Last year in the ladies room of the Waffle House in Bellevue, Tennessee I asked God to transform my heart and my mind. Lord, I need You to do this for me or through me. I need You to stand in front of me or help me stand by myself. I need You to hold my hand. I need You to help me forgive my dad. I need You to make me forgive my dad. I need to forgive my dad.
And I did.
Sixteen years of anger and hurt and turmoil and tears- gone. Gone from me were the nights I cried myself to sleep because my daddy had left me and I didn't understand why. Gone from me was the pain of watching his dependency on alcohol grow. Gone from me was the desire to have the last word. It was all gone. I felt lighter. I felt younger. I felt like one giant ball of triumphant love.
As an adult I can look back and understand a lot of things. My parents weren't married. My dad and my mom both wanted completely different things out of life and suddenly there I was. I can see why my dad left. I can look back on when I was ten years old and living with my dad and my step mother and see how difficult it was to deal with a hurt little girl that had no idea how to cope with anything. I can see where my dad's need for alcohol came into play. I can see where and why God sent me back home to my mother in Georgia. I can see the sheer beauty in my father getting sober when I was fourteen years old. I can see how difficult it was for my dad to try to forge a better relationship with me out of the crumbling one we had. I can see why he became distant. I look back and see how my choice of only acting out of anger and spite really stunted any kind of growth in our relationship. I can see how my not forgiving my dad hurt him, but ultimately took the largest toll on me.
What I don't understand is why my dad got sick.
Whether it be the alcoholism or genetics, my dad was diagnosed with Early Onset Dementia last year. I don't even remember when I found out. I don't remember the phone conversation. I don't remember where I was standing in the house when I was told. I don't remember how I told my husband or my mom, but since I found out the same sense of fear has resided in my gut.
When my mother and I left our apartment in Snellville and moved to Thomson I had no idea what was going on. By the time my dad married my step mother I had plenty of ideas of what was going on and I was one furious little kid. At eight years old I remember painting the back deck with my mom and her telling me that I should forgive my dad. She told me about her dad and about her childhood and how she didn't forgive her dad until she was an adult but when she did they became best friends. My mom ended up being the only one out of seven children my grandfather really had a relationship with because she was the only one who forgave him for leaving my grandmother. She told me I would regret it if I never forgave my dad. I didn't believe her.
As a child I held on to my anger because I didn't understand how to let go of it. As a teenager and a young adult I held on to my anger because I thought it put me above the whole thing. I thought I had authority in my anger. There is no authority in the wake of disease. There is no authority in the wake of forgiveness, either.
Shortly after I found out about my dad's illness I went to Tennessee to see him and my step mother. Southwest Airlines lost my luggage on the way to Tennessee and on my first full day there I ate breakfast with my dad in the same clothes I had worn the day before. I think my luggage being lost was God getting me to be a bit more humble. I'm a prideful person. Prideful people have a hard time forgiving others. As I scarfed down my glorious Waffle House scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns I looked at my dad and saw him as a human being. A man who had made mistakes. A man who had regrets. A man. A human. A child of God who is just as loved and just as forgiven as I am.
We finished out meal. I went to the bathroom, and I forgave.
Since then my dad has become one of my best friends. He is one of my biggest supporters. He gives some of the best advice. He makes me laugh. He sends me encouraging text messages when I need them the most. At twenty two years old my dad is honestly one of my favorites. I, myself, could go back in time and tell my teenage self that and she wouldn't believe me.
We are commanded to forgive others as God has forgiven us. We like to pick and choose who we extend that forgiveness to. God sent His only Son to die for all of us. He didn't pick and choose certain people for Jesus to die for. There are a lot of girls out there that need to forgive their fathers. There are a lot of people out there that need to forgive other people. Don't withhold your forgiveness any longer. You won't regret it.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Saturday, May 23, 2015
A Quick Word on the Duggars
Let me go ahead and preface this with the fact that on this subject I am biased. I've had nothing but bad experiences with the charismatic church and I was also sexually abused. It's difficult for me to look at the Duggar Scandal and not be angry. It is my duty, however, not to be angry about it.
I've been reading this absolutely fantastic book, Unoffendable by Brant Hansen, that talks about how we are biblically NOT entitled to our anger. One of the many scriptures Hansen cites is Ephesians 4:31 (NIV)-
I've been reading this absolutely fantastic book, Unoffendable by Brant Hansen, that talks about how we are biblically NOT entitled to our anger. One of the many scriptures Hansen cites is Ephesians 4:31 (NIV)-
31 Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. 32 Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.
All bitterness. All rage. All anger. A-L-L. Which is really hard for me because I'm a pro at being pissed about everything. I was really pissed when I got on Twitter Thursday evening and saw it erupting over this bad, bad situation. I was scrolling through Facebook this morning and I saw someone post an article about Josh Duggar being redeemed by the Blood of the Lamb and I got really, really mad.
But if he knows Jesus then Josh Duggar has, indeed, been forgiven.
