The View from Behind the Mask

I don't know if it's that people are just tired of winter and want something to pick them up emotionally, or whether they are wearing less bulky clothing on some days and are wanting to celebrate, but lately I have been wearing my mask a lot more. Those of you who follow my blog know that I have multiple chemical sensitivities (MCS) and that my sensitivities (not allergies: worse) are to the kinds of petrochemicals that exist in all sorts of scented products from shampoo to antiperspirant to laundry detergent to room deodorizers. I could go on and on about what scent is, and repeat myself (ad nauseum) that it's not the "smell" but the "chemical" that I am sensitive to ... but I'll spare you that rant today.

Today, I am just pondering and interpreting the looks I have been receiving just because I refuse to be made sick any more by the invisible clouds left behind by people who have no clue of the havoc their cleaning / cleansing / moisturizing products cause. 

For example, I went to a meeting yesterday with a bunch of people, most of whom respect the scent-free policy at work.  Then this one person walked in and sat across from me.  Within seconds, the tissues in my eyes started to swell up, I started to get a headache and lose concentration, and I would have had disorientation and memory loss if things had continued. So, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty mask and put it on, fitting the upper metal band to the bridge of my nose. I had to sit for the entire meeting (over 30 minutes) breathing through this thing, which filtered most (but not all) of the chemical out. It was rather amusing (but not really) when I saw the looks on people's faces. 

My manager was there, and since she and I had talked about this problem before, she just minded her own business.  But others were rather unprepared and most averted their eyes, as if I had some sort of big zit on my face and people were too polite to point it out.  A couple of people were shocked; however, nobody said a word or asked me why.  The lady whose chemicals had made it necessary for me to use the mask did not offer to move, but looked decidedly uncomfortable. But instead of leaving to go to my desk and phone into the teleconference, I persisted in this overt display of self-care, and at the first opportunity to leave after the meeting was done, I left. Once across the hall, I could remove the mask and all was well. Well, sort of.  I was "off" - feeling not quite myself - for the rest of the day, so much so that one of my team members told me four hours later that I looked like I wasn't feeling well. (Sighh.)

Image "Female Doctor Wearing Surgical Mask"
courtesy of stockimages at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The mask is a stop-gap measure until I can leave whatever situation is causing me distress. It is not a perfect solution.  A perfect solution would be for people to educate themselves about fragrance-free options ... but I digress.

I thought about people's perceptions to my mask again this morning as I sat in a walk-in clinic waiting room, waiting to have some blood work done.  Someone was in the lineup with me who was "using product" as I call it, leaving behind pockets of scent. Out came the mask.  Once I had my turn and sat down, every patient who came around the corner into the waiting room saw me wearing the mask.  The reactions were anything from alarm (she has H1N1 or something), to pity, to double-takes and then confusion when I turned out to NOT be Asian. (Where I live, many Asians wear masks in public to protect themselves from others' germs.)  The best reaction, though, was from a little girl.  She was perhaps 5 years old, and came in with her mother, standing in line beside her to see the receptionist.  She caught sight of me, and stared at my face, unashamed, curious, with a questioning look on her face.  I met her gaze and smiled under my mask, and she could see my eyes crinkle.  She relaxed, gave a little half-smile back to me, and amused herself with other things.  

She could see the humanity behind the mask.  Many others could not.  If we had been alone, with nobody else around, she probably would have asked me why I was wearing a mask.  I don't mind that question; I welcome it.  What bothers me is the fear and the ignorance combined with suspicion and sometimes even disgust. That is uncomfortable for me (and no doubt for others too!) 

I wish I could tell or show people what it is like to have MCS.  I don't like having to wear my mask.  I don't like being a public spectacle.  I don't like the moist, sweaty feeling inside the mask when I am forced to wear it just to be able to breathe without getting sick.  But I like being sick even less.  And maybe, someday, that mask will open a discussion with someone who will finally understand how debilitating this disease is and who will be motivated to do whatever is necessary to allow me to NOT wear it. 

I have been given a lot of advice about this illness. Go to this naturopath. Take that allergy medication.  Allergy medications do no good; in fact, they open my nasal passages so that more toxin enters my bloodstream and causes neurological symptoms (headache / migraine, brain fog, disorientation, dizziness, muscle weakness, even an inability to speak more than a couple of words at a time, etc.)  And while I understand that naturopathic doctors can help, I am taking a supplement, prescribed by a specialist, that acts as a bounty hunter in my bloodstream, taking those free radicals captive and delivering them to my bladder to be eliminated.  The only problem is, they keep getting put into my bloodstream by those chemicals people use to make themselves (or their clothes or their houses) smell good or to keep themselves from smelling bad.  And it's not like there aren't fragrance-free options out there.  (Hint: choose "fragrance free" and NOT "unscented." It's not the "smell", it's the CHEMICAL. Plus, not everything that says it is "pure" is fragrance-free. Just saying.)

The view from behind the mask sucks, really.  I would love nothing better than to be rid of the need to wear it.  However, I know people who are way worse off than I am, people whose symptoms are far more severe than mine, who suffer from MCS.  If my mask helps to raise awareness so that even one person refrains from wearing or using chemically-scented products, then I'll wear it ... because it will have all been worth it.

Never again

“Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things.”

– Terry Pratchett

When we think of the atrocities of WWII - the concentration camps, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the internment camps where Japanese North Americans were imprisoned - two words come to mind: NEVER AGAIN. I was reading yesterday of an atrocity that spanned several decades in our own country, in the words of those who had survived it: the First Nations people. In the residential school system, generations of First Nations children were ripped from their parents (some of them without the parents' knowledge or consent, some at the threat of their parents going to jail) and treated shamefully, in an effort to assimilate them ... to make them into white people.

What if some military or political power were to give police the authority to come into your home, take you and the things you hold dear from it, and give you to prison wardens who stripped you down, called you filthy, washed your hair with kerosene, shaved your head, took your clothes and gave you ill-fitting shoes, burned all of your sports equipment, took your phone, your musical instruments, your credit cards, your jewelry, everything that distinguished you as a person, gave you a number and called you by nothing but that number, fed you substandard food and made you eat it, and beat you if you spoke your mother tongue? What if this went on for years before you were allowed to return to your family? The equivalent of that is only the beginning of what happened to these wonderful, peaceful people.

Reading the accounts of what happened in the victims' own words powerfully reminded me of reading Viktor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning (you can look it up and read it free online) where he described what he went through in the Nazi death camps upon arrival, and then on a daily basis.  He spoke for millions who could not, whose voices were silenced.  He helped to expose the atrocities motivated by fear and hatred.

Isn't that what racism is: fear and hatred gone wild?  That it happened here ... that the spirits of those children were sucked out of them - their way of life and even their own language called demonic - this is Canada's shame. 

