodel.  I had never been desirable before.  This low view of myself set the groundwork for what was to come.  

After a few months, he moved to my city so that we could be together.  We had had conversations about physical boundaries before he moved.  I made it clear that I wanted to wait until I was married to have sex.  This was very important to me.  When we went on our first date together in person, I experienced my first kiss.  He was very experienced so it was as if he wanted to “teach” me all things romance (read physical).  I thought I was in love.  I thought I was experiencing love.

But it wasn’t long before he started to push those boundaries.  I was surprised at first.  I remember one time thinking to myself, “Did he just…. Touch me there….”  I was so young.  I didn’t know how to respond.  He said he loved me and maybe he was just caught up in a moment.  

I realize now that every time I allowed him to cross a line, no matter how slight, he kept pushing that line even further.  Until things started to get more physical.  When I tell you I was naive, I was NAIVE.  I didn’t understand anything about my own body, much less what he was doing to it.  

One particular night, he started to push the physical boundaries in a new way.  I didn’t verbally tell him no, but my physical response was a definite no.  I was obviously resisting.  He continued to push.  What would transpire that night would become a pattern.  He would push the boundary, I would resist, he would continue to push, and I would eventually give up and give in.  When this first incident was over, I was mortified.  I think I cried.  He could see I was clearly upset and made the statement, “You are acting like I raped you or something.”  He said it with a tone indicating that he was sad, maybe apologetic, but I’m not sure.  I was confused.  He said he loved me.  I loved him.  His response made me feel as if I were simply over-reacting.  This was love after all.  Wasn’t it?

Time went on.  The boundaries kept getting pushed further and further until there just weren’t any.  He wanted to try and do all the things.  One of those things occurred for the first time, in the woods at a local park.  I hated the experience.  I don’t recall resisting that particular incident, but I knew I never wanted it to happen again.  Only, he liked it.  So several times when we were physical with each other, he would try to handle me into a position indicating he wanted to do this particular act.  I always resisted.  He would get frustrated with me because I wasn’t allowing him to do what felt good to him.  I expressed how it was painful for me and I didn’t enjoy it at all.  That didn’t seem to quench his frustration.  But this was love, right?  By this time we were engaged. He wanted to marry me so surely this was love. 

Now, I will say that not every time we were physical it was forced.  What I do know is that we wouldn’t have been sexually active had he not pushed those boundaries in the beginning.  His constant pushing of the boundaries wore me out.  I was tired of resisting.  Better to just give in because we loved each other right?  This was love, right?

The relationship was toxic overall.  I was full of shame about all the lines I swore to myself I would never cross.  I blamed myself.  I never saw that what really took place on a few occasions was sexual assault.  Even though I felt, several times during the course of this nearly four year relationship, like a piece of meat.  I constantly told myself that he loved me and I loved him.  I was surely just overreacting.

It wasn’t until I started dating my husband, that I realized just how bad I’ve been treated.  I had given up that I would ever find a man that would treat me the way I deserved.  When he came into my life and treated me with respect, kindness, care, and love, it opened my eyes.  He also experienced the triggers when I was coming to the realization of what happened to me in the past.  And he wasn’t scared of it.  He was just there for me.  Thankfully, I was already in therapy so I was able to quickly start dealing with it emotionally.  

I’m so thankful that God provided me with such an attentive, kind, caring, and loving husband!  He shows me everyday what it is like to be respected, cherished, and loved the way God intended.  He shows me what it means to be safe within our relationship. I’ve never once felt afraid he would cross any boundary. That includes our marriage. He has always taken great care to respect me and protect my heart. 

Because sexual assault can happen within a marriage. My husband told me once that he knew early in our relationship that I had placed my heart in his hands. He wanted me to know that he took that very seriously. This was a game changer for me. God used my husband to bring healing into my heart and life. I am just so thankful that He brought us together!

I wanted to share my story because the sexual assault I experienced was in the context of a relationship. At the time I didn’t even know that was a thing.  Sexual assault only happened with a stranger, or outsider.  It didn’t happen within a relationship where someone “loved” you.  It doesn’t happen with someone who wants to marry you. Except, it does.  It happened to me.  I want any woman, young or old, to know that sexual assault can happen in this context.  And if a man is crossing your boundaries, it’s not love.  You deserve respect.  You don’t have to give in.  You aren’t over-reacting.  Use your voice.  And leave.  