That means that we as a Christian community are instructed to also forgive Josh Duggar. Grace- we're thankful for it until we have to extend it to someone else, huh? While the rest of the world wants vengeance, we are the ones tasked with extending mercy. Extending prayer for the Duggars and the victims. Not talking junk about how much you "saw this coming" (I'm correcting myself here. Thursday night I posted something about how I saw something like this coming).
One of the most polarizing factors of God being God and man being man is God can extend grace to anyone who may ask for it. If Charles Manson made the decision to make Jesus Lord of his life, grace would be extended to him. No purchase necessary. Man, however, would gladly have all the double standards needed to put a murderer to death but allow an adulterous spouse go free. The wages of sin is death but here in the twenty first century if you 'follow your heart' you'll end up where you're supposed to be, no matter who you hurt in the process as long as you didn't murder anyone.
In reality we have all murdered someone. We've all thought about curb-stomping someone. We've all lied and cheated. We've all allowed a lustful thought remain at the forefront of our minds for a little too long. Yet, God has grace for all of us.
Do I think their show should be canceled? Yes. Their denim skirt wearing, picture perfect, split end variety of Christianity sends the opposite message of grace. (Side note, isn't not cutting your hair kind of idolizing it?). Now excuse me while I go observe the plank in my eye and the multitude of money I've spent on my own hair.
Will the show, instead, be canceled because Josh Duggar is a "monster" and the Duggar family is full of "enablers"? Probably. While the rest of the world gathers tar and feathers, we as Christians are commanded to love and forgive. That is radical. Imagine, loving someone that doesn't deserve it, just like the rest of us.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
I Didn't Graduate College and That's Okay.
Let me start off by saying that I did not want to go to college.
By the end of my senior year of high school I was fed up with a lot of things. My husband's (he was my boyfriend at the time) best friend passed away in a tragic car accident over Christmas break and that caused me to take a very good look at what I felt was a complete waste of time. Busting my butt to graduate alongside a bunch of kids that cheated their way to the top. Continuing to be friends that had no interest in who I wanted to be as a person. Schoolwork in general. I was wasting my time on a lot of things. Before Christmas break I was set to graduate with honors. I stopped giving a damn and didn't graduate with honors. Didn't take the AP literature exam that would've gotten me a college credit. I didn't do a lot of things.
I got accepted into college and didn't have to pay a dime because my GPA was still miraculously good and my mom didn't make a whole lot of money. In fact at the time she wasn't making any money at all. One day right before I graduated, I came home to her sitting on the couch in her work clothes when she was supposed to be at work. "I quit" she said. She then explained that on her application she lied and said she had graduated high school when in fact she never had. The pharmacy she had been working for was being looked over by some higher ups and she didn't want her boss to get in trouble.
I don't remember how long it took her to get a job again but it was a good agonizing while. Let me be the one to inform you that there's a gigantic difference between wanting to eat ramen noodles and having to eat ramen noodles because that's all that can be afforded. We almost lost the house. I swear we were about to lose the car about six different times. There was even a week where we had no running water. All the while I was going to college and feeling like I was making the problem worse because of the gas money it took to get me back and fourth. I made my first D in my entire life because the math professor would come to class hungover and I was already beyond incapable at math. I couldn't save my GPA and I lost HOPE scholarship. I was relieved. I finally had a legitimate reason to drop out and I did faster than I could consider potential student loans.
After I got out of college I started actually doing things. I got a job. I got married. Everything was going pretty great until last week when it seems like everyone I went to school with graduated college.
Realistically everyone I went to school with did not graduate from college last week, but a lot of my friends did and I started feeling really down on myself. My husband looked at me the other day while I was watching Netflix and I was so slumped over my chin was nearly touching the bed. I was literally weighing myself down with my thoughts. I began basing my self worth on my lack of college degree, rather than the job I have. Or the friendships I have. Or even the daggum good marriage that I have. I didn't put myself in debt up to my eyeballs to continue my education so I was worthless.
Last night we went to hang out with my husband's best friend, Richard, and a few other buddies of ours. Whenever we go to Richard's house we all hang out in the game room and his little sister's bathroom is the one closest to the game room, so we all frequently demolish it. I look at the picture at the beginning of this post all the time when I'm using poor LeeAnne's bathroom but I never really thought about it until last night. Just because I'm not doing what everyone else is doing doesn't mean what I'm doing doesn't matter. I wanted to get a job so I would feel like I was doing something useful. I got married because I can't imagine doing life with anyone else but my Kirk. I have these amazing friendships with some of the greatest people on this planet and they choose to continue to allow me to take up space in their hearts. My worth is not based on a diploma. It isn't based on how much I get paid per hour. My worth manifests itself in the people I love. You don't need a college education to know how to care for someone and if all I do in my life is make sure that the people in my corner feel loved then I'm good.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
On "Ruining Your Witness" and Loving People like Jesus
Reputation is everything in the South. Everyone is so concerned with whether or not they're "good people" and that they're from and currently creating "good families". I've lived in several states in the South and there are so many people that are utterly obsessed with how they're perceived in their community. Are they in good standing with the church? The school system? Do they individually know all of the members of the local Board of Education? When they walk into City Hall are they ignored or feared? How many family members of theirs are in the police force? The list goes on and on. I have a sneaking suspicion that this toxic mindset is where the idea that someone could "ruin their witness" came from.