I'm sorry, folks, but an official apology from the government, nearly a hundred years after the fact, just does not make up for the thousands of lives, families and communities that were destroyed, the very fabric of their way of life (family, connection with nature, traditions) unraveled.  It does not give the stolen spirits of those people back to them.  It does not restore their lost heritage, nor the way of life they were brainwashed into rejecting. 

 

Photo "Dreamcatcher" courtesy
of Serge Bertasius Photography at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The nightmare isn't over for First Nations people just because some white man in a three-piece suit said, "Sorry." The way we silence the monsters is to let people know how horrific those attitudes are: the ones that led to daily spiritual and cultural atrocities. The attitude that "white makes right." The attitude that "Christian values are the only ones worth espousing" and "these people are savages."  And oh, my favourite (not): "It's for their own good." It was wrong. It was wrong then and it's still wrong now.

There, I've said it.  I'm a white, Christian, "civilized" (whatever that means) person and I KNOW that what happened was wrong.  I KNOW that every day for multiple generations, there are adults who wake in cold sweats from nightmares about "that place." There are grown men who question every move they make: am I allowed to sit here, am I allowed to go to that place, am I allowed to talk to this person?

Knowledge is power.  I freely admit that I was ignorant.  I didn't know that I didn't know.  And although it was painful, I had to educate myself.  I went to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada website and I started reading one of the many documents available there  (link).  I confess that I was only able to get through half of it - it was very emotional for me.  The language is easy enough to understand, but the stories themselves - first of how life used to be, and then of how life changed forever - broke my heart. 

Perhaps the reason that some Canadians have a hard time with immigrants coming into our country is because our own ancestors carried out the very thing that they fear the newcomers will do: destroy our way of life, take over our land and make us into second-class citizens.  The difference is that we whites hold a position of privilege ... and we therefore have a responsibility to use our power for good.  Not evil.

Never again.

In Five Months

Five months ago today, our lives turned upside down. I realized it after church today, as I was doing something in the foyer that made me try to think about what the date was today ... and it hit me. Exactly what was happening that exact moment five months ago? Police were knocking on our door and talking to my husband and my oldest daughter, telling them of the accident that took the life of your youngest daughter, at the age of 21 years. 

After they delivered their news, answered any questions my loved ones had, and then left, hubby and daughter looked at each other in misery. "Someone has to tell Mom," my daughter said. 

My husband nodded... and sighed. "I'll do it."

From that day until this, I can't count the number of times I have grieved her not being here. The sense of loss will intrude at the most unexpected times and in the most unpredictable ways, regardless of where I am or what I'm doing. However, I also can't count the number of times I've been so incredibly grateful (and perhaps a little ashamed of feeling that way) that the anguish and the stress of never knowing where she was or if she was safe ... is over. And yes, I have been and continue to be overjoyed that the place where I know she is ... IS safe, IS full of laughter and peace, IS amazingly complex and ever new. She is happy there; I know it.

The pain - when it happens - is just as fresh as when it was new. The ache of missing her is something that I've come to accept - usually - as the "new normal." Yet - in a very real way - she is more a part of this family now than when she was here. We feel her presence in so many little things, in the raising of an eyebrow, in a saying, in a song. We see the antics of our kitten, Loki, who was born on the day of her funeral, as he prances around the house and is so easily distracted by a sound or a flash of light or a moth flittering in the room ... and we say how much like her he is. 

I still long to hear her telling me she loves me. I still want to hear her laugh, to feel her great huge bear hug lifting me off my feet - something that unnerved me at the time. I miss her yelling with excitement, like the time we went to Magnetic Hill and felt the vehicle rolling up the hill ... she wanted to do it again and again (and folks, she was 19 at the time...) She had us all in stitches! I miss her jokes, her zany faces and funny voices that she'd do. I miss her "fake-singing" so her friends didn't feel bad about their singing voices. She had such a lovely singing voice - I wish I could have heard it more. 

Arielle in the summer of 2010

At the same time, I feel her with me, encouraging me, cheering me on in my studies. I hear her voice in my memory sometimes when I get out of the van to go into my place of work, calling out as she did whenever she was in the vehicle, "HELP SOMEONE!" (Or if I was taking a class, "LEARN SOMETHING!") 

In five months I've learned how to function without her physical presence. I've learned so many other things too. I have learned how very many people love and care about me (who knew? certainly not me, at least not until she passed), how many lives she touched when she was here (and is still touching even now), and why she cared so much about people ... all kinds of people. I've been inspired by her zest for life, by her incredible rock-firm faith, and by her ability - in the short month between the time she realized that God was real and the time she went to see Him in person - to share that faith with people and make an impact in their lives.  

I've also learned (all over again) that it's okay to feel what I feel and not apologize for feeling it. That there is no "right way" to grieve and that some days are more "raw" than others, and some days are downright mundane. I know some people treat me as though I'm fragile every time they see me, and you know, I could have been having an almost normal day - not even "thinking about it" - until they treated me that way and then ... depending on how close to the surface my grief is, I'm either suddenly a basket case or I'm irritated ... or I just smile and wave, and let the lady doing the "Oh you poor thing" thing DO her thing (because she seems to enjoy thinking that she's making me feel better), and then walk away. On my "good days" I know that I'm not responsible for her actions; she is. And she isn't responsible for mine; I am. On the "bad days" ... just the sight of snow falling will put me in tears.

And it's all okay. It's all perfectly fine. Feelings (as I've said before) are transient (temporary) states of being that are designed to tell us things, and it's important to pay attention to the messages they give us, and to be kind to ourselves along the way. I've been paying attention and dealing with things as they come along. Part of that is keeping up with my studies: she was so proud of me for going back to school. "You'll make an awesome counsellor, Mom."

And in another five months ... I'll be ready to start another semester at grad school, and be that much closer to doing what she knew all along that I'd be good at - because after all, she kept telling me to help someone.

Take it all down

Today has been a difficult day, and it's not over yet.

There's a relationship that's broken in my life. It's been broken for years and over time, it has gotten more and more broken.

I tried to fix it starting a few years ago. However, the dynamic of it was such that anything I tried to do, backfired.  The history - and there was a LOT of history - got in the way.

Now it seems broken beyond repair. Lines have been drawn in the sand. Boundaries set and breached, over and over and over. 

In desperation, looking for some sort of sign, a prayer on my lips and an aching in my heart, I turned on the TV and thought maybe I could just put my mind in neutral and quiet the revving motor, the chest pains, the loss of appetite, the anguish. 

What I saw was an episode of a well-known Canadian home renovation show. The host was examining a floor that had water leakage problems and nobody knew where the leak was coming from. After excluding the obvious suspects, he decided to rip up the floor.