You deserve to be loved.  You deserved to be treated with kindness.  You deserve to be respected.  You deserve to be heard.  You have a voice.  You don’t have to be ashamed.  

Me too.  

Transition

I had a forced “retreat” this week after throwing out my back... again. When you aren’t very mobile and laying down is the only position that keeps away some of the pain, it definitely gives you time to reflect. I would much rather spend it outside in nature with my camera or journaling, but you have to play with the cards that you’re dealt. I spent time alone in bed to reflect on life and all the changes I’m about to experience. Life for me is very much in transition. One is a transition that I’ve prayed for, for more years than I care to count. That transition is from single to married! It’s exciting and a real answer to prayer. As we are preparing for marriage, going through premarital counseling, and planning for the merger of both of our lives, my mind has been on what it means to be a good wife. Proverbs 31 is, of course, a great starting place when I look at how I want to be as a wife. I was meditating specifically on verse 11 that says, “Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value.” How can I add value to our marriage and to his life? We have entrusted our hearts to each other and I want to make sure that I steward that responsibility in the best possible way. The obvious things come to mind— love, trust, honesty, patience, understanding, long suffering, and really, all the fruits of the Spirit. But what does that look like practically on a day-to-day basis? I was oddly enough, reminded of the principles in a book that tells the story of a Seattle fish market called, Fish! A Remarkable Way to Boost Morale and Improve Results, by Stephen C. Lundin, Harry Paul, and John Christensen. It was certainly not where I thought my mind would go in terms of how I can add value to our marriage, as it has a more business mindset, and yet, the principles seemed to have good application. The first principle is to choose your attitude. This one can be hard for me because I am a FEELER! It is so easy for my attitude to shift with my feelings in the moment. It’s been a long journey of being intentional about not allowing my feelings to dictate my attitude. I’ve never loved the phrase, “Happy wife, happy life,” because the subtext seems to say that there is no responsibility on my role as the wife to make sure I’m cultivating an environment where my husband can also be happy without him doing everything I want. I don’t believe this idea to be so! Both of our attitudes will set the tone for our home. I want to make sure that my attitude stays positive not only for myself, but for him. His job is stressful and if he comes home to a bad attitude from me, it’s going to be much harder to pull ourselves out of that ditch. We are better together and better when we are working together. Our marriage has value and my desire is for our marriage to be one that properly represents God’s heart to those around us. I want those around us to see us as #relationshipgoals. And our attitudes will have a direct impact on how that plays out. The second principle is play. We both love how playful we both are. Neither one of us are afraid to be childlike in life and toward each other. Life is more fun when you know how to have fun. Over the course of our relationship and our conversations, we both want to maintain the playfulness we bring to each other. Life is hard enough on its own. We started dating just before COVID shutdowns so most of our relationship was built during the quarantine and although we couldn’t go on “normal” dates, we still used the time to get to know each other by getting creative. And it worked! I want to maintain the playful nature of our relationship, even when life gets tough. The third principle is make their day. If I can find little ways to make his day, wow! I know that he does that for me every day and it makes such a difference. I know that he loves me, he is thinking about me and of me, and he just cares when I get a quick text telling me he loves me, or he cooks for me, or he knows how I like my coffee. What that does to help my mood and sometimes get through tough parts of my day is important. I appreciate that it comes natural for both of us right now, but I want to continue putting in the work to maintain this habit. I know that marriage takes work, and I think that it’s often when these little things get neglected that attitudes can change. The small every day ways that I can show him I care, will make his day. He will know that I’m there to support him. We face the world together! The fourth principle is to be present. This one is crucial. It is so easy to get distracted by phones or television. It’s easy to get distracted by tasks that have to get done... you know, adulting... so being present takes being intentional. This principle is a strength that we have now and one I want to continue strengthening. We both have busy schedules but make sure that we are present with each other in the evenings. We have talked about cooking together as a way of staying connected in the evenings once we are married. We spend the weekends taking walks, enjoying parts of the city that are open, planning our future, and building community. In all these things, we are present and the way in which it has brought as closer is something I want to continue. In all of these areas, the key is to be intentional. I’m admittedly bad at being intentional, especially when I don’t “feel” like it, but I’m never sorry when I put in the work. Thankfully, most of it doesn’t feel like work at all. Because both of us come from broken homes, it’s even more important to us that we make sure we build a strong foundation for our marriage. We want to glorify God in the midst of it and we want to advance His Kingdom even more together than we could apart. These simple principles, from a very unexpected resource, can help us have the kind of marriage we both desire.