Picture this- a much younger, less cynical, me in Sunday School on a sunshine-y Sunday morning being told that I shouldn't associate with people that aren't Christians because it will "ruin my witness". The person telling me this was the Sunday School teacher; a woman that I loved and respected. I had been attending that church for several years and like everyone else I referred to her as my "aunt". Her marriage was good. Her family was decent. She has three sons that I'll still say hi to if I see them out in public. She was actually related to several people in the church. She had been the Sunday School teacher that everyone liked for God knows how long. She was the picturesque example of "good people". Yet she sat there in her chair in the middle of the room and talked about how the world should see us and how it might get the "wrong impression" if we're seen with the wrong people. Who were the wrong people? People who did drugs. People who had sex outside of marriage. People who drank and cussed and smoked cigarettes. People who didn't dress in their Sunday best every day. People that weren't Baptists, (it was a Baptist church). If they didn't know Jesus they didn't deserve to be looked at. If they weren't Christians they didn't deserve anyone's time of day. My Sunday School teacher was someone I trusted with teaching lessons that were Biblically correct. Without bias. The words coming out of her mouth that morning were opinion ladened lies.
I looked around at her three sons and my other friends in the youth group. I looked at the chalkboard walls I helped paint with my best friend on a hot summer morning. I looked at the things my friends wrote on the walls. The prayer requests. The funny faces. I looked back at my "aunt". I knew she was lying. I don't think anyone else did.
I grew up rather unchurched. I hated Christians. I hated how fake they were. I was a very angry kid. Twelve years old and I was walking around, cussing like a fisherman. I was rude. Hateful. I was picked on a lot in school so one of my friends "taught me how to be a bitch" and I evolved into the bitchiest twelve year old that ever existed. Then one of my other good friends invited me to her church.
I met Jesus and I remember just bawling. I can't describe fully what I felt. Relief. Love.
According to my Sunday School teacher though, that friend of mine shouldn't have even given me the time of day. I didn't grow up knowing Jesus.I didn't go to kid's church. I didn't go to AWANA. I didn't go to Vacation Bible School either. Even after I got saved I didn't attend a church regularly until I was thirteen. I didn't even get baptized until I was fifteen. (Let's not start a salvation/baptism war here people).
What if my friend had been afraid that I would ruin her witness?
Ideals like that completely discount Grace. Jesus could not have given a rat's smelly behind about who He was seen with. He hung out with twelve smelly dudes 24/7. Fishermen. He didn't hang out with priests or faithful churchgoers. In fact, Jesus went out and always ended up hanging out with who the religious folk of that time thought were the bad people. The undesirables. The twelve smelly dudes He hung out with did things like ask permission to call down fire upon a town, cut people's ears off, even act like they had no idea who Jesus even was. Like they hadn't just hung out with Him for three whole years. Yet Jesus loved them despite their shortcomings. Despite their stench. He knew them all quite well. Their faults. Their fears. They were His twelve. He chose those people.
He chose us too. All of us. He died for every single one of us. He died for all of us because we're human, which means we all inherently suck. You suck. *insert Oprah meme* And you suck. And you suck!! And you. You too- I see you there shaking your head. You, my friend... you suck. We all suck which is why the need for Grace was so dire. We're all murderers. Liars. Thieves. Adulterers. Even the pastor of your church. Even the deacons. Even the Sunday School teacher you thought could do no wrong. We never stop needing Grace.
So I challenge you, anonymous reader, to remember Grace. I know the whole "ruining your witness" thing is a widespread ideal. I see it on Facebook. I see it on Twitter. I see it everywhere. I even see it creep up within me every once in a while. Remember that Jesus came and died for all of us. Regardless of your past, or even your future. None of us are good enough on our own. As for your "witness"... if you're carrying out the job that Jesus appointed all of us to do, if you are loving people, let it be ruined.
Picture this- a much younger, less cynical, me in Sunday School on a sunshine-y Sunday morning being told that I shouldn't associate with people that aren't Christians because it will "ruin my witness". The person telling me this was the Sunday School teacher; a woman that I loved and respected. I had been attending that church for several years and like everyone else I referred to her as my "aunt". Her marriage was good. Her family was decent. She has three sons that I'll still say hi to if I see them out in public. She was actually related to several people in the church. She had been the Sunday School teacher that everyone liked for God knows how long. She was the picturesque example of "good people". Yet she sat there in her chair in the middle of the room and talked about how the world should see us and how it might get the "wrong impression" if we're seen with the wrong people. Who were the wrong people? People who did drugs. People who had sex outside of marriage. People who drank and cussed and smoked cigarettes. People who didn't dress in their Sunday best every day. People that weren't Baptists, (it was a Baptist church). If they didn't know Jesus they didn't deserve to be looked at. If they weren't Christians they didn't deserve anyone's time of day. My Sunday School teacher was someone I trusted with teaching lessons that were Biblically correct. Without bias. The words coming out of her mouth that morning were opinion ladened lies.