It was a beautiful hardwood floor. Shiny, glorious. "Take it all down," he said. "We'll find out what's causing this problem." 

Out came the crowbars. Up came the wood - splintering in all directions as the workmen did their duty. It was ... obscene. All that beautiful wood. 

"Danger" courtesy of
Michelle Meiklejohn at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

But underneath ... underneath it, someone had put plastic between it and the concrete slab. The concrete was cold; the wood was warm. The plastic made a perfect place for moisture to condense and cause the problem. 

Just a piece of plastic. Put in the wrong place.  Dear God.  

That's when my sign came. 

Sometimes, to fix something that is very wrong, everything has to go. It all has to go out the door, and be done right  -  and the right way too  -  from scratch. 
 Time to make a clean break. Splinter even the good things so that they are unusable, clear it all out, lay a good groundwork and do it right this time.

In my relationship dilemma, I believe that means (although I am scared to death) making a clean break as well. The way things have been going is not good; it is time to put an end to it, to say goodbye, to remove the source of the situation and lay the proper foundation: one based on each individual taking responsibility for his or her actions. 

No more who did what to whom first. No more majoring on minors. No more trying to do the same thing, over and over again, expecting different results. 


No more enabling. No more wheedling. No more manipulation. No more intimidation. 

That's going to take some hard work. And the hardest of all will be when the relationship crowbar comes out. When we (with much fear and sadness) say goodbye to what was. 

Even if it hurts. And it WILL hurt.

A LOT.

Goodbye - again.

I must have been about 11 years old the first time it happened. A schoolmate with whom I was very close at that time, left in the middle of the school year. Her mother was moving to a province very far away. 

I'd lost my grandfather at 7 years old, and that was really tough too. But losing a friend's company, knowing that they were still out there somewhere but prevented from that regular contact ... was almost worse than losing someone to the grim reaper. 

The sense of loss was incredible. I am not a person who makes friends easily, even less so when I was a child. She was my only friend. And she left. 

As I grew older, this was a pattern that repeated with various people and for various reasons. Often. So often, in fact, that I became afraid to make friends with someone new, because I absolutely KNEW that I would have to say goodbye to them; they ALWAYS left. Or they were so far away that it was just as though they were gone from my life. Keeping in touch was really difficult; I'd write and they wouldn't write back.

Loneliness was a frequent companion. Grief too.

Abandonment. Whether intentional or not, whether permanent or not, it hurts. 

A few years ago, a family moved to our province and started attending our church. And I tried not to like them. I really did. I knew - given the nature of the work that brought them here - that they would eventually leave.

However ... I couldn't help myself. Their dedication to being real in their faith, and their love of worship were akin to ours; their positive attitudes were something I wanted to emulate. I found myself wanting to be with them, watching them interact with each other, and cheering them on in their successes and their vision for the ministry of which they and we were a part. I grew to love them - to consider them friends.

Girl Looking Unhappy
Image courtesy of Stuart Miles (royalty-free
under certain restrictions) at
freedigitalphotos.net

And now ... all too soon, the time has come to let go - again - and say goodbye.  The job that brought them here ... naturally ... is leading them away from here.

When I first heard, a little over 24 hours ago, that this was going to happen, I felt as though someone had kicked me in the gut... that overwhelmed, breathless feeling of betrayal that quickly leads to nausea. Then it migrated into a profound sadness that stays even in the midst of laughter over other things. It's like this deep and guilty wound, scabbed over on the outside, but never quite healed on the inside, that someone punches (hard) every time a loved one leaves, either through death or distance. 

Guilty, because I am fighting the thought that I "should" be happy for my friends - and all I can think of is how much I will miss them, how things won't be the same without them. Selfish? yes. 

But it's allowed. I'm allowed to feel this way because that's how I feel. Simple as that. The fact that I have learned to feel what I feel and let it happen instead of stuffing it down inside, helps me to heal a little more than I would have if I'd lived (once more, like so many other times) in denial. 

The reality is, I really AM going to miss these wonderful people. It would be easier if I could even be angry at them - dismiss them. I can't. I need to work through the stages of the grief I know is normal and natural for me to experience. 

It's okay. It's hard - very hard - but it's okay. 

I guess I'll just have to make the best of the time that's left to us.

Storm Stayed

This morning, of all mornings when I would have loved to have slept in, I was awake at 5:30. I awoke to the low moan of winter outside our window, rising occasionally into a whistle.

I hate winter. I've made no secret of it. I hate everything about it - except for the fact that it doesn't last all year long where I live. I detest the cold, the wind, the snow, EVERY winter sport or activity, the ice on the windshields, the shoveling, the slippery roads, the ice underfoot, the slush, the slow traffic, the lack of greenery, the short daylight hours, the bulky clothing and ... did I mention the cold? Uggh!! 

"An Old Mountain Shelter Covered with Snow"
Image courtesy of Michal Marcol at www.freedigitalphotos.net

I've learned to survive, of course. I'm Canadian after all. We accommodate. ;) 

I've even learned to find things for which to be grateful in the midst of all this "white stuff" - which technically ... is quite dirty and not something I would want to melt and drink! 

I can be grateful for a warm, safe home, when so many must sleep in dumpsters and on park benches even in this weather. I can be grateful that (for example, today, when there's a blizzard raging outside) all of my loved ones are accounted for, and most are sleeping late! I am pleased that the power is not out - at least not yet - and that even if it does go out, we live in an area that usually can get it going fairly quickly. I can be glad that we knew that this storm was coming and that we had time to stock up on groceries, batteries, and the like. I can be thankful that hubby did my laundry yesterday, that we are on the city water and sewer systems (so we don't have to use a commode anymore!) and that in the fall of 2011, we paid someone to come in and spray-foam (insulate) our furnace room. And finally, I can be very grateful that storms don't last forever. 

That last point is good to remember when I've been hit with the blizzards of life, too - when body-blow after body-blow happens and I feel overwhelmed. "This too shall pass." Or, "The storm doesn't stay." 

At times in my past, I had a tendency to get storm-stayed and lose my way, refusing to emerge from my hiding place. When events would transpire that were distressing for me, I'd hunker down. And these occurrences would pile up! After a while, I'd expect to get those emotional hay-makers, and would interpret everything that happened, not at face value, but by attributing the motive that "they're out to get me." Even the good things were tainted with bitterness. I'd mistrust any good that anyone did for me, wondering what they wanted in return. I'd deflect any kind words, thinking that those who complimented me or were kind to me didn't really mean it, that it was just the polite thing to do ... or that they felt sorry for me. 

When I started to heal on the inside, I started to realize that for decades, in response to years of physical and emotional abuse, I had created an emotional atmosphere within myself that was conducive to many of the negative things I was experiencing, or that I perceived to be happening. Since I expected bad things to happen, that's all I saw, which only deepened my belief that I was somehow under a curse. 

