Listen to Your Tears

February 18, 2013 by 58 Comments

rbtears

Chills form on my forearm as I lean on the door throwing kisses to H and Harrison seated in the car. The cold wind whips underneath the garage door as it makes a slow descent, marking the start of a new day.  Turning around to silence, I pick up my cup of tea steaming on the kitchen counter and sit down at my desk to read the Psalms with a blanket over my knees. And I wipe away the tears streaming down my face.

I don’t remember a day in 2012 that I didn’t cry after my family left the house to begin their day.

After four decades of walking with Christ, my idealistic view of the faithful shattered in the duplicitous actions of leaders I’d grown to love.  It took a year of wrestling with the words of David to heal. He put meaning to my grief, forming sentences from the heap of hollow holiness strewn on the doorstep of my faith.  His laments, they helped me to find hope again.

Last week, as I sat in a conference space listening to Emily Freeman say listen to your tears, I realized that there are an entirely different kind of tears I hadn’t given a second thought.

Unlike tears of sorrow, she spoke of tears that come from a place deep inside, where the heart sings. And now, instead of trying to gather myself during a sermon or wipe off the mascara before it leaves black streaks on my cheeks in a movie theater, I’m paying attention.

“It’s not enough to say a story moved you but think about what it was about that story that moved you.  That is a hint to where you are most fully alive. They are not just tears, they are tiny messengers sent to tell you, here is where your heart beats strong, a hint to your design, your image bearing identity.”  ~Emily Freeman

Days before I listened to Emily, I sat in my pajamas scrolling through the ethereal photos on the website of a gifted photographer, piling up wads of wet tissue on my desk feeling ridiculous. On another day, I used my bed sheet to wipe my face while watching a documentary on a man of faith, living joyful without the use of his legs. It’s not uncommon for me to cry while witnessing a firefighter or policeman do his/her job.

Tears, that’s probably why I’ve watched The Holiday repeatedly. If you’ve seen it, you know Cameron Diaz’ character cannot cry for years until she experiences true love.

And I realized that redemption, it moves me to tears. Watching someone live it out is an act of worship. It’s how I know when I’m most fully alive. Because every time I see redemption present in someone else, it’s a reminder of the gift in my own life. The beauty of redemption, it makes my heart sing.

This year I’m smiling my way through the Psalms and laughing about the pile of tissues on my lap.

I’m just wondering, have you thought about your tears as tiny messengers giving you hints to the way God made you to bear His image?

Linking with Michelle, Laura, Heather and Jen.

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Letting Go Of The Right To Be Loved

July 19, 2012 by 65 Comments

Its early morning on the island, when the light casts shadow on marsh grass and egrets stand stick footed, frozen in stillness.  We walk side-by-side, father and daughter down the causeway before applying suntan lotion on sandy beach towels.

We’ve only done this once before, had this time together alone at the beach and I can tell by the pace he keeps, the smile on his face, there is joy to do this with me. We’ve never settled into being comfortable with this kind of being alone. Circumstances separate us when I am just three years old. How do you get to know your father in just one week over the summer?

I’ve never escaped the grief of what divorce does to a family. Maybe I never will.

As we talk about kids and work, his hobbies, thoughts about retirement, he says he probably should’ve never been a father, that he isn’t very good at it. And maybe for him, that was an apology of sorts for not being there for me in the way he could’ve been if things were different.

But when he said it, what I heard was this: You should have never been born because your presence makes me feel like a failure. And I opened my fist full of rights to be loved by a father that day and let those seeds blow into the wind and scatter on the sticky mud.  Because I don’t want to be a reminder of failure to anyone.

There are different types of failures. The first isn’t necessarily the sin-type of failure. Rather, this is when we fail to live up to some expectation we have of the way things ought to be  . . . .  the thing about this type of failure, whether real or perceived, is that it reminds me of my own limits and takes me to a place of recognizing I can’t make this life work the way I want, no matter how noble or worthy or good my intentions. ~Emily Freeman, Grace for the Good Girl

And being a daughter to a father that says he never should’ve been one, feels like pushing a broken down car on a hot day. It takes effort and time to get to the town of relationship and sometimes you just give up and walk away because the distance seems overwhelming.

That doesn’t mean your heart stops beating love in trying to make it work, you just let go of the expectation that it’s going to be something other than what it is.

It turns out Jesus, he stood there holding the key outstretched in his scarred hand the whole time. He walked on the road that day with my father and I. Stood in the place between my expectations and reality, the wounded, empty place that neither one of us can fill for each other.

