she writes on sundays

  • 38: year of…

    I’ve never been anxious to write about a year before but there is something that is just below the surface right now that I can’t really put my finger on.

    38 has been wild.

    38 started out pretty hard. I cried myself to sleep on my birthday and spent the weekend after my birthday feeling really alone, emotionally hungover and feeling a little bit more without than I knew/know how to describe.

    I set into my summer with intentions to set some boundaries, to rest and to do things that felt like me.

    And then my best friend and I ended up on a Tito’s party bus.

    It was one of those nights that deservedly could have ended up like the movie the Hangover. We got on a party bus, not knowing where it was going, where we might end up or who any of the people were

    Thankfully (obviously) we’re both still alive and have an epic story that we don’t know if we can top (or should top).

    And that (this is maybe a little dramatic) was my last nights of being 38 that felt normal.

    That Sunday I woke up with a half paralyzed face and it then spurred 4 weeks of two ER visits, having such intense vertigo I couldn’t move my head or walk to my bathroom without puking, I couldn’t leave my room or walk down my stairs or eat anything.

    I physically haven’t felt normal since. Though it’s gotten immensely better I can’t smile without my left eye crinkling, my ear is still a bit ringy, I’m consistently 5% off balance, eating is hard, I spill on myself constantly and I can’t whistle.

    And blanketed in all of this, is grief. And doing all of it without my mom even on the other side of the phone.

    Those are all the things I’m holding in one hand.

    In the other hand is the fact that I just came to a realization that I think I’ve never felt more like a badass in my life.

    Since August 20th I auditioned for and was in a musical again, I was in charge of a crew of munchkins backstage, I for the most part never stopped doing announcements at church even though I kind of hated talking I front of people, I spoke at church on Christmas Eve, I stage managed and called a show for three weekends. I still sang karaoke and still was in pictures even thought I don’t like looking at myself.

    I did my absolute best to continue to show up for myself even though it’s been really, really hard to look at myself in the mirror.

    I’m not saying I did it all or I didn’t have a lot of nights of crying in the dark of my room. I’m not saying that I didn’t want to give up and stop showing up multiple times.

    And I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of time where I didn’t show up with my whole self.

    I’m very quick to diminish a hard thing I’ve done or am doing because so many people do harder things everyday.

    People walk around with life threatening illnesses and autoimmune diseases and so many things in between and I just have a face that won’t work and eyes that water constantly and a body that won’t stay steady.

    But, I have to come to the realization and the reminder that in my year of 38 I showed up in ways I didn’t want too.

    I spent a lot of my life not wanting to talk because my voice sounded funny. I spent a lot of my life hiding because I was overweight and was made fun of.

    I spent a lot of it thinking I was a burden and trying to just disappear.

    But, even in spite of all the history my brain tells me and of my desire to not look in a mirror, I knew in 38 I was going to show up in spite of.

    I was going to speak because I had things to say.

    I was going to be in a musical because we all deserved that redemption.

    I was going to encourage kiddos and teens in a musical because they needed adults in their corner.

    And I was going to show up because, in spite of what I may believe, things are better when I show up.

    Whenever I sit down to write these little letters to a past year of life I never actually know what will happen. I don’t know what words will come out.

    But, I guess for today; the words that came out are simply this.

    Dear 38,

    I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

    Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

    With love,

    Meg

    PS.

    Let’s just stay calm this week k? (Unless it’s like really, really good)

    , , , ,
    , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

  • 38: year of…

    I’ve never been anxious to write about a year before but there is something that is just below the surface right now that I can’t really put my finger on.

    38 has been wild.

    38 started out pretty hard. I cried myself to sleep on my birthday and spent the weekend after my birthday feeling really alone, emotionally hungover and feeling a little bit more without than I knew/know how to describe.

    I set into my summer with intentions to set some boundaries, to rest and to do things that felt like me.

    And then my best friend and I ended up on a Tito’s party bus.

    It was one of those nights that deservedly could have ended up like the movie the Hangover. We got on a party bus, not knowing where it was going, where we might end up or who any of the people were

    Thankfully (obviously) we’re both still alive and have an epic story that we don’t know if we can top (or should top).

    And that (this is maybe a little dramatic) was my last nights of being 38 that felt normal.

    That Sunday I woke up with a half paralyzed face and it then spurred 4 weeks of two ER visits, having such intense vertigo I couldn’t move my head or walk to my bathroom without puking, I couldn’t leave my room or walk down my stairs or eat anything.