In a sense, I was under a curse. I was stayed - stuck, detained - in the "What next?" mentality, a real "storm magnet." However, as I became more and more free from the effects of those childhood experiences, my self-esteem became more balanced and I was able to find my own identity, and not the one that was tied up in what others thought about me, or how they might want to hurt me. 

In time, and with a great deal of repetition and reinforcement of the "new Judy," I actually began to believe statements like, "Today is a good day, unless I make other plans." And, "Don't let a bad moment turn into a bad day." As I did, and I started to get to know myself and like myself, I dared to believe that others could like me too. It's a process, of course. Part of it is realizing that there are going to be people who won't like me, no matter how hard I try to impress them... and that I don't need to keep chasing after them. It's okay to let go. It's okay to be me and not feel I have to apologize for it. 

I'm still learning those lessons.

So now, when those kinds of storms happen - and they do occasionally - I remind myself that it's okay to protect myself from them, but that they don't last, and I don't need to be stayed by storms beyond the "all clear." And I can remember that, as George of the Jungle said in the 1997 movie, "Something good always happen after."

After the miracle comes

In my last blog post, I talked about my friend whose faith through a trial has been tenacious. Of course, the amazing happened in her life and God really showed Himself strong in her situation when all seemed hopeless. Here is an account of her miracle, and a few comments on it. 

And now that she has received her impossible dream-come-true, like Henny Penny from the fairy tale by Andersen, she looked around and found that nobody from the circle of friends she expected has lifted a finger to help her rid herself of the vestiges of her old life and get started in a new one. A new group of friends pitched in their time and resources to help her. But as she sat across our supper table from me last evening, she shook her head and said, "Nobody from [XXXXX] even showed up." 

I tried to make excuses for the group she mentioned, but it was tough, you know? Everyone makes time for what is important to him/ her. 

Snowflakes - miracles in themselves

Yet ... this time has been great for her to strengthen friendships with those who really do care about her and about her happiness and who show it. I've had priceless opportunities to put "skin" on my platitudes and actually roll up my sleeves and invest a little "sweat equity" into the relationship. 

Am I stiff and sore this morning? Oh yeah. Do I regret digging deep into two of my most precious commodities - time and energy - to help her? 

Absolutely not. In fact, I've been encouraged by her excitement, even challenged by her getting into the "Christmas spirit" (something I haven't felt for years, except in fleeting moments, nothing sustained) and wanting to decorate her place for the holidays. Everything feels so fresh and new, and her gratitude for God's goodness is tangible. 

It is wonderful that so many have had the blessing of praying for her and being able to take part - in some small way - in what God did for her. But it would have been nice to not have left the other, more practical things, for others to do. 

There are a lot of ads on TV these days about child sponsorship and giving a goat to a family half-way around the world. But what about the person who lives in our city, goes to our church perhaps, who is living below the poverty line and who struggles to make ends meet? who has to choose between food and electricity? What about the homeless in our own back yard? What about "at-risk" families in our province or state who don't have enough money to buy Christmas presents or school supplies or shoes for their kids? 

I'm talking to me, too. Ouch!

I know of some families who have given up on buying each other gifts for Christmas and who donate their time at the soup kitchen, or who donate the money they would have spent on Christmas shopping ... to turkey drives or the food bank. Thinking "outside the boxes" beneath the tree might do a lot of good for people who need help; it would also let them know that someone cares for them in a way that surpasses platitudes. And the thing about giving in that way is: it not only meets a need in someone's liife, but it helps the one who gives ... in ways that can't be measured. 

It might even spark some Christmas spirit. 

Hurting people

Hurting people do hurt people.

Sometimes they mean to.  Sometimes they intend to inflict harm to make themselves feel better.  Not often... but sometimes. 

Sometimes they don't mean to.  They live their lives, they do what they do.  And their choices hurt us. It happens.  

Sometimes they try not to hurt us, because they know what it feels like to be hurt, and they don't want that for us.  And in trying not to... in hiding the truth from us ... they hurt us MORE than if they'd been honest.  Especially if they profess to love us.

What happens when people hurt us, for whatever reason?  How do we handle it? 

I know I don't handle it stoically.  I don't like being hurt.  But I've learned that it's okay to say that I've been hurt if that's how I feel, no matter how difficult it is. And it IS difficult.  every.  time.  

There was a time when I would "stuff it" down inside of me - hide my feelings and not show it if my sanity depended on it.  Trouble is, it did.  I drove myself deep into depression and spiraling into confusion by holding it in, year after year. It got so I didn't know how I felt anymore; everything was such a jumble of baggage from stuff I held in years ago, mixed with guilt and shame.  When I learned that it was more important to feel what I felt WHEN I felt it, for my own emotional health, I started to get in touch with what I was feeling, and didn't allow things to build up to explosive force.  Expressing things instead of holding back - within reason, of course - allowed me to discharge psychological energy in safe ways rather than overreacting after getting all pent-up.  

Allowing myself to express emotions validates what I feel - and helps me get to forgiveness faster.  It just does.  Forgiveness is a process and it starts with acknowledging that a wrong has been committed - whether intentionally or not - and knowing that it is okay to be upset when dealing with it.  

There are many more stages in that process, but a healthy start is knowing that it's okay to feel hurt.  There need be no shame in it.  We wouldn't blame ourselves for feeling pain when physically hurt; why would we blame ourselves when someone hurts us emotionally?

Fact is, getting hurt by others is probably going to happen a lot more than I'd like.  But at least I have the tools now to deal with it.

Cone of Silence

It was the way things were.  Nobody thought anything of it.  Nobody talked about it, least of all the ones who were the most affected.  And everyone thought that their situation was the same as everyone else's.  We all used the same language when we talked about (or was it around) it - each knew his or her own reality but sadly, nobody else's.  If we'd known, maybe we'd have figured out that something was wrong.  But nobody said a word.  There was a cone of silence around the topic.  We got together, we played catch, we skated on the pond - and we each assumed that the others' lives were just the same as ours.

That's how it went on for so long before the truth came out.

The truth was, someone (and maybe a lot of someones) in our number was a victim of child abuse.  Someone's parent was unable to control his or her anger, and took it out on his or her child.  Often.  And not just physically, but verbally, emotionally. Maybe there was even sexual abuse happening.  The home - supposedly a haven of rest and safety in a scary, mixed-up world - was in fact a war zone.  Except that the enemy lived under the same roof.  And the victim never knew when he or she would be targeted again.  Every time, he or she vowed to him or herself (whether consciously or subconsciously) that once free of this place, nobody would ever be able to push him or her around again. That things would be different. 