The hard shell of entitlement to be loved by a parent, it cracked off me and washed away in the tide that drifted in to fill the empty places full. And just like that water coming in and going out, His love is steady and sure, isn’t limited or shifted by our failures or good intentions as a father and daughter.

The disparity between expectation and reality, it’s Jesus.

Grace for the Good Girl by Emily Freeman inspires this post; Chapter 16 entitled Safe, Even in Failure. I’m giving a copy away before I leave on my vacation because it’s just that good. Leave a comment on the blog and I’ll add your name to the drawing on Friday.

 Linking with Life in Bloom and Thought Provoking Thursday.

   

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When It’s Hard to Say What You Want

June 18, 2012 by 48 Comments

I have a hard time saying what I want. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. I marvel at those who can unashamedly declare what they want or need without any inhibition or influence from others. I just didn’t come with that gene. However, I’m learning.

The red armrests of our chairs touch each other as H and I take some time to steal away on Father’s Day, push our toes into sand and talk. I’m reading him this excerpt from chapter eight in Grace for the Good Girl when I have this revelation about hiding behind my comfort zone:

“As a kid, I was too concerned about making the ‘right’ choice, the choice that would please the most people. I did not give myself permission to make the fun choice when the outcome didn’t matter . . . . I weigh, I consider, I balance and reconsider. I obsess over what they would do, what he would want, or what she would think of me. It is easy to blame it on responsibility or grown-up-ness or consequences, or to claim it as wisdom and experience. But I think it has more to do with fear.”

As I read these words, I recall a time from adolescence. I’m standing in Famous Barr with my grandma while she buys a new dress. I look at books and toys on an end cap and when she is finished, she notices that I am engrossed in something I found. Instead of asking her if I can have the book, I just keep turning the pages, hoping she might buy it for me. She finally does.

This becomes a pattern- receiving affirmation for not asking for what I want- not just by her but other adults too. Then it begins to feel wrong, pretentious, demanding, and ungrateful to say what I want out loud. So I don’t, unless someone asks. And when someone does ask, it feels like I need to dislodge a boulder from my larynx to find the words.

I share this story, my revelation, and it cracks open the door of understanding for H. Why I have a hard time saying what I want.

Because being forthcoming about needs and desires is like stepping on the stage of risk and rejection – naked. And that feels scary uncomfortable. It’s probably why I have a hard time asking people to like my Facebook page or follow this blog.

I am asking myself the question Emily asks us in her book.  What would it look like if I allowed Jesus himself to determine my comfort zone?

Maybe it starts with cooking brussel sprouts for yourself when no one else in the family likes them, or going for a walk on the beach when everyone else is too tired or deciding on the red dress when everyone else likes the black one, just because you like it the best. Maybe it looks like quitting a paid writing job to follow a dream.

I close my Kindle at a high-pitched voice yelling “grandma” over the roar of waves. A gangly young boy pleads with his grandma to come and swim. She sits under umbrella, book in her lap.    

“Your mom will come in with you,” she retorts behind us, but it seems he is deaf to her reply. He continues telling her she needs to swim while running in circles, diving into water like grabbing home plate for the score.

A few minutes later, she hobbles into the ocean in a marble-y blue one-piece and grabs his outstretched hand. She lifts him, knees up to his chest, over waves five feet high. Her thin grey hair soaks and she stands sturdy in repetitive breakers. They eventually swim holding hands, rolling over waves in tandem.

And sitting there under a sky of sun, He shows me what freedom looks like in a boy who asks and a grandma who loves him more than she wants to sit comfortable.  It’s how Jesus loves us too.

Don’t bargain with God. Be direct. Ask for what you need. This isn’t a cat-and-mouse, hide-and-seek game we’re in. ~Matthew 7:7, Message

So now, I’ll ask you.  What would it look like if you allowed Jesus to determine your comfort zone?

 

 I’m counting thanks with Ann too, because its Multitudes on Mondays and there is so much to be thankful for.

  • For a husband who cares about what is important to me and loves me, despite my weaknesses.
  • A week for just the two of us while Harrison is off to camp and Murielle on mission in Jamaica.
  • A suitcase loaded full under fifty pounds.
  • My girls heart, the way she loves Jesus and others unselfishly.
  • The way she fed her brother and his friends lunch and got everything cleaned up before I came home. Smiling on the couch, proud of her productivity.
  • A dinner party with friends that filled us all up with joy.

Linking with Playdates with God, Soli Deo Gloria, On Your Heart Tuesday, Just Write

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