Perfect Love...

As Valentine’s Day approaches I’ve been thinking about love.  Shocking right?  Here me out.  You see, I’ve been on this strange journey.  You can read about more of it in my previous posts.  This is another layer of this strange journey.  It’s one that is so unfamiliar it feels like I’m wandering in the wilderness without a map.  The tree tops are blocking out the sun and I have no idea which way is north.  I cannot find my bearings at all.  It’s this whole journey of “love.”  I’ve ALWAYS been the person who wasn’t afraid of it.  I could easily receive it and I could easily give it.  I loved to love.  Lately though... not so much.  God and I have been wrestling... because I’m terribly afraid it.  I’m afraid of it in any form or fashion.  I’m afraid of loving people.  I’m afraid for people to love me.  I’m afraid to love God and yet I know that I cannot escape His love for me which is also partially terrifying at the moment.  

The verse that ‘perfect love casts out all fear’ has been swirling around in my mind the last few days.  And it’s a reminder that I have yet to grasp this perfect love because I’m nothing but afraid of it right now.  When your heart is broken and your spirit is broken... fear “loves” to take advantage of those broken places.  It’s so tempting to put up walls.  We think that walls keep us “safe.”  We think that walls will keep pain out only those same walls serve to keep pain within their confines.  So here I sit.  Fighting with every ounce of weak courage I can muster to keep from putting up walls.  To just go ahead and feel the pain.  Then feeling more pain as I give that pain and fear to the Lord.  Part of this strange journey is that everything hurts.  Everything.  His promises hurt.  His Word hurts.  Praying hurts.  But then again, tearing down walls isn’t a gentle process.  Sledge hammers, battering rams and wrecking balls are designed to have significant impact.  So I have to choose to feel the impact so that when the walls are torn down and all the pain spills out, healing can begin.

I read this quote from Ann Voskamp:

Ridding yourself of self-sufficiency, letting yourself need and opening your hand to receive require vulnerability.  And vulnerability is required to love.  Vulnerability is required to let yourself be loved.  It’s risk.  The tension is funny because on one hand, the broken and shattered you is screaming to be loved.  On the other hand, the broken and shattered you runs from it because the thought of not being loved back is unbearable.  The thought of having an even more broken heart is too much.  That causes more brokenness and pain.

The process I’ve been walking through for the last few months has been incredibly painful.  Painful in a way that it feels debilitating at times.  Painful in a way that if I can make it through the day I count it as a win.  I survived.  I survived the pain one more day.  This is where I have to give up my self-sufficiency, recognize the depth of need I have and open my hand, albeit timidly, to received this perfect love of God.  Somewhere along the way my heart lost the concept.  My mind knows it.  But the 18 inches between my head and my heart may as well be light years apart sometimes.  What I’m thankful for in these times and what I remind myself daily is that His love is never going to change.  It’s never going to waver.  Even in my deepest despair and deepest doubts, His love for me never changes.  It will break in eventually and cast out all this fear.  The places where I doubt him the most are the places I will continue to seek Him the most.  It’s still painful.  But one day it won’t be.  One day I will no longer fear love the way I do now.  One day I will be able to love even stronger than I ever could before this season.  And it’s when you’ve had a broken heart and choose to love that you are at your bravest.  When you can love despite the pain... that’s when you know it’s real.  I continue to love God despite the pain and I continue to love people despite the pain.  When He asks me to love I have to believe that even my weak “yes” is still powerful in His eyes and in His hands.  So is yours.  So take heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

A beautiful song to accompany this blog: Killing Me With Mercy

Kintsugi...

So... I’ve been on this journey of total and utter brokenness.  Have you ever been there?  Let’s just be honest... it feels like death.  A dying that happens every... single... day.  And it’s a pain that is so deep that sometimes you don’t know if it will ever end.  I’ve been thinking about this brokenness for the last few days.  I’m trying to allow that scary thing called “hope” re-enter my life (you can read about that Here ).  In the midst of such brokenness it’s hard to see anything else except the walls of the pit where you currently reside.  As I was thinking about all this I was reminded of the art of Kintsugi — a Japanese method of repairing broken pottery that I saw while scrolling through Facebook some time ago.