I looked around at her three sons and my other friends in the youth group. I looked at the chalkboard walls I helped paint with my best friend on a hot summer morning. I looked at the things my friends wrote on the walls. The prayer requests. The funny faces. I looked back at my "aunt". I knew she was lying. I don't think anyone else did.
I grew up rather unchurched. I hated Christians. I hated how fake they were. I was a very angry kid. Twelve years old and I was walking around, cussing like a fisherman. I was rude. Hateful. I was picked on a lot in school so one of my friends "taught me how to be a bitch" and I evolved into the bitchiest twelve year old that ever existed. Then one of my other good friends invited me to her church.
I met Jesus and I remember just bawling. I can't describe fully what I felt. Relief. Love.
According to my Sunday School teacher though, that friend of mine shouldn't have even given me the time of day. I didn't grow up knowing Jesus.I didn't go to kid's church. I didn't go to AWANA. I didn't go to Vacation Bible School either. Even after I got saved I didn't attend a church regularly until I was thirteen. I didn't even get baptized until I was fifteen. (Let's not start a salvation/baptism war here people).
What if my friend had been afraid that I would ruin her witness?
Ideals like that completely discount Grace. Jesus could not have given a rat's smelly behind about who He was seen with. He hung out with twelve smelly dudes 24/7. Fishermen. He didn't hang out with priests or faithful churchgoers. In fact, Jesus went out and always ended up hanging out with who the religious folk of that time thought were the bad people. The undesirables. The twelve smelly dudes He hung out with did things like ask permission to call down fire upon a town, cut people's ears off, even act like they had no idea who Jesus even was. Like they hadn't just hung out with Him for three whole years. Yet Jesus loved them despite their shortcomings. Despite their stench. He knew them all quite well. Their faults. Their fears. They were His twelve. He chose those people.
He chose us too. All of us. He died for every single one of us. He died for all of us because we're human, which means we all inherently suck. You suck. *insert Oprah meme* And you suck. And you suck!! And you. You too- I see you there shaking your head. You, my friend... you suck. We all suck which is why the need for Grace was so dire. We're all murderers. Liars. Thieves. Adulterers. Even the pastor of your church. Even the deacons. Even the Sunday School teacher you thought could do no wrong. We never stop needing Grace.
So I challenge you, anonymous reader, to remember Grace. I know the whole "ruining your witness" thing is a widespread ideal. I see it on Facebook. I see it on Twitter. I see it everywhere. I even see it creep up within me every once in a while. Remember that Jesus came and died for all of us. Regardless of your past, or even your future. None of us are good enough on our own. As for your "witness"... if you're carrying out the job that Jesus appointed all of us to do, if you are loving people, let it be ruined.
Monday, April 27, 2015
The Marriage Bed
I never enjoyed sleep overs.
This may be a shocking revelation to some because I've been on so. freaking. many. sleepovers, but I always hated them. I'm a very adaptive napper. I think the strangest place I've napped so far is the Guitar Center floor in Atlanta. Never underestimate how comfortable floors can be. When it comes to bedtime, though, I have very high standards that absolutely have to be met or I will have a bad night.
I had quite a few bad nights when Kirk and I first got married.
Before marriage my full size bed was perfect for little ole me. I'm five foot tall and at the time I was about 120 lbs. I always had a fan blowing on me full blast because I like it to be absolutely freezing when I sleep. I slept in the middle of the bed and had pillows and stuffed animals surrounding me. I liked to pull the covers completely over my head and stay completely buried all night. I was very much into feeling like I was in a nest. When my nest for one became a nest for two, however, I was not feeling it.
My husband is six foot tall when he stands up straight. He weighs around 220 lbs. He's a big guy. He also has Restless Leg Syndrome which you probably don't know about unless you or someone you happen to share a bed with has it. Kirk taps his foot at night. Sometimes only for a little while, sometimes all night, sometimes not at all. I also found out quite quickly that I hated being touched while I was sleeping. Before sleep cuddles are all well and good but I wanted to be able to roll over and have my own little uninterrupted space for sleep. Our little full size bed wasn't big enough for that. My sweet husband was also convinced that he didn't snore, but he does. He can get quite loud, too. Essentially my nice, cool nest became a very cramped, very loud, very hot nest over night; and depending on how bad Kirk's RLS was, it became a very bouncy nest as well. Not fun. I was not happy.