Ruled by fear - or anger - or both - the child became an adult and moved out. But the pain, the fear, the anger - these reactions were constantly in the driver's seat.  They controlled the person's behavior so he or she pushed people away or smothered them with either need or caretaking, whichever the case, and the misery never ended.  Like soldiers with PTSD, this child (now an adult) was always on "red alert." The danger was past - but not on the inside.  Relationships were not a safe place.  There was no "off" switch.

Here's the link for this photo

Abuse.  It's an ugly subject, made all the more subjective because of the pain and the stigma associated with it.  Fingers point - more point back.  Children live in denial all their lives and honestly believe they deserved it.  

Nobody deserves it.

And the pain can stop.  But it takes honesty.  Brutal honesty with one's self.  Not just about the self but about the past.  The truth really does set free.  The trick is in untangling the lies and separating their roots, untangling those tendrils of shame from things as they really were.  The cone of silence MUST come off.  Healing can't happen until we start talking about it, exposing it to the light.  If it stays in the dark, it thrives like the monster it is, and gets bigger.  Buried perhaps, but stronger and stronger. The light of truth does dispel the darkness of that network of lies.

That takes time. A LOT of time.  And a lot of help from someone else, someone who's been through it before, someone flesh and blood who can walk alongside as the one who's recovering works through those things.  More importantly, it takes a lot of help from a Power far greater than any human can give.  

I know.  I was one of those kids who played ball and thought everyone's life sucked just like mine.  

And I got help.

Showing it

About a month ago, while I was going through a very difficult time emotionally (to the point where I was losing sleep and having physical symptoms) I remember being in a store with my husband when we saw a friend of ours.  He stopped to talk to us and expressed his concern for me.  He'd noticed that I had lost the colour in my cheeks, was dragging myself around, and seemed very tired and/or sick. He said that he'd been praying for me, and that my husband and I were very special to him. As we parted, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Look after yourself...and feel better SOON."

The whole encounter took about five minutes.  But it felt so great to know that someone cared, someone noticed, someone wanted me to be happy, and that he took the time to SHOW that.  I hung onto that expression of loving concern for days and days.  It really meant a lot to me.  It fed my heart, so to speak.

Today, I saw him again.  He remarked how much better I was looking these days - more relaxed, more colour in my cheeks, more bounce in my step.  He said it was encouraging to see that.  Again I was reminded that I was loved, that my feelings mattered.  What a tremendous gift.  

From "The Importance of Hugging"

This fellow had learned somewhere along the line, that it's not enough to just care.  Care must be SHOWN to make a difference to someone.  It doesn't take long - five minutes during a random meeting, a few words or a smile and a wave, an encouraging text message, a short email, even a phone call.  But it can make the difference between someone feeling as though nobody cares, and borrowing a little hope to make it through another day until the sun starts to shine through. 

I really hope that the next time I am tempted to tell someone I care, I will remember to show it too ... just so the person knows I mean what I say and that it's not just empty words.  

Food for thought.

Not That Strong

Someone said something to me this morning while we were discussing how other people's assumptions can really hurt.  

This person mentioned a scene from the  M*A*S*H series - M*A*S*H being a long-time favorite of mine. In particular, there was this one scene that involved Major Margaret Houlihan.  Her nurses were constantly breaking regulations, going behind her back, and not being honest with her.  Finally when she caught them in a huge deception, she was angry and they were defensive - and the truth came out.  She felt excluded.  And they made the assumption that she would not want to be included.  And ... it hurt.  And ... she cried.  Tough as she was, she was still human and it hurt that others were labeling her and shutting her out.  The person I was talking to said, "That's you."  



It hit home.  In one particular sphere of influence, it has been a long-standing source of sadness for me that I've not even been thought of in a certain capacity, that others who have less experience than I do have been parachuted into something I've wanted to do for a long time, over and over again.  They have become the new darlings, a seemingly endless string of them, while I do what I do - and quite well - behind the scenes. Not that they are not qualified; they are.  But so am I - and nobody seems to have noticed, thinking that I would not even be interested because, after all, all I've ever done is that one thing.  Maybe it's because I'm not in the accepted social groups; maybe it's because I'm not interested in the same things as others; maybe it's because I detest playing the political game and prostituting myself to the powers that be.  For whatever reason, the result is the same.  Passed over, rejected, ignored, excluded. 

And it hurts. 

It's supposed to hurt.

Vulnerability.  I've heard it condemned as a weakness.  I've heard people try to denounce the experience of emotion - especially what they call "negative" emotion - as something to be avoided, not trusted, and somehow evil.  

I have a different take on that.  I believe that - as uncomfortable and unpleasant as so-called negative emotions are - they are God-given (otherwise, why would we be hard-wired with them?)  To deny them, to suppress them or to try to get rid of them, is doing a disservice to the human spirit.  They were created as temporary spiritual states designed specifically to be an early-warning system to alert us to dangerous situations: boundaries being crossed, injustice, manipulation, and abuse.  Not trusting our emotions can lead us into succumbing to these undesirable conditions, or allow us to remain there way too long.  Listening to our feelings can help us to figure out what the real problem is, why it is, and what our part (if any) is in allowing the situation to develop.  

And listening to the negative ones - and allowing them to help us look after ourselves - allows us the capacity to experience the not-so-unpleasant emotions.  You see, if we shove down or cut off our "negative" emotions, our psyches don't distinguish between bad and good - so it shuts them ALL down. This leaves us emotionally stunted, unable to experience joy, compassion, or love.  

So ... I would rather be hurt - and know it - than to deny my feelings and shut myself off from working through the injury and being healed from it.

Sea of Tranquility

I nudge my scrawny, 10-year-old body between two spruce trees, avoiding the prickles and dead twigs protruding from the bottom, and I pause.  I see a carpet of green grass, ringed completely by evergreens so thick that it is difficult to see past, and tricky to navigate on foot.  I allow the safety of this place, its beauty and quietness, to seep into my tired spirit.

My brother had shown this place to me a few years previous.  He called it the "Sea of Tranquility" - named after the same place on the moon - a flat place which was ringed in, protected.  I had visited here several times since.  

I pad silently into the circle.  The summer breeze plays 'in and out the window' between my bare, scabbed knees, war scars from learning to ride a bike.  There is just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away.  The sun soaks heat and restoration into my skin.  Here, the only sounds are the distant chirping of a cricket, the buzz of a couple of grasshoppers singing to each other, and the occasional bird chirping from one of the trees.  So peaceful.  So different.  

I lie down on my back, and lift my thoughts above.  The clouds are playing slow-motion tag, and I watch the birds swooping to catch flies on the fly, above me. My tense muscles start to unclench.  My soul drinks Creation in, like a desert traveler coming upon a natural spring.  Yet in the back of my mind I tell myself, "Mustn't stay here long.  She'll wonder ... and then I'll be in for it."  