Kintsugi — It is translated as “golden joinery.”  It is a centuries old method of fixing broken pottery by using a special lacquer that is dusted with gold, silver or platinum.  It creates beautiful seams where the cracks are, giving the piece a uniquely beautiful design.  Then I read this about the method: “This repair method celebrates each artifact’s unique history by emphasizing its fractures and breaks instead of hiding or disguising them.  Kintsugi often makes the repaired piece even more beautiful than the original, revitalizing it with new life.”

Wow...

It seems like we try so hard to hide or disguise our pain.  We have all done it at one point or another.  I get it.  It’s hard to be openly vulnerable.  You risk appearing weak to those around you.  You risk being horribly misunderstood — especially in church circles.  You risk others seeing your brokenness and then grinding those broken pieces into dust.  But... what if we started to see brokenness as a beautiful thing?  What if we started to see brokenness the way God sees it?  That brokenness isn’t a “bad” thing but instead of sign of strength and beauty.

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.”
          ~ Psalm 51:17

“The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  ~ Psalm 34:18

Kintsugi reminds me of Isaiah 61:3 — He makes beauty for ashes, gives the oil of joy instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of despair.

God can take the ugly mess of my brokenness, repair it and make it my life even more beautiful than before, revitalizing it with new life.  I mean... this thought is almost too much for me to handle.  First that He does it and second that He WANTS to. He WANTS my mess.  He is the Master Creator who can make all things beautiful... even my mess.

It certainly doesn’t feel like this in the middle of the breaking.  It feels quite the opposite.  Embracing the brokenness is tough.  Tough on a level of tough that I’ve never known before.  But in the midst of this I think I am coming to understand that in the absolute weakest place that I have ever experienced in my life thus far, He sees strength.  When I am hanging on by the thinnest of threads but still get up to bring my mess and weakest “yes” to the Lord... He sees strength.  When everything in you screams to just give up but instead you still choose to say “yes” no matter how weak it comes out, no matter how much your voice trembles as you say it... He sees strength.  And maybe, just maybe, there is more strength in that weak “yes” then when we have yelled it from the mountain tops in times of confidence.  Jesus modeled this perfectly (See Philippians 2:1-8).  His death appeared to be weakness in the sight of many and yet it was His greatest display of strength.  His brokenness, both literal and spiritual, was a sure sign of strength and so much beauty came through His death.

So maybe we should let our brokenness show a bit more (with wisdom of course).  We are after all just broken jars of clay... and He can repair our brokenness in such a way that gold shows as an end result.  The Bible is full of broken people... people who felt the same things I am feeling now centuries later.  That is something I can take a measure of comfort in.  I’d rather see someone’s scars than someone’s perfectly put together self.  Scars are relatable and scars help me to know that this season will end with healing.  Let me see your scars... they are beautiful.

Check out this song from Iron Bell music: My Confidence

Afraid to Hope....

I had this crazy thought today as I was sitting in a coffee shop journaling.  At the start of a new year, many people usually have high hopes and goals.  That's usually me.  However, New Years Eve and New Years was tough for me this time around.  I was in a great place to ring in the New Year.  It just wasn't what I was hoping for.  And I've been fighting for any ounce of hope I can find over the last couple of months...

So today as I was reflecting back on the last 24 hours and the last year, I had the crazy thought... I'm afraid to hope.  This sounded totally ludicrous to me.  It was so out of character I wanted to have an inner dialogue about it to talk myself into how silly this thought is.... how I shouldn't have this thought.  Only, trying to talk myself out of feeling how I feel doesn't usually work.  What works for me, and I suspect much more of us if we will only admit it to ourselves, is to face the feeling.  Face it in all of its ugliness.  Face it in all of its pain.  Face it in all of its untruth.  How do I face it?  I allow myself to feel it.  Then I take it to the Lord.  Eventually, I work through it.  It has taken courage to walk through this process in this way.  Not only is it just plain painful to the core but it means allowing others to see what a hot mess you really are.  None of it is fun.  But all of it somehow seems necessary.  Thank God for those people in my life who have been more than understanding of this season and stood by my side to help walk me through it.