In my husband's defense, it was an old bed. The mattress springs were sproinging up everywhere. The middle and end support beams of the box spring were broken and being held up by books. It didn't even have a headboard so all of the pillows would slide into the dark abyss between the bed and the wall at night. It was by all means not even close to his fault. He was very uncomfortable as well. No matter how many different ways we flipped the mattress there was always a spring stabbing him in the back. It was a small bed and I was constantly pushing him off in my sleep. We were both quite unhappy and about a month into our marriage I was about to lose it. The only real sleep I was getting was when Kirk got up early to go to work and I could sleep in. He knew I was frustrated but I don't think he really knew how frustrated I actually was until one morning I sat straight up in bed and declared "THIS ISN'T GOING TO WORK". Kirk got up and went off to work, no doubt worrying over how in the world we were going to afford a bigger bed. I scooted to the middle of the bed and sighed. I didn't have to work til that evening but the hope of a few more hours of sleep was nowhere to be found. I was wide awake and pissed off. So I did what everyone does when they're wide awake and pissed off- I began scrolling on Facebook.
There it was. The God of creation intervening on behalf of my sanity, my husband's lower back, and our marriage itself. Our friends were getting rid of a slightly used queen size bed, FREE, to anyone that could pick it up that day. It had been in their guest room and they had just gotten a new bed. It was perfect. It was glorious. It was God.
I jumped out of bed.
I made more calls that day than I have ever made in my life. I WAS TEXTING KIRK IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE OMG WE COULD HAVE A NICE BED. By the time I was headed into work I was pretty sure there would be a glorious new bed awaiting me when I got home.
My husband waltzed into my job a few hours before I got off work, looking quite pleased with himself. He proceeded to tell me what was waiting for me at home. An entire bed. Mattress, box spring (NOT BROKEN), sheets, comforter, and headboard. I had a fancy shmancy bed waiting for me at home and I was ecstatic. I came home after my shift and there it was. Kirk had the little lamp on and had made the bed up all pretty. I flopped down and sighed.
Not many things have lined up so perfectly for me in my life. I can tell you with the utmost confidence that I know it was God that got me this bed I'm sitting on as I'm writing this. He knows our needs before we even state them, before we even know what we need. Blessings can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. They're often the ones you have to scratch your head at. "Why in the world did that work out?" kind of things. Getting a new bed may not seem like a big thing to some but to us it may as well have been a lifesaver to us. At the very least a relationship saver. Some may think it's silly to pray about such trivial things like a new bed. It isn't. You, my friend, can pray about anything. Everything. We're even told to in the good ole B-I-B-L-E. I didn't expect such a trivial thing to be such a challenge at the beginning of our marriage, but God was there right along with me.
This may be a shocking revelation to some because I've been on so. freaking. many. sleepovers, but I always hated them. I'm a very adaptive napper. I think the strangest place I've napped so far is the Guitar Center floor in Atlanta. Never underestimate how comfortable floors can be. When it comes to bedtime, though, I have very high standards that absolutely have to be met or I will have a bad night.
I had quite a few bad nights when Kirk and I first got married.
Before marriage my full size bed was perfect for little ole me. I'm five foot tall and at the time I was about 120 lbs. I always had a fan blowing on me full blast because I like it to be absolutely freezing when I sleep. I slept in the middle of the bed and had pillows and stuffed animals surrounding me. I liked to pull the covers completely over my head and stay completely buried all night. I was very much into feeling like I was in a nest. When my nest for one became a nest for two, however, I was not feeling it.
My husband is six foot tall when he stands up straight. He weighs around 220 lbs. He's a big guy. He also has Restless Leg Syndrome which you probably don't know about unless you or someone you happen to share a bed with has it. Kirk taps his foot at night. Sometimes only for a little while, sometimes all night, sometimes not at all. I also found out quite quickly that I hated being touched while I was sleeping. Before sleep cuddles are all well and good but I wanted to be able to roll over and have my own little uninterrupted space for sleep. Our little full size bed wasn't big enough for that. My sweet husband was also convinced that he didn't snore, but he does. He can get quite loud, too. Essentially my nice, cool nest became a very cramped, very loud, very hot nest over night; and depending on how bad Kirk's RLS was, it became a very bouncy nest as well. Not fun. I was not happy.
In my husband's defense, it was an old bed. The mattress springs were sproinging up everywhere. The middle and end support beams of the box spring were broken and being held up by books. It didn't even have a headboard so all of the pillows would slide into the dark abyss between the bed and the wall at night. It was by all means not even close to his fault. He was very uncomfortable as well. No matter how many different ways we flipped the mattress there was always a spring stabbing him in the back. It was a small bed and I was constantly pushing him off in my sleep. We were both quite unhappy and about a month into our marriage I was about to lose it. The only real sleep I was getting was when Kirk got up early to go to work and I could sleep in. He knew I was frustrated but I don't think he really knew how frustrated I actually was until one morning I sat straight up in bed and declared "THIS ISN'T GOING TO WORK". Kirk got up and went off to work, no doubt worrying over how in the world we were going to afford a bigger bed. I scooted to the middle of the bed and sighed. I didn't have to work til that evening but the hope of a few more hours of sleep was nowhere to be found. I was wide awake and pissed off. So I did what everyone does when they're wide awake and pissed off- I began scrolling on Facebook.