    I physically haven’t felt normal since. Though it’s gotten immensely better I can’t smile without my left eye crinkling, my ear is still a bit ringy, I’m consistently 5% off balance, eating is hard, I spill on myself constantly and I can’t whistle.

    And blanketed in all of this, is grief. And doing all of it without my mom even on the other side of the phone.

    Those are all the things I’m holding in one hand.

    In the other hand is the fact that I just came to a realization that I think I’ve never felt more like a badass in my life.

    Since August 20th I auditioned for and was in a musical again, I was in charge of a crew of munchkins backstage, I for the most part never stopped doing announcements at church even though I kind of hated talking in front of people, I spoke at church on Christmas Eve, I stage managed and called a show for three weekends. I still sang karaoke and still was in pictures even thought I don’t like looking at myself.

    I did my absolute best to continue to show up for myself even though it’s been really, really hard to look at myself in the mirror.

    I’m not saying I did it all or I didn’t have a lot of nights of crying in the dark of my room. I’m not saying that I didn’t want to give up and stop showing up multiple times.

    And I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of time where I didn’t show up with my whole self.

    I’m very quick to diminish a hard thing I’ve done or am doing because so many people do harder things everyday.

    People walk around with life threatening illnesses and autoimmune diseases and so many things in between and I just have a face that won’t work and eyes that water constantly and a body that won’t stay steady.

    But, I have to come to the realization and the reminder that in my year of 38 I showed up in ways I didn’t want too.

    I spent a lot of my life not wanting to talk because my voice sounded funny. I spent a lot of my life hiding because I was overweight and was made fun of.

    I spent a lot of it thinking I was a burden and trying to just disappear.

    But, even in spite of all the history my brain tells me and of my desire to not look in a mirror, I knew in 38 I was going to show up in spite of.

    I was going to speak because I had things to say.

    I was going to be in a musical because we all deserved that redemption.

    I was going to encourage kiddos and teens in a musical because they needed adults in their corner.

    And I was going to do it because, in spite of what I may believe, things, places, situations are better when I show up.

    Whenever I sit down to write these little letters to a past year of life I never actually know what will happen. I don’t know what words will come out.

    But, I guess for today; the words that came out are simply this.

    Dear 38,

    I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

    Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

    With love,

    Meg

    PS.

    Let’s just stay calm this week k? (Unless it’s like really, really good)

    , , , ,
    , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

  • reconstructing faith

    I’ve ebbed and flowed in my faith so much in the last 10-11 years. After the World Race my life was in a tailspin. I didn’t know what way was up and I wasn’t sure what the point of the previous year of my life had been.

    I had been sold this notion that following the “calling of God” was going to bring me to an answer, to a level of contentment in the midst. That it would bring me to wholeness.

    All it brought me was sadness, confusion and one of the deeper lonely times I had ever encountered. I felt so, so lost and it was incredibly hard to explain that to people who assumed I had just had the best year of my life. Which the year had been beautiful and amazing- but there was also a lot of hard things.

    I went to Spain and picked up some pieces, I found some footing I had lost and then I moved to Bellingham. It was in the beginning of my time in Bellingham that I wrote a piece for a website and realized that all of the things I had caused me to want to wash my hands of all the things that were faith had nothing to actually do with God.

    They had to do with the way people manipulated words and phrases and ideology, they had to do with religion and law and everything in between.

    Today I came to the realization that somewhere along the way my deconstruction turned to reconstruction.

    I’ve worked really hard in this process of letting go of the things I don’t need, of taking the things apart to see how the work or how they started in my life in regards to faith, and of not throwing everything away because the water it lived in got murky.

    It felt really important to me to not throw it all out.

    I couldn’t throw it all out.

    There are a few moments in my life that I can only affix to God. And in all honesty it’s those moments that anchor me and caused me to deconstruct this house I built over the span of 20+ years down to only its foundation- because the foundation made sense.

    But now, it’s time to put some things back together.

    And I know it doesn’t look like that on the outside. I never truly stopped going to church, but I’ve taken breaks and had seasons and spans where I don’t feel connected. It probably looks as if I never did any construction- because my deconstructing doesn’t look like someone else’s.