Why am I scared to hope?  Have you ever spent so much time hoping for something that after a long while of not seeing it you are totally worn out?  I am right in the middle of this.  I'm 35 and there are certain things I had envisioned for my life that I thought would have happened by now.  They haven't.  Ever been there?  It's disappointing, right?  These are desires I've brought before the Lord countless times.  They are even desires I've asked Him to take away from me if it isn't His will in an attempt to not be afraid of hoping they will eventually happen.  And yet, the desires remain.

So I start asking the typical questions... Am I putting my hope in the "things" and not in the Lord?  I don't think so.  I know that for these things to transpire in my life I need His help and His guidance.  So I keep looking to Him.  I also believe that these are God given desires.  It's a hard question to ask myself but one I needed to ask myself.

Why am I afraid of hope?  Hope deferred makes the heart sick. This seems like the total opposite reaction I should be having to hope.  Only there's this one word that is wrapped up in this whole "hope" thing and that is "risk."  Hope feels like a risk right now.  Risk is not something I'm too keen on at the moment.  I'm typically the person who isn't afraid of taking a risk and my life choices have proven that many times over.  I may not be able to count the number of people who have thought I was crazy for doing many of the things I've done -- like moving to a new state or country 5 different times.  I have taken the risks in the past because I wasn't afraid of the risk with the hope that God would work out the details I didn't have worked out when I moved.  And He always did.  But when you are afraid to hope, that is a whole new level of broken down I have not experienced and risk is certainly not territory I am going to just run into with abandon.

I know that this post seems like a real downer!  Wow Christina... you really are a hot mess.  Thanks.  I know.  But in the midst of my mess, God has still been injecting glimmers of hope into my life.  They are small and in doses I can handle.  As I continually bring him my mess -- because right now it's all I have to offer -- He gives me a small tidbit of hope.  It comes in the way of a Scripture, or an encouraging word from a friend, or a gesture from someone that has considered me and my feelings.  It's the text from a friend at just the right moment.  It's a phone call from a friend to check on me.  It's gentle.

I know that eventually I will hope again.  Hope will not seem scary.  And once I have walked through this valley my hope will be stronger than it has ever been in my life thus far.  I will have learned a lot as a result.  Until then... I get up everyday and bring my weak "yes" to the Lord once again.  I keep inching forward even when it seems like I've done nothing but move backwards.  All in the hopes that nothing I'm currently facing will go to waste and that someone else will get through it having seen my scars.

Here's a link to an early David Crowder song that is honest and means more to me now than it ever did when I first heard it in Bible college: All I Can Say

Come As You Are...

As I walk through a particularly difficult season emotionally I am learning a lot about myself.  I'm also noticing things about the Church I hadn't noticed before.  Some things you just can't see when you're on the mountain top.  Things are too far away that you can't really see the details to be able to relate to it.  Some things can only be seen in the valley.  In the valley is where courage is tested.  The valley is where moxy is developed.  One of the "things" I have noticed is how much we as a Church don't give each other, much less the world, any grace.  We say "come as you are..." and it sounds spiritual and full of grace but often we really have unspoken conditions.  And we are probably harder on someone once they have come into the family of believers.  Because now they should "know better."  I know I've done it.  I've looked down on someone who is struggling.  Shaking my head in a way that was so full of prideful, religious hypocrisy that lacks all the love that Jesus has for that person.  I think we can all say at some point or another we all have for one reason or another.

*Side note: In saying this I am in no way negating the importance or necessity for holiness, accountability and Godly discipline when needed... it takes discernment and wisdom to navigate each situation.  I am simply speaking in a general way to make a broader point.

As I walk through a terribly painful but freeing place of raw honesty with my emotions and circumstances I am learning that there are some who don't really want you to "come as you are," but God will always let you come to Him as you are.  Whether you're in a strong place or a complete and utter mess.  He wants it whatever it is.  If only we as believers would allow ourselves to do the same. We don't really want the mess... maybe because its a way for some to pretend they aren't also a mess. If we all walk around and pretend we are "too blessed to be stressed" then the mess will somehow go away.  Worse yet,  some of us self-medicate with ministry because the more ministry we do the more spiritual we are and those problems will magically disappear if we just simply get busy "being about the Father's business."  Only maybe sometimes His business is with us personally...