There it was. The God of creation intervening on behalf of my sanity, my husband's lower back, and our marriage itself. Our friends were getting rid of a slightly used queen size bed, FREE, to anyone that could pick it up that day. It had been in their guest room and they had just gotten a new bed. It was perfect. It was glorious. It was God.
I jumped out of bed.
I made more calls that day than I have ever made in my life. I WAS TEXTING KIRK IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE OMG WE COULD HAVE A NICE BED. By the time I was headed into work I was pretty sure there would be a glorious new bed awaiting me when I got home.
My husband waltzed into my job a few hours before I got off work, looking quite pleased with himself. He proceeded to tell me what was waiting for me at home. An entire bed. Mattress, box spring (NOT BROKEN), sheets, comforter, and headboard. I had a fancy shmancy bed waiting for me at home and I was ecstatic. I came home after my shift and there it was. Kirk had the little lamp on and had made the bed up all pretty. I flopped down and sighed.
Not many things have lined up so perfectly for me in my life. I can tell you with the utmost confidence that I know it was God that got me this bed I'm sitting on as I'm writing this. He knows our needs before we even state them, before we even know what we need. Blessings can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. They're often the ones you have to scratch your head at. "Why in the world did that work out?" kind of things. Getting a new bed may not seem like a big thing to some but to us it may as well have been a lifesaver to us. At the very least a relationship saver. Some may think it's silly to pray about such trivial things like a new bed. It isn't. You, my friend, can pray about anything. Everything. We're even told to in the good ole B-I-B-L-E. I didn't expect such a trivial thing to be such a challenge at the beginning of our marriage, but God was there right along with me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Immovable. (Fini)
Amongst my circle of friends it is a known tidbit that I don't care for movies or TV shows very much. That is, serious movies or TV shows. This scenario plays out very often
"Hey guys, let's watch blah blah blah." *insert serious movie title here like The Last Samurai or something* Usually someone, like my husband or my husband's best friend, will shake their head and reply
"Nope. Remember guys? Erin doesn't like to feel."
It's true. I don't like to feel. It's a defense mechanism I adopted early on in childhood and don't have much need for now, but I still use it. However, when it comes to my job it's pretty handy. I have the best poker face when it comes time to walk into my place of employment. Lady Gaga herself would be jealous. I have this ability to just dive into something else completely and trick myself into ignoring whatever else may be going on. If a stray feeling or uncomfortable thought may arise I quickly toss it into the "I'll deal with it later" pit in the back of my mind. Which essentially means I don't really deal with anything when I should. I always find myself saving it for a figurative "later" that never happens.
Except for every twenty eight days.
Me being a woman means that every twenty eight days Mother Nature comes calling and is once again disappointed by the lack of child within my womb. She then becomes angry because what in the world else am I good for? (If you didn't know, Mother Nature is quite sexist). In her anger she unleashes hell upon my hormones, my emotions, my poker face. She follows her bookmarked MapQuest directions straight to my "I'll deal with it later" pit and proceeds to dig everything up. Throw in a couple of cramps, some awful bloating, and a horrible headache and I am left spiraling in my feelings. All of them. SPIRALING
In the midst of my spiraling over the weekend my husband and I had a bit of a spat. By spat I mean I was treading feelings and being an ass to my husband so he was trying to get to the bottom of it. After finally getting me to snap out of it and a good ugly cry I said
"I'm sorry I put you through this every month."
To which he replied
"It's okay, I expect it. That's why I get less angry every month."
Then he dropped quite a bomb that I haven't been able to escape from
"Erin. You went through the same crap in your childhood as I did and I am immovable. Nothing effects me if I don't want it to. You know that. And you have the very same ability to be as immovable as I am, you just don't do it."
We both had tumultuous childhoods. Yet my husband stands steadfast against every adversary that appears and I allow myself to remain a victim to my own feelings. I run and hide until what I've avoided amounts to such a juggernaut that I find myself crushed from within. Instead of speaking in love and support to my husband I speak with a sharp, unforgiving tongue. I lash out to my mother. I ignore my friends. I wallow in my disparity and woe. It isn't worth it. I can't take it anymore.
Pathetic. And it happens every twenty eight days.
My husband's relationship with Jesus is where he draws his strength and after our little spat and that great big bomb he dropped I was fishing around for some scripture to back up this new term floating around in my head. Immovable. Much in the way that Jesus pulled Peter out of the water the minute he began to sink, I longed for an outstretched hand to pull me out of my feelings.
"Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain." -1 Corinthians 15:58 NIV
As Christians our very lives are the work of the Lord. My very existence pays homage to the God of Creation. I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I have the ability to stand with my Savior and bravely face whatever troubles may come. I don't need an "I'll deal with it later" pit that resides in the deep, dark confines of my mind. I have nothing to fear and I can refuse to give my hormones a catalyst. What can I do through Christ who strengthens me? Oh, that's right. ALL THINGS. Even feel and deal with things when they happen like a real adult. What do I need to hide from when I know that nothing I go through is in vain? Why in the world do I need a silly defense mechanism when I have none other than the God of the Universe on my side?
There is indeed, victory in Jesus. From past experiences. From disparity and woe. From myself. I don't have to shy away from movies or TV shows because I'm afraid of what I might feel. I don't have to have a seasoned poker face. I don't have to dread my hormones being the catalyst of some sort of breakdown every twenty eight days. I have freedom to feel and the comfort of a Savoir that is with me through the good days and the bad. I can be immovable.
"Hey guys, let's watch blah blah blah." *insert serious movie title here like The Last Samurai or something* Usually someone, like my husband or my husband's best friend, will shake their head and reply
"Nope. Remember guys? Erin doesn't like to feel."
It's true. I don't like to feel. It's a defense mechanism I adopted early on in childhood and don't have much need for now, but I still use it. However, when it comes to my job it's pretty handy. I have the best poker face when it comes time to walk into my place of employment. Lady Gaga herself would be jealous. I have this ability to just dive into something else completely and trick myself into ignoring whatever else may be going on. If a stray feeling or uncomfortable thought may arise I quickly toss it into the "I'll deal with it later" pit in the back of my mind. Which essentially means I don't really deal with anything when I should. I always find myself saving it for a figurative "later" that never happens.
Except for every twenty eight days.
Me being a woman means that every twenty eight days Mother Nature comes calling and is once again disappointed by the lack of child within my womb. She then becomes angry because what in the world else am I good for? (If you didn't know, Mother Nature is quite sexist). In her anger she unleashes hell upon my hormones, my emotions, my poker face. She follows her bookmarked MapQuest directions straight to my "I'll deal with it later" pit and proceeds to dig everything up. Throw in a couple of cramps, some awful bloating, and a horrible headache and I am left spiraling in my feelings. All of them. SPIRALING
In the midst of my spiraling over the weekend my husband and I had a bit of a spat. By spat I mean I was treading feelings and being an ass to my husband so he was trying to get to the bottom of it. After finally getting me to snap out of it and a good ugly cry I said
"I'm sorry I put you through this every month."
To which he replied
"It's okay, I expect it. That's why I get less angry every month."
Then he dropped quite a bomb that I haven't been able to escape from
"Erin. You went through the same crap in your childhood as I did and I am immovable. Nothing effects me if I don't want it to. You know that. And you have the very same ability to be as immovable as I am, you just don't do it."
We both had tumultuous childhoods. Yet my husband stands steadfast against every adversary that appears and I allow myself to remain a victim to my own feelings. I run and hide until what I've avoided amounts to such a juggernaut that I find myself crushed from within. Instead of speaking in love and support to my husband I speak with a sharp, unforgiving tongue. I lash out to my mother. I ignore my friends. I wallow in my disparity and woe. It isn't worth it. I can't take it anymore.
Pathetic. And it happens every twenty eight days.
My husband's relationship with Jesus is where he draws his strength and after our little spat and that great big bomb he dropped I was fishing around for some scripture to back up this new term floating around in my head. Immovable. Much in the way that Jesus pulled Peter out of the water the minute he began to sink, I longed for an outstretched hand to pull me out of my feelings.
"Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain." -1 Corinthians 15:58 NIV
As Christians our very lives are the work of the Lord. My very existence pays homage to the God of Creation. I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I have the ability to stand with my Savior and bravely face whatever troubles may come. I don't need an "I'll deal with it later" pit that resides in the deep, dark confines of my mind. I have nothing to fear and I can refuse to give my hormones a catalyst. What can I do through Christ who strengthens me? Oh, that's right. ALL THINGS. Even feel and deal with things when they happen like a real adult. What do I need to hide from when I know that nothing I go through is in vain? Why in the world do I need a silly defense mechanism when I have none other than the God of the Universe on my side?
There is indeed, victory in Jesus. From past experiences. From disparity and woe. From myself. I don't have to shy away from movies or TV shows because I'm afraid of what I might feel. I don't have to have a seasoned poker face. I don't have to dread my hormones being the catalyst of some sort of breakdown every twenty eight days. I have freedom to feel and the comfort of a Savoir that is with me through the good days and the bad. I can be immovable.
Friday, April 17, 2015
My "I would like to write for Bedlam, pretty please with a cherry on top" Message.
Hi! My name is Erin Buffington and I quite like your magazine. In fact, I love it lots. I've been gathering up the courage and drafting this 'message' for about a week. I hope, really really really REALLY hope to hear from you!