The uncut grass blades tickle the backs of my legs.  I rub my calves together to take the prickling feeling away.  Slowly, the miracle of Nature soothes my thoughts, salves my troubles, and gives me just a little more strength.  The mental straitjacket loosens enough for me to catch a breath of the divine.  I allow myself to feel the caress of comfort.  I am not aware that I have begun to smile until a few minutes later, when I catch myself doing it. I close my eyes.

I hear a dog bark; it jolts me from my reverie.  I don't know how long I've been here, but my stomach lurches suddenly in panic.  Not because of the dog; I know all the dogs and they like me.  Not like her.  

I roll over onto one elbow and tuck my knees under me, rocking back onto my feet again.  I take one last look around and fill my lungs with freedom, enough to last me until the next time.  As I breathe out, my spirit says "Thank You," and my heart is resigned to what awaits me.  I tighten the straps around my heart once again, and squeeze past the trees, heading back the way I came.

This far - no further

Lately I've been struggling with boundaries.  

Not so much with where they are - I am slowly getting a comfort level there - but how to set them .... and how to enforce them .... is the thing that's been occupying my attention the last few weeks.  

I know I have to set these boundaries, and the hardest ones to set are those that must be put up for the first time with people (especially members of one's family-of-origin, be they natural or extended) who not only don't have ANY boundaries of their own, it seems to be part of their religion to cross over others' borders too - and stomp all over the tulips while they're there.  So (this is a given) I know for certain that they won't understand. I used to think exactly as they do now.  I know that they will wonder just what the big deal is.  And that they'll judge me - and tell everyone they know how cruel and ungrateful I'm being, to get them to judge me too, so their own treatment of me seems justified.  I KNOW this. Yet I am feeling compelled to tell them why I'm setting that boundary, how disappointed I am that they wouldn't have had the good sense to know not to "go there".  How wrong their crossing it is.  How much it hurts.  And yes, a large part of me wants to stick it right back to them.


I can't lie about it.  But it doesn't make their trespassing on my emotional property any less wrong.  And here I sit.  And I question.  And I pray.  And I wonder.  

Image "Businesswoman Asking To Stop"
courtesy of imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

How much should I tell them?  How do I tell them?  Do I tell them ANYTHING?  I write stuff so ... should I write to them?  Hmmm... any of the rare times I've ever written to someone before about something similar - it wasn't pretty.  The fangs and claws came out - on both sides.  It was pretty ugly.  I hesitate before doing that again.  

Maybe I should just be quiet and not "go there" myself.  Say nothing, but refuse to play that game - and then when they ask about it ... keep it not only simple, but short.   Yet there's this big, empty ... whatever... out there which begs, no, demands to be addressed.  The call of that thing is so strong, perhaps irresistible.  Or is it really "out there"??  Maybe it's actually "in here" - maybe it's just my own desire for self-justification.  Or maybe, as people in the recovery circles I hang around in say, it's "the codependent crazies."  That desire to gain the upper hand, to change the other person's behavior - even though I know for sure it won't - and will probably make it worse...!  

One of the things I learned in a course many years ago just popped into my head.  The course was on decision-making - and I remember the instructor saying, "The decision to do nothing is still a viable decision.  Sometimes a problem needs to just stew for a while - as uncomfortable as that is - and come to its own conclusion." 

That is the only option for me right now that has any semblance of peace attached to it.  Everything else is rife with turmoil.  So - once again I turn the whole situation - and myself - over to God, asking Him to relieve me of the bondage of self-will run riot, and to make me an example of what happens in a heart totally in love with Him.    

How you make me feel

"...people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."  - Maya Angelou  

I ran across this quote today as I was searching for something else.  The words stopped me in my tracks and made me think.  How many times I have said to someone (whether in a positive or negative tone), "You make me feel ... " and proceeded to say an emotion or use some sort of comparison to describe it.   How many times I have said or done things that I hoped would last, when all it took was a simple act of kindness to communicate how dear someone was to me.  Those times when someone has told me how I made them feel have either been overwhelmingly joyful or overwhelmingly sad, depending on how I made them feel (obviously).  That's a tremendous amount of power that one person can have over another, sometimes without even being aware of it!

And how many times someone's behavior or opinion of me has made me feel this or that way, and I've denied it, shoved it down inside of me and pretended it didn't exist.  I figured that if I ignored it, it would go away.  It never did; it just sat there and festered.  

Or I would get trapped in the emotion, not be able to confront the person, and get lulled into a false sense of my own importance (or unimportance).  

When you think about it, emotions are pretty powerful things and sometimes they can be overwhelming. But they are what they are. They are neither good nor bad. They just are.

A couple of days ago, while talking to a friend, I mentioned that emotions are temporary states designed to alert us to what's going on in our inner life.  They are meant to last for a short time and act as warnings, guide-posts.  Like traffic lights.  When we get into trouble with our emotions, it usually happens in one of two ways: either we deny they're there (and they will surface another way - usually by making us sick so we finally WILL pay attention!) or we hang onto them longer than is necessary to locate the source of the emotion and process it.  Imagine, I said, climbing up on a traffic light and hanging onto it for the rest of the day.  Emotions tell us when to stop, when to be careful and when it is safe to go ahead or change direction.  It's okay to have them; in fact, NOT having them is just as dangerous as hanging onto them for dear life.  

Part of recovery for me, though, is learning where I stop and where other people begin, where others stop and I begin.  Those boundaries are never more important than in the realm of emotions that are based on what someone else does or says.  And the time it takes to process such emotions is in direct proportion to how deeply what they said or did impacts me.  

Nobody lives in a vacuum.  It is important, though, to be aware that the possibility exists for great joy or great harm to be done by words and deeds.  "Death and life," said King Solomon, "are in the power of the tongue."  Being aware that someone's words can take on a life of their own and can actually generate a self-fulfilling prophecy ... can help me to be able to evaluate whether something that someone says is true and decide whether it applies to me.  Then I can make the choice to accept and receive it - or reject it and not give it any power over me.  Learning that other people's opinions of me were their business and not mine, that I didn't have to let them "make me feel" this way or that way if what they said wasn't true - this was a revelation, an epiphany for me.  

This is part of what living life "inside out" is all about.  It means that I am not bound any more by the things people put onto me from the outside (like grave-wrappings). It means I live from what is inside of me, outward - grounded in my relationship with God and with myself, open (and yes, vulnerable) to those around me, being honest with myself, with God and with them - and willing to admit when I make a mistake - feeling what I feel and living from that core, from the heart.  

When I do, the grave-clothes start coming loose and dropping to the ground.  And my spirit can breathe.