Why is being a mess sometimes a bad thing?  It means that we are real people, with real emotions, who live in a real world where life can be hard at times.  It means that more people will be able to relate to me if they see the same scars in me.  I think it's rather telling that when Jesus rose from the dead His scars were visible.  When I'm struggling with feeling like God has forsaken me and I'm dying inside I can look at Jesus' scars and know that He also felt those same emotions.  And He overcame.  And overcoming meant going through the physical and emotional pain... not avoiding it.  It was perfectly messy.  Out of His greatest pain came our greatest victory.

I know that I will think twice before I shake my head at someone who is struggling.  Whether it's emotional, a sin, a life situation... I'm going to do my best to give grace to someone to feel what they are feeling.  What would happen if we actually allowed each other to be honest about what is going on in our lives and how we feel without covering it with all the "spiritual" cliche lines we all know to say to each other?  It's like that makes us have more faith.  I'm finding that being real and honest takes more courage than to it is to rattle off some one liner that makes me sound more spiritual.  It also takes more courage to be real and honest than it does to avoid it with any amount of spiritual busyness or pretend that everything is okay when it isn't. I'm also finding that when we are honest about our current state, God is more than big enough to handle it and this amazing thing happens.  We walk through it.

So, if you're struggling with life... come as you are... to Him.  And know that earth has no sorrow that heaven can't heal.  And may we as believers also be a place where people can come as they are.  Where we can be like Jesus when He lifted up the face of the harlot instead of throwing stones.  No judgement.  No shame.  No shaking of heads.  But we embrace people in love and then take their hand to walk through the mess with them.

A link to the song that inspired this post: Come As You Are by Crowder

Community and the Church....

Can I be raw and honest?  It's the only way I know how to be really... it's been a difficult couple of years.  I don't think I realized how difficult until recently, how hard it's actually been for me on the inside.  Since I stepped out to pursue my dreams nearly 2 years ago I have had some incredible highs and some incredible lows.  I've experienced incredible generosity and an incredible lack of generosity.  I've experienced excitement from others about this crazy vision God has given me and I've experienced total confusion from others about this crazy vision.  The one glaring thing I have not experienced is genuine community.  I got a taste of what community looked like while I lived in Charlotte.  And it came in the form of a couple of dance studios.  People who genuinely cared, genuinely helped if you were in need, and genuinely loved.  It was amazing to not feel like a burden to people... especially as a single girl with no family nearby (managing single life at this age is a whole other blog!).  It was amazing to feel included and to just share life with people. 

Since leaving Charlotte it's been difficult to find that sense of community again, especially in the Church.  Today I was thinking about it.  Why is community so hard to find?  My mother brought up a statement that I've heard from well meaning church people for years -- "You don't go to church for the people, you go for the Lord."  I'm sure I've said it at some point.  Only now I fundamentally disagree with this statement.  I actually do go to church for the people.  It's not the only reason... but it's a big one.  WHAT??!!  It's true.  I don't serve God or base my relationship with God on how people treat me but one of the reasons I go to church is for fellowship.  Fellowship is not the two minutes of "greet your neighbor" time between the music and the sermon.  Fellowship is sharing life with the people who have common interests.  Fellowship is the cement in any authentic community.  The early Church understood the principle of doing life together.  They shared all that they had.  They broke bread together regularly.  You can see it evidenced even in the disagreements (Paul and Barnabas for example) because disagreements will inevitably occur when you do life with someone long enough.  We were not meant to go through this life alone.  We need each other.  We draw strength from one another.  I will even go as far as to say that the Trinity is a perfect example of community working in harmony.  The Body of Messiah is called to be one Body and we can't do that if our mentality is to always put up the proverbial privacy fence. 

I get that really doing life with people is messy.  It's hard.  It requires effort.  I'm the first to admit that I'm not always great at it.  But we would be better off for it.  It's incredibly rewarding.  I believe that this area is where the rubber meets the road in many ways.  No more superficial handshakes and "how are you doing," or "good to see you" statements when there is really nothing behind the words.  As I navigate through a very difficult season of feeling isolated and alone (even among fellow believers) I wonder how many others have experienced this same thing.  And how many of those have walked away from the Church as a result.  It's a common saying but the words ring true, "People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care."  It's time to come up to a higher standard of not just saying we care on a superficial level but getting down in the trenches with people.  Experiencing the mess that is often called life; celebrating victories and mourning together with each other through every season.  I believe we were all fundamentally designed to need each other in some sort of capacity (it's not good for man to be alone....). 