    But part of my deconstructing was choosing to believe that this foundation I stood on was still stable enough to rebuild. And choosing to believe that those moments affixed to God would still be there even if I decided to never set foot in a church again.

    And it was actively understanding that the shame I felt when it all fell apart wasn’t from God. It wasn’t some enemy or a spirit or anything intangible.

    It was the people who decided what church and men and women in the church should look like.

    It was the house they built that made you feel crazy- with doors that led to nowhere even though they told you the door led somewhere.

    It’s the institution that told me I was never enough, never whole enough or holy enough or did enough.

    I still have a very hard time going back into spaces that are like all of the spaces that told me those things. I have a hard time coming to grasp with words that have been used so wrong I forgot how to read them how they should be read.

    What I’ve realized though is the spaces that need my voice and viewpoint the most are most likely the spaces where I know the language needs to change.

    The places where I inwardly gag are the places that I need to help make good and real again.

    All I want for anyone who interacts with me, is to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are loved. That what they have other people need.

    And if all those people never set foot in a church; who cares.

    If they know someone loves them, and that some believes beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone believes that they have things to give the world- that’s what matters to me.

    If all I am is a picture that not all people go to church are judgmental and uncaring- that’s what matters to me.

    That’s why I’m choosing to rebuild again.

    It’s not to save anyone, it’s not to evangelize, it’s not shame anyone for not doing it.

    It’s just to rebuild myself and my faith with the things I want to keep. It’s changing the narrative and the words and the tone.

    It’s being a home for others when they need it.

    A safe space.

    And it’s recreating the things that brought me to the deconstruction and it’s making them be safe again as well.

    So, I’ll just be here, still really hating women’s ministries, all religious language and anything that feels even an ounce like shame.

    I’m rebuilding again.

    With love,

    Meg

    ,
    , , , , , , ,

  • the edge of the deck

    Today in church while I stood in our cafe’ during worship a very poignant story from teaching one year olds popped into my head.

    I had a new family in the one year old room and the dad was there chatting with me outside about his daughter when she rolled backwards and was going to plop off the deck we had for riding bikes. I caught her with my foot so she didn’t fall back. It wasn’t a far fall- just a few inches but I wanted the dad to know that I saw her, I would care for her and help her not get hurt.

    He shrugged his shoulders and said that it was ok. She was allowed to take some risk and see what happened.

    I took that conversation and that thought and kept moving forward with it.

    There is something about a child, specifically a tiny child, to be able to take safe risks. To see what happens when they do something like trying to climb on a couch, or up a slide. Or what happens when their trike pops down the four inches from the deck.

    Making space for safe risks for kids is a big part of early childhood education.

    Because on the flipside; how often do we say, “That’s not safe” or “that’s too high” or “you’re going to fall”.

    Instead of letting them figure out themselves (obviously with you standing beside them).

    I sometimes think with kids we tend to lean to yelling across a room or a playground to not do something instead of getting closer to help monitor the trying. That’s why one of my favorite things in my preschool classroom was cooking and baking and chopping. I was nearby monitoring the try. Monitoring the safe risk.

    Now, I’m not saying leave your four year old in a kitchen with knives or an a balcony with no fence.

    I’m saying give them space to take risks so that risk aren’t scary. So, that their first thought as an adult isn’t “This isn’t safe”. Unless, of course it’s actually not safe.

    I believe a part of our “that’s not safe” or “that’s too much” or “that’s too scary” is because we were never given opportunities to do things that weren’t safe or that were deemed scary. We were protected from those things and so now we have an inability to distinguish the levels.

    Because sometimes, we need to jump.

    Sometimes, we need to take a risk.

    Sometimes, just because something is scary doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

    Yes, the impact might hurt, but you’ll never know unless you go for it.

    When I decided about 12 years ago now to go on the world race I remembered having heard for quite awhile the simple phrase; you have to jump to be caught.

    I was scared. I was going to move from all the things that I knew and had and had built to go travel around the world and then who knows what. And even though it was scary and it was taking a risk- I still knew it was right.

    There are a few moments in life that I can think of that I made decisions to do something scary; to take a risk and to jump.

    Now, I’m not saying this time is like those times. I’m not moving or leaving the country or anything like that.

    I think the risk right now, for me, is I’m supposed to be louder.

    I’m supposed to speak about, write about and be a placeholder for a few things that don’t normally have a placeholder for them.