I've seen and read over fifty bazillion articles about "why the Millennials are leaving the church" or "an open letter to your open letter about leaving the church and why you're so wrong" but the thing of it is the church really isn't listening to us. For many years the church has resided in it's very own corner of the world and with today's social media and the vast reach of the internet in general, the millennials have experienced the world far beyond that corner. Right now I have another tab open on an article from Relevant Magazine about how Italian authorities have detained fifteen Muslims for throwing twelve Christians over the side of a boat because of their faith and the American church would have us believe that our biggest threat as Christians are gay people.
We're leaving because we can't help but see beyond the corner that the church continues to cower in. It's isn't like we can help it, either. In the words of the great Tee Eye double Guh RRR, (that spells Tigger), "I'm seasick from seeing too much". In the light, or shadow, of the information age the church would have us believe that our world is still only black and white, right or wrong, yes or no.
When Jesus came and saved our wretched souls from the hell that we so rightfully deserve He told us to love everyone. My dear, sweet Jesus painted the world grey.
I have quite a few stories I'd like to share with the world that make the church just a little bit uncomfortable. One of them is about a prayer that was sent up, received, and answered while I was sitting on a toilet in a Waffle House bathroom in Bellevue, Tennessee. Quite a few more stories are about the different denominations of churches I've belonged to and the sheer horror, ahem, excuse me... "humanity" *insert the oh the huge manatees meme here* that ensued. My struggles with suicide, anger, coming to terms with who my parents are and who they'll never be, and overcoming being sexually and physically abused by my first boyfriend. Some of them aren't even my own stories. The story of how my husband was ostracized from the church for "pouting" after his best friend died. The story of my husband's best friend who after being raised in the church realized at sixteen that he didn't even know Jesus.
I believe my friends and I haven't been through what we've been through in vain. I would very much like to write for Bedlam Magazine so I can share our stories with people that may need to hear them. I've attempted to work with many a youth group for years but the church doesn't accept a lot of my stories because most of the time it has nothing to do with the "happy ending" if there even is one.
There is hope out there for the jaded church-goer who would rather sleep in on Sunday than put on their best face to go and sit amongst people who think 'blessings' are things with monetary value. There is grace, love, and forgiveness for the Millennial who questions. My God is a big God and He can do whatever He pleases, no matter how much the church tries to box Him in. Pretty please, with a cherry on top -or no cherry and just whipped cream if you prefer- consider me as a writer for Bedlam. I may be only five foot tall but I am quite good at causing commotions. Just ask my husband.
I've seen and read over fifty bazillion articles about "why the Millennials are leaving the church" or "an open letter to your open letter about leaving the church and why you're so wrong" but the thing of it is the church really isn't listening to us. For many years the church has resided in it's very own corner of the world and with today's social media and the vast reach of the internet in general, the millennials have experienced the world far beyond that corner. Right now I have another tab open on an article from Relevant Magazine about how Italian authorities have detained fifteen Muslims for throwing twelve Christians over the side of a boat because of their faith and the American church would have us believe that our biggest threat as Christians are gay people.
We're leaving because we can't help but see beyond the corner that the church continues to cower in. It's isn't like we can help it, either. In the words of the great Tee Eye double Guh RRR, (that spells Tigger), "I'm seasick from seeing too much". In the light, or shadow, of the information age the church would have us believe that our world is still only black and white, right or wrong, yes or no.
When Jesus came and saved our wretched souls from the hell that we so rightfully deserve He told us to love everyone. My dear, sweet Jesus painted the world grey.
I have quite a few stories I'd like to share with the world that make the church just a little bit uncomfortable. One of them is about a prayer that was sent up, received, and answered while I was sitting on a toilet in a Waffle House bathroom in Bellevue, Tennessee. Quite a few more stories are about the different denominations of churches I've belonged to and the sheer horror, ahem, excuse me... "humanity" *insert the oh the huge manatees meme here* that ensued. My struggles with suicide, anger, coming to terms with who my parents are and who they'll never be, and overcoming being sexually and physically abused by my first boyfriend. Some of them aren't even my own stories. The story of how my husband was ostracized from the church for "pouting" after his best friend died. The story of my husband's best friend who after being raised in the church realized at sixteen that he didn't even know Jesus.
I believe my friends and I haven't been through what we've been through in vain. I would very much like to write for Bedlam Magazine so I can share our stories with people that may need to hear them. I've attempted to work with many a youth group for years but the church doesn't accept a lot of my stories because most of the time it has nothing to do with the "happy ending" if there even is one.
There is hope out there for the jaded church-goer who would rather sleep in on Sunday than put on their best face to go and sit amongst people who think 'blessings' are things with monetary value. There is grace, love, and forgiveness for the Millennial who questions. My God is a big God and He can do whatever He pleases, no matter how much the church tries to box Him in. Pretty please, with a cherry on top -or no cherry and just whipped cream if you prefer- consider me as a writer for Bedlam. I may be only five foot tall but I am quite good at causing commotions. Just ask my husband.
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