Keep the door open

I heard a sermon once by a dynamic speaker - who liked to use props whenever he spoke; he found it helped his audience remember what he had said. This particular day, he walked onto the platform with a bright blue mop handle, unscrewed from one of those wonder-mop varieties of mops they sold in the stores about 15 years ago or so.

He hadn't been speaking very long before the color of the mop handle, or even that it was a mop handle at all, didn't matter any more to me. I was transfixed.

He spoke of the life and ministry of Moses. In particular, he spoke about the experience at the burning bush. And then he started talking about the miracle of the rod - how God told him to throw the rod on the ground; when he did, it became a serpent. (I can still see him throwing the mop handle on the floor and jumping away from it as if it had started to move and he might get bitten. Then gingerly, carefully reaching for the end of it - and raising it up for all to see it was a mop handle - er - shepherd's rod again.)

Then this pastor held the rod up in his hand and said something like this: "I want you to understand something. In Egypt, Moses was the next thing to being a god. He had it all: money, power, anything he wanted. But when he identified with his own people and tried to help them on his own, he was so disgraced by his failure to help them that he left all that behind and lived in self-imposed exile. He took on the life of a simple shepherd. And a shepherd's rod is his most important tool for doing his work; it protects the sheep from predators, keeps them in line when they stray, and helps the shepherd reach craggy places and tight spots into which sheep have gotten themselves. But over the course of 40 years, this rod came to symbolize for Moses ... everything he lost, all the failure, all the guilt and shame, all the things he could never be, and all the things he believed he always would be. Nothing but a shepherd.

"That rod was a metaphor for everything he had lost in his life. Lost dreams, lost reputation, lost future. Then God came into the picture and told him to throw it down. The Almighty told him to throw down the symbol of the life that he'd been living the last 40 years - a life of disgrace, of shame, of lost opportunities. Deep in his heart he wanted so desperately to be rid of all of that. So yes, he threw it down. Then it transformed into the very personification of those feelings : a venomous snake!! Moses ran from it. Who wouldn't!! But God told him to do something that scared him even more. 'Pick it up.' Not only was this a venomous snake, which would bear watching, it was also the symbol of all of his failures. Why? why would God say to pick up the very thing he loathed? the very thing that caused him so much pain?

"But Moses DID pick up that serpent - and it transformed back into a rod again. And here's what I want you to get. Ever afterward, when Moses talked about that rod, he didn't call it 'the rod of Moses' when he wrote about it. God called it 'your rod' but Moses never did. He called it 'the rod of God.' "

Then he said something else I will never forget. "God can take the very thing that is causing you the most pain, the thing in your life that you feel you can never be free of - and transform it eventually into an instrument that He can use to help others. All you need to do is throw it down at His feet, see it for what it really is, and then allow God to transmute that into what will eventually become your own unique ministry - whether you are a pastor or a lay person who rubs shoulders with hurting people every day. God can use the very thing you think is so ugly and turn it into a beautiful thing for Him. When He tells you to throw it down...throw it down.

"And when and ONLY when He says it's time to pick it back up, do it, for only then will you be ready to enter into the realm of using that very thing to help others who are suffering with the exact same issues you once had. And you will be the only one who can reach them because quite frankly, they won't listen to anyone else who's never been through what they have. That will be your unwitting gift to them, just as it was Moses' gift to his people, given totally unawares. And God will be glorified in and through it. You will be amazed."

How could I improve on that kind of message!? All I can say is that in my own experience, this has proven to be true. No matter how far down the scale I have gone, I have eventually been able to see how my experience not only of recovery and healing but of what I have been healed FROM, can benefit others, and God gets all of my gratitude for it, for without Him (and I tried for years to do it on my own and failed miserably every time) I can do absolutely nothing.

What's so Awful about Weakness?

People come in all shapes, sizes, abilities, strengths, weaknesses, and types of intelligence.

What's the first thing you notice about a businessman who happens to be using crutches? Is his immaculate suit and tie? Is it the smile on his face or the color of his hair (or that he even HAS hair?)

Or is it the crutches?

Okay, I get it that people don't want to be sick, or weak, or in some way "less" than what is considered the norm. Parents don't want that for their children - the teasing, the limitations, and other lessened joys in life. (Lessened compared to what? especially if they've never known anything different?)

Anyway, I heard someone talking about their infant who had a problem with one of his senses - for the sake of argument let's say he needed really thick glasses for the rest of his life. First, is he less of a person because he can't see as well as those who don't need glasses? Second, how will that limit him in any appreciable way? Why then, did this person get all kinds of comments like, "Oh that's awful! God can heal him - let's all agree together in prayer; He can do the impossible!!"

Don't get me wrong; I believe that God can heal anybody if He wants to. I just don't think He necessarily wants to in EVERY case. What if God knows that this young fellow (as happened with my husband) will be in a room one day when a bunch of acid explodes in a chemical reaction? those thick glasses will keep him from going blind!! What if the visual disability keeps him from going into a career where he would most likely be killed before he could accomplish all that God had initially planned for him? Like say, the military? What if God uses this young person's inability to see well to teach someone else a lesson and turn their life around in a way that nothing else could? Some of the most amazing people I've known had significant physical limitations, mental difficulties, or intellectual challenges - which made them all the more amazing for their steadfast faith, their persistent and loyal love for their family and friends, and their passion for the lost.

In fact, the apostle Paul boasted about his weaknesses, about his physical limitations, because he knew that when people looked at him they thought, "What a wimpy little weakling of a man! Bow-legged, near-sighted, waddles when he walks! ... but there's something about him that's so compelling. This God of his must be pretty impressive to make him this passionate..." and we know that hundreds followed Jesus because of Paul's witness. Of those, dozens were healed of all kinds of sicknesses. Yet Paul himself was not. Three times he asked, and finally Jesus told him, "My grace is enough for you; My strength shines even brighter in your weakness."

So what's so awful about it?

Workin' Overtime

I've been working some overtime to help pay for the upcoming tuition bills. My employer has me doing quick and easy files during the day, but after I switch to overtime, only one kind of file will do because we're running behind on those kind. Some of them are quite involved and difficult. I don't want to say I've been spoiled - but you do get used to a certain rhythm and when it's changed, well, it can really make you think.

Another thing it can do is make you appreciate the times when you're NOT working overtime!! Like tonight. I only put in an hour tonight instead of two or more. That way it was still light outside when I got home, and I was able to sit and blog for what feels like the first time this week.

I like to write - - and I get to write for my employer, but this is different. This ... is me. It's what I love to do. It's an outlet, kind of cathartic. My thoughts run free and I am able to think important things, wonder about stuff, be grateful for the little everyday mercies that come my way.