    I feel as if there are things I’m supposed to delve into that feel a bit like my toddler who I kept from falling off of the four inch deck. Yah, she might have fallen off her trike on the plop down.

    But she also might have felt like a toddler badass doing so.

    I might say something, or write about it, or speak out the things that are scaring me or causing me to back away from the edge.

    And I might fall or get bruised or get hurt.

    OR

    I might feel empowered and strong.

    I’ve spent a lot of my life taking risks that seem really big to other people. I’ve moved states, traveled the world, I’ve spoken in front of crowds, I write and give out a lot of who I am so that other’s feel less alone.

    But to me, to be known, to be seen is the most terrifying thing to me.

    That’s the jump. That’s the edge of the deck.

    I’ve been in a season of avoiding. Avoiding words from other people because all I feel like is I’m going to be told what I’m doing wrong or that it’s not enough.

    I’ve been avoiding my own 20%.

    So, here I am, at the edge of the deck.

    With love,

    Meg

    ,
    , , , , , , , , , , ,

  • It’s just a season

    I know I’ve been needing to write words on this even though I absolutely do not want too.

    It’s a topic I try to avoid and try not to mention. It’s one I’m not super comfortable bringing up in a broader space because people have opinions and sometime helpful mostly not helpful stories and then they have prayers and Bible verses and things that I honestly just don’t need from those whom I didn’t ask.

    But here it is; bottom line: I’m having a really hard time being single lately.

    The disclaimers are already filling my head and the things I don’t need from people and the things I have done or to be completely frank don’t want to do.

    I am absolutely fine 85% of the time. I’m pretty good on my own. I like space. I like being able to make decisions on my own.

    And I would need a bigger bed if I’m expected to share.

    But, the last month or so, I’ve felt the feelings of loneliness. I’ve felt like an island, felt like a person who is just outside of everything.

    I don’t feel like a third wheel but I do feel like I’m just extra. I’m superfluous.

    I’m the odd number.

    And I’ve felt very evident feelings of wishing I had a person to come home too.

    I’m pretty good at figuring things out on my own. I ask for help when I need it. I’m grateful for the people in my life who have never ever caused me to feel like I’m extra.

    But, there are very evident seasons in life where the feelings hit harder and I’m in one of them right now. I’m in a place where the hours seem emptier and I don’t want to cook dinner for myself and I don’t want to make hard decisions by myself and I wish I had a guy I could look across the room at at a party and we both know it’s time to go.

    Now, as I stated in the beginning: I don’t like to write about this. When a woman writes or talks about being single it can feel like she’s asking for pity or woe is me or whatever.

    That’s absolutely not what I’m doing.

    I’m finally pausing to write these words on a Monday because I can list people in my brain who probably have felt the same way but never feel allowed to say it.

    I’m writing it because the bigger we let feelings get the more likely they will become the whole feeling and not just part of it.

    I’m writing it because I know that I’m not incomplete just because I have seasons where being single sucks.

    It’s just that: a season where it sucks and is harder than the last.

    So, if you are here with me, I get it. I know we’re going to put on our big girl panties and we’re gonna do the damn thing regardless but we’re allowed to put a pin in the places that hurt.

    If you’re sitting in a season where it really, really sucks to be single know you aren’t alone and it’s just that: a season.

    With all the love,

    Meg

    , , , , , , , , , ,

  • ten steps behind

    I absolutely without a doubt in my mind know what it is like to always be about ten steps ahead of depression.

    I went out this afternoon to just be outside and write and be around people but not be with people and not let myself sit in my house or my room for hours on end. As I’ve established prior; it does my soul well to sit in spaces with others where I’m alone but not actually alone.

    And as the beer garden I sat in filled up for trivia I just knew deep down inside that going home and being home wouldn’t be something that would sit well with me. I wouldn’t eat dinner, Iwould  just scroll or read or stare and the depression that I’ve been about ten steps ahead of might catch up and I might trip over a pothole or find myself closer to that depression monster trailing behind me then I wanted to be.

    It’s funny because I wouldn’t say that I’m “struggling” persay. I wouldn’t say things are bad or dire.

    I wouldn’t say that I’m straddling the line of light and dark.

    I would just say that things are just things.

    In reality I know what’s happening.

    The cliff I sense in front of me isn’t one of jumping into darkness. It’s not one where I feel like I’m taking a leap that’s far down.

    I’m not jumping because I know something will catch me.