If you're feeling alone, if you've been hurt, if you feel like no one cares or that no one understands.  This girl does.  I get it.  And we can walk through it together.  We can build each other up in our most holy faith.  No judgement.  Just honest, come as you are and let's keep moving forward community.  No exclusions.  No popularity contests.  No cool kids club.  However you're dressed, whatever your vise, whatever your need...  There is a place for you.  At least there should be... 

Climate Change and Terrorism....

So yesterday people were screaming about Trump's decision to withdrawal from the Paris Accord... meanwhile, 90 people were killed when a car bomb was exploded in a busy market in Kabul and a terrorist took over a hotel in Manila, Philippines killing 36.  It got me thinking about what our mindsets in America and the West.

First, let me say that I am not debating whether Trump is a good president, whether climate control is a real issue or not, or any other political issue.  My intent, as someone who is concerned for the plight of humans across the world, is to ask some hard questions.  We don't often think about the root of our indifference.

I digress... The terrorist attack in Manchester, England recently had many changing their Facebook profile pictures to include the Union Jack.  Hashtags about "we are Manchester" and "I stand with Manchester" and "Praying for Manchester" could be found trending.  It shocked the world that such a tragedy could happen.  But why is the Manchester tragedy shocking, but an attack that killed more than 3 times as many people barely gets news coverage?  Why is an English speaking gunman who kills over 30 people in a Manila hotel less shocking?  Why don't we seem to care as much?  

I often wonder if maybe the reason is that we "expect" those attacks to happen in those places.  After all, Afghanistan is a Muslim country.  It's expected in a Muslim country.  That's just how it is.  What if we looked into the eyes of someone who lives in that nation and told them that?  Does that make the pain and terror any less than it is in England?  The Philippines is all the way on the other side of the planet so it doesn't really hit "close to home."  Our silence suggests that those lives don't matter near as much as when it happens in a Western country.  It's far far away from our suburban homes, Starbuck's coffee shops and comfortable lives.

And let's not forget about Syria.  There are no benefit concerts being held to send aid to the families in any of these places.  What I do hear are people screaming about what they feel is right or wrong about a government official making a decision.  But that's the only time we care.  Travel ban?!  That's terrible!!  Meanwhile, if there were no travel ban would these same people be given a second thought?  Do we realize that the number of people trying to get into America is far less than those that are still living there trying to survive every hour of every single day?  Again, I am not debating whether a travel ban is right or wrong.  My point is to draw attention to the ones we put as out of sight, out of mind.  I actually think that many people put too much power in the hands of the government and look to the government to do things for them.  After all, it's easier to spout your opinions on Facebook and maybe go to a voting booth once every 2-4 years than it is to actually be hands and feet for the issues we with which we hold such strong opinions.  

Maybe that's another problem.  We have too many opinions and too little convictions.  Opinions can change.  Convictions are things you are willing to die for.  Opinions are easy.  They require nothing but a person to hear them or a platform to shout them from.  Often opinions don't even require that because, as shocking as it is to some, they can be kept to yourself.  Convictions are hard.  They actually require something of you.  Opinions will often lead you to arguments and debates.  Convictions call you to action.  And often those actions cause you to do more than just rail against the latest politician you don't like.  

As I ponder these things in my heart you'll have to forgive me if a climate change treaty doesn't seem to be the biggest issue going on in the world today.  Climate change is debated by both sides of the aisle.  How serious is it?  How true is it?  Scientists debate it amongst themselves.  Politicians debate it and put it as part of their platform campaigns.  But what cannot be debated is the number of innocent lives lost yesterday.  Innocent lives that didn't seem to matter quite as much as the ones lost in Manchester.  Did you know that one of the lives lost in Kabul was a teenager who begged her mother to take her to an ice cream shop.  She was standing in line to get ice cream.  What if that were your child?  What if that were the threat you faced every time to left your house?  What if that were the threat you faced everyday regardless of whether you left your house or not?  

These events grab my attention far more than a climate change treaty.  Maybe it's because I have been closer to terrorists attacks than most American's will ever be (within a quarter mile of a shooting and caught a bus less than 2 miles away from where another bus had an explosion). Maybe because I've seen how a society has to deal with the daily threat of terrorist attacks.   

All of this is something to ponder... for me anyway.  What do you think are the reasons terrorist attacks in the Middle East and further don't get the attention in the West?