How many people work overtime on the things that don't really matter in the end? Amassing toys, clothes, cars, jewelry, ... whatever. Everyone has an addiction of some sort. I know one person whose addiction is having a spotless house. Every little thing has to be in place or this person believes the whole house is a "mess." I know people who are addicted to alcohol, drugs, sex, food, (ouch) ... sports. I even know people who are addicted to conferences and retreats. (Whoa Judy, slow down, you're getting too close to home...) And I know several people who are addicted - to people. They can't get through a day without talking to at least 5 people - at length. (Oh, their bosses really LOOOOVE them... not!!)

Then there are the internal addictions. Thinking up ways to manipulate people into doing what you want. Wondering what people are thinking about you - or if they're even thinking about you at all. Worrying about the future. Beating yourself up over the past. Feeling guilty for not doing enough. Am I touching someone's spirit here?

The point is - there is an answer for all addiction. I stumbled on it when I was trying to help my husband recover from his alcoholism... by going to a counselor. He had the gall to give me something to read that implied that I mySELF might be in need of recovery!! But he was right. I needed to recover from those very self-same internal addictions I just mentioned.

Those who know me best will tell you that I'm not the same person I was even two years ago, that I've changed for the better. My husband and kids will sure tell you. Many of the things I said were "personality traits" and I excused by saying, "I can't help it; it's just the way I am," weren't really my personality traits, but behaviors I put on to survive the pain I had experienced at the hands of others, things other people had "put on me" - just like people wrapped Lazarus up after he had died - to keep him from moving, to keep him manageable. Those attitudes, those internal addictions, were my grave clothes. They were the trappings of death. Even after Jesus brought me to life, I spent my life hopping around in my grave clothes, thinking I was living. I needed someone to come alongside me and help me off with those smelly rags, filled with the stench of decay. I'm so glad that someone did just that.

I am living proof that anyone can be unwrapped.
All it takes is a willing heart to fully abandon oneself to a lifestyle of rigorous honesty.

Turned off of God - by the church?

Something bloggers do is read other peoples' blogs. It keeps us fresh, prevents us from stagnating, and spurs us to think.

I ran across this one person's blog lately and I must admit I go there often. She herself is a committed Christian whom I admire. She posted something about the modern church, the way it turns people off of God, that touched a deep chord with me.

Here's an excerpt:

The church has this way of making it seem like the journey is over once you have entered its doors. Poor you, all lost and weary, come with us, we can show you the way, trust our path. If only it were that simple. I know that the message is well intended but the relationships between the "saved" and the "lost" are all too often tainted by agendas and expectations. Why focus so much on me? Save yourselves! Let your good works speak for your faith, or if you are feeling lost and broken then share that with me, or how about we all just shut up and listen? There were a few times I really wanted to say aloud what I was thinking. (Source: http://www.livinginthemystery.blogspot.com/ )

I responded in a comment to that blog entry. But my response turned into more of a blog in and of itself.

I know very few people among my circle of friends, Christian or not, who haven't been hurt by the church. So here (in part) is my reply to my fellow-blogger...

I've felt for many years that the church is shooting itself in the foot by telling all and sundry that the problems of addiction, struggles with temptation, and day-to-day "blahness" will all be over once a person has "accepted Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior" - ughh. As a matter of fact, being a committed Christian guarantees you MORE trouble. (All those who want to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will suffer persecution). The devil's crosshairs line up on the person who loves Jesus so much that it he or she is making a difference in his or her world. Not the kind of difference the modern church seems to think is "making a difference" - passing out tracts, spouting religious platitudes, and being (pardon the cliché) so heavenly minded we're no earthly good. In other words, out of touch with the "real world."

That brings back some pretty vivid memories of when I was a Bible-thumping raving lunatic...in senior high no less. People looked at me like I had 2 heads but I just viewed it as "persecution."

I wasn't being persecuted. I was weird.

No - the enemy doesn't waste his time trying to "get" these folks. They're already bound up in the grave clothes of the great god "Should." Old satan concentrates his firepower on those few who are walking with God the way Enoch walked with God. The way King David walked with God - in openness and honesty, warts and all, receiving love from God and loving Him back (sometimes even willing to make a fool of himself to do so!!)

Sometimes the problem with the church is that the Vision is lost. Jesus came to the down-and-outers, the addicts, the prostitutes, the guys who took money under the table. When we come to Jesus, we may feel uncomfortable about our past life of degradation so we surround ourselves with people we want to emulate. Problem is, we become a sub-culture and lose touch with what speaks to "regular people." There's a we-they mentality and it can easily turn into a siege mentality. We become so obsessed with reaching everyone possible before Jesus comes back that we forget to spend time getting to know Him more intimately, hearing His heart about the broken and the fallen. I've fallen into that trap. There's a tendency to do that the longer one is a believer. That wasn't what Jesus intended.

That's what the enemy intended. And if we're not careful as believers, we can fall into the trap of thinking we're doing God's will when what we're really doing is playing right into the enemy's hands.

Thanks very much for putting your finger on my tendency to let the pendulum swing to the extremes. In recent days, I've been railing against the same body of Christ that I'm a part of. In doing so, I'm in danger of becoming the loose cannon nobody wants to listen to. In my zeal to call Christians to a deeper life in God, I can come off all "holier than thou" as well. Or downright obnoxious. (Like the guy who leaned right into my face and sprayed little spittle drops as he spoke the words, "Do you know Jesus as your personal Savior?") - I shudder. Sometimes my firebrand tendencies are just as offensive to the unsaved and even to believers (who are either new to the faith or satisfied with their walk with God), as that person's "witness" was to me.
The truth is, stepping into a relationship with God is only the beginning of an adventure, not the end of a struggle. There's a whole new struggle - but one with a purpose. Contrary to popular belief, the struggle isn't against the people in the world (or even the church - haha). It's against the spiritual forces that will do anything to keep us from developing that intimacy with God that He so desires. The outward stuff (to which I sometimes refer as the "Do, do, do") will not be forced if we just concentrate on the inward stuff (the "be, be, be") and listen to His voice.

That was my comment.

Now - to clarify a bit. By "making a difference in his or her world" I don't mean what most church-going believers think of. I am talking about a life of love and joy that comes from a growing intimacy with God. This kind of life overflows in love, God's love (since He loved us first) - primarily back to Him - and then spills out into the lives of the people with whom we come in contact. It has nothing to do with the people we hang out with or don't hang out with, the kinds of clothes we wear or don't wear, the kinds of places we go to or don't go to, the kinds of music we listen to or don't listen to, the kinds of movies we watch or don't watch. It has to do with real people with real heartaches, real joys, real lives.

I posted earlier on Intimacy with God: "Oh God, into me see." That's the life to which God is calling me. In a more recent post, I talked about the walls coming down, but I failed to mention that this is only the beginning of the journey.

God has such amazing, sometimes heart-stopping adventures for us, even after He's taught us to fly.