    Honestly, the cliff is probably more just a step. Not a step down or up. I’m just crossing over a line that I swore I wouldn’t cross to again.

    But, I believe because of that, I am also ten steps ahead of depression.

    To me depression isn’t a proper noun. It doesn’t deserve an uppercase letter or a characterization. Depression doesn’t deserve to be given a chapter title or even be a section.

    Because at the end of the day depression doesn’t always show up the same.

    Sometimes it’s a thing in my body that is like a one of lava lamps that doesn’t plug in that makes it’s decoration by combining an oil-based color and a water that will never combine. The place where the oil meets the water is a little fuzzy. It does something but it ever fully changes the water. Just colors the edges and makes it blurry.

    Sometimes depression is simply the absence of light. It breeds in the darkness and the lack of sunshine and turns off parts of our brain that remind us we can create our own light.

    Sometimes depression is a small voice that finds it’s way through a crack in the armor. It shouts and shouts but is actually just a small whisper telling us the dark will never become light, that we aren’t enough, that we aren’t good.

    That we can’t have hope.

    And sometimes depression is just a flashing sign to remind us that one time, long ago, we were friends.

    So, with that in mind, I decided to go sit around more people and eat dinner and write words that remind me that I am more than the depression that is ten steps behind me.

    Lately I’ve felt like I’m actively running from it.

    I’m running from the grief and the depression and the anxiety.

    I’ve had a few more nights than I care to admit wherein I felt it creep closer than ten steps away.

    Where I let it creep closer than ten steps away.

    Because sometimes that’s easier than choosing the weapons and things I need to defeat it.

    I know all those things are real. I spent a lot of years in a lot of churches being told that I should just pray away the things that felt heavy. I spent a lot of years in a lot of churches feeling like something was wrong with my brain.

    I spent a lot of years in a lot of churches believing I was less of a Christian because I dealt with strong thoughts of suicide.

    But, what I’ve come to realizing is that I wasn’t less of anything.

    The places I were in was less like Christ for telling me there were things “wrong” with me.

    So, yes. Sometimes (like right now) it absolutely feels like depression is about ten steps away from me.

    Sometimes it feels like I’m peering at it knocking at my door on my doorell camera.

    Sometimes it feels like I have to lock my door at night to keep it away.

    And I’m not here to say that it’s normal or that we should be ok with it.

    We shouldn’t.

    Depression (pardon my language) can fuck off.

    But it doesn’t always listen. It doesn’t always stop creeping up.

    It joins forces with grief and anxiety and stress and it mounts an attack because it’s sneaky like that.

    So, sometimes we have to go sit in restaurants or bars by ourselves.

    Sometimes we have to choose to work a little later on something.

    Sometimes we have to choose to keep walking so it can’t catch up.

    And sometimes, (like right now) we have to write words to remind others that they aren’t alone in the feeling that depression is about ten steps behind them.

    Because you aren’t.

    Let’s keep moving forward.

    Together.

    With love,

    Meg

    , , , , ,

  • It’s time for hope.

    I was looking for a cute little not cheesy quote to pop into my letterboard for the cafe at church this morning and I happened upon this one:

    “Easter is the soul’s first taste of spring”

    To me; living in Washington these last 9 years, there is nothing more hopeful than the first taste of spring.

    There’s nothing more hopeful than being able to open my window, to wear shorts even though it’s still a little chilly or to be able to sit outside on a patio.

    It’s amazing the hope that light brings.

    Shortly after my mom died I was having so much trouble sleeping and I’d wake up in the dark early morning hours and just hope for the light. I realize that part of it came from getting to my parents house about 4am on the day she passed and physically just waiting for the light to come because maybe it would change something.

    I’m always in some way waiting for the light hope brings.

    I try to imagine the hope the women felt when they discovered the empty tomb. Did they even know?

    Did they know that, that singular moment would become a reminder that we can hope even in the darkest, most devoid of light times?

    Did they realize they were stepping into spring?

    I think I’m ready to step into spring, no matter how much my whole self is trying to fight against that fact.

    I had a conversation Friday that yesterday I spent the whole day reminding myself that the words I said were ok. That I didn’t need to second guess myself.

    That I was allowed to step into spring.

    That I was allowed to step into hope again.

    It’s a hard thing to do when life situations, the noise around you and your brain is trying to remind you of all the ways stepping into hope is not for you.

    How stepping into hope can set you up for heartache and pain and being blindsided.

    How stepping into hope is hard.

    But, I think of those women in front of the empty space where a man they loved and cared for had laid and I wonder if they were scared to step into the hope that maybe it wasn’t over yet.

    I wonder if stepping into hope, into spring was hard, because what if it was something worse?

    But, if I’ve learned anything about those women in all my years in church and teaching Sunday school and Bible classes in college is this:

    They did hard things.

    Even hard things like stepping into hope and choosing to believe the light was not only coming; but there.

    I don’t know what you believe or don’t believe, if today is just another Sunday or some form of in between.

    I do know that we all could use a little extra hope and light; however that may look.

    So to you from me; here’s a reminder:

    You’re allowed to have hope.

    That things will change.

    That it will be different.

    That you’re strong enough.

    That even though can do hard things; they won’t always be hard.

    You’re allowed to believe and take hold of the fact that it isn’t over yet.

    With love,

    Meg

    , , ,
    , , , , , , , , ,

  • the boxes we put ourselves in

    I wrote something last week I didn’t want anyone to read. I posted it and while some people read it, it didn’t get the traction my words normally do and honestly- great.


    The words felt ugly and in-between-ish and like I was letting someone into my cluttered, clothing filled room.
    But, here I am again.


    I’ve erased a lot of words on this Monday. I’ve erased words and second guessed my abilities and contemplating quitting and hitting rewind and trying something again and again and again.


    I wanted to give up today.
    I wanted to give up because I feel like I’ve outgrown the box I put myself in.
    I wanted to give up today because I absolutely feel like I should be stronger than the fear that battles against the thing in my soul that tells me that I’m more than the box I put myself in to heal.


    Amidst my exhaustion and my grief and my physical ailements and all the ways that I feel like I’m absolutey not being enough for all the people in my life is the fact that I put myself in a little enclosure to heal.


    To heal from burnout, to heal from the friendships that told me I wasn’t enough for them, to heal from the ways I felt like I abandoned people when I left the Y, to heal from losing my mom, to heal from inability to keep moving forward after I lost my mom, to heal from the ways I feel like I’ve failed people because my grief got too big.


    In all honesty the list goes on and on.
    But the box shouldn’t go on and on.
    The box needs to break.


    Because in spite of; I’ve kept moving forward.
    And that, to be absolutely frank, terrifies me.
    And I don’t know what to do with it.


    How do I let myself out of the place I put myself to keep myself from getting hurt more than I already felt like I was?
    How do I get past the fear?
    How do I stand again?


    I know people might think it’s silly that I do all of my writing for the most part in crowded bars. That my best writing and thought processing comes from those places.
    But, really, right now, I’m sitting in a crowded bar on a Monday. I’m waiting for my dinner and drinking one of my favorite drinks and I’m undisturbed by the noise around me.
    What I do know, beyond a shadow of doubt though is this: I’m not the only one.
    No, there is no one else writing, it’s pretty loud and boisterous currently. It’s just that, the amazing, hauntingly heartbreakingly beautiful thing, about humanity is that we are all writing and watching the words of our own story go in front of us and around us.


    i know in this bar right now are people have and are dealing with grief and burnout and rejection. People dealing with being single and are having the best day and the worst day.
    I know, with almost 100% certainity there are people who are trying to learn to stand again.


    So, even though I got no anwsers. Even though I still have the fear of what happens when I chose to let myself out of the place I put myself in to heal, I know that I am not alone.


    And I know, sitting in this crowded bar, there is a hope I hold that will find a way to move me forward.
    We’ll stand again friends.
    With love,
    Meg

    ,
    , , , , , ,

  • notes on quiet moments

    God and I have a tumultuous relationship.

    We’ve been that way for awhile. We’ve been back and forth and I’ve met with him in different spaces and places. I’ve yelled at God on dirt roads in Swazi and cried looking at so many different bodies of water.

    I’ve struggled with not feeling enough. Not being able to hear God enough, not being holy enough, not giving or volunteering enough.

    I’ve struggled in the church of feeling like too much. Too big. Taking of too much space. Using too many words.

    They are things I’ve picked up along the way in all the churches I’ve worked at, the ones I’ve attended, in the ones I’ve sang at, in the places in between that became church spaces.

    I haven’t been able to go to church in a lot of weeks because of theater and other life things and I can always feel it in my soul when it’s been awhile since I’ve sat in that space. I can feel when I haven’t given myself a few moments to be quiet- which I’m aware I should do on days other than Sunday but the way in which my life is able to pause on a Sunday morning even when I’m in the café or setting up Sunday school is something different.

    It’s a different kind of holy moment for me.

    And that’s the holy moment I can’t walk away from.

    I don’t think in the last few years I’ve ever been angry at God persay. I’ve never thought the things around me were the fault of some man in the sky who looks down and tries to make my life more difficult.

    I’m absolutely not someone who thinks that literally everything happens for a reason. I just believe you can use everything that happens FOR a reason.

    And while I haven’t been angry at God or thought that I was just trapped in this game that kept lobbing grenades at me; I have desperately wanted to run away from anything that looked like God.

    I realized that everything in my life felt like clutter; and all I wanted to do was shut all the doors so no one could see in. I’ve tried to move quickly because the things I felt happening were too big for me.

    In every quiet moment I had, I was searching for something to fill it. I was trying to find noise or a job or a project to not take a moment.

    So, today, when I decided to listen to some old worship music while I worked, this line was a billboard in front of me:

    “If I open my hands will you fill them again?”

    And in the moment hearing that lyric, I thought, why would you?

    Because all I feel like I’ve done lately is fail.

    I have felt like an awful friend, a not great daughter, I’ve been not doing all the things I need to at work, I’ve been showing up halfway.

    Part of me is scared. Scared to be lonely, scared to open myself up again to places and things that remind me of parts of myself that felt too big.

    Part of me still believes I am too much and not enough all in the same breath.

    Part of me listens to the small voice that tells me to be silent.

    And part of me doesn’t know what to do with my hands.

    I wish I could say that I know where this is going.

    That I am writing from the end of this part of my story and not the middle.

    Hell, this might even be the beginning of a chapter.

    And that’s where I’m at today.

    That’s where my feet are.

    With love,

    Meg

    ,

  • again.

    I knew when I got home today after the first free Wednesday I’ve had in awhile that I needed to write. Part of that is because the people I was with have the habit of helping stir words around for me and part of that is because I knew I needed to take a quiet moment for myself.

    When I don’t want to write words or when I feel as if I have nothing to contribute to any conversation is when I realize I actually should be writing. I should be finding the space and time to plop some words down and ship them off to see if anyone feels like I door even just so simply, a year from now I can come back to these words and see if I’ve grasped something I didn’t grasp before.

    Yesterday, I said to a friend via text that it felt as if I had spent the last few months climbing a mountain only to find myself back at the bottom of a hill needing to climb up again.

    And honestly, I’m tired.

    Now, here’s the thing, I can easily and effortlessly disclaim away the things and thoughts in my brain right now. I could absolutely tell myself I have friends who are in much worse places right now and I could shut my computer and be done with it.

    But, instead, I’m choosing to grit my teeth and look at this computer and admit some things to myself; to you and maybe it will give you the permission and space to do the same.

    And maybe, admitting those things to ourselves will keep us from jumping down wells to try to find the bottom that isn’t there.

    That, of course, if you’re not new here, brings me to the movie the Labyrinth. Because the minute I had the picture of falling down a well, I thought of all the times the character Sarah falls down holes, or wells, or what have you and ends up further from where she was (or sometimes, closer, she just doesn’t know it).

    I feel as if I’ve jumped into a few metaphorical wells lately in hopes that it will bring me back to a place I’ve been before or at least to a place that I can feel like I have footing.

    I’ve jumped in a few metaphorical wells lately because I’m a bit nervous at the things that I believe I’m supposed to be saying and doing and if I could just move back a few steps maybe I’ll find my strength in doing the path again.

    But, that’s the thing about trying to re-do a path again; you can’t. No matter what the path won’t be the same and you won’t be the same.

    Right now the path I need to be walking down is one where I use my voice and say the things I need to say.

    I need to say them again and again.

    It’s simply high time for me to speak again.

    I need to choose to climb the hill in front of me even though I’m tired and I need to find a way to believe in what’s been placed in my hand.

    If none of this made sense; fine.

    If it all did; great.

    If you feel like you’ve been trying to jump down into a well to start over; I get it.

    And if you feel like all you’ve been doing lately is climbing mountains; know that I am here- with you.

    With love,

    Meg

    , ,
    , , , , ,