The Robes

  "Coming up behind Jesus, she (the woman who had bled for 12 years) touched the fringe of His robe." Luke 9:44

  And she was healed.

  

  Right before we were to start playing the worship music on Sunday, this ole flute player had a full on panic attack. The warning signs had been building all morning, in the busyness of setting up, not being able to join the Thanksgiving crowd who gathered before the service...too loud, too busy. Even during pre-service practice, I could feel the fight/flight adrenaline rush gaining momentum. As the congregation filed in, the tears and shakes started. I ducked behind the stage curtain for a brief moment, just long enough to squash them down.

  As the welcome talk was said, I reached back to touch the stage curtain, desperately looking for something to help. It's rough and heavy and provided a connection with the here and now. I imagined my fingers had brushed against the robes of Jesus just like the woman who bled for such a long time. In the midst of it all, my soul smiled briefly at the sheer, but childishly delightful, audacity of imagining such a thing.

  It was enough to provide an ability to focus on the notes that needed playing. Part of such an attack is an impact on the ability to see or focus on what is being seen. It's like having your thinking brain put in a blender.

  There was no joy in worship. It was a hard, long haul. 

  The little sketchbook got me through the rest of the service. The screaming heebie jeebies were less than a breath away. Waiting for the end of church was another long, hard haul.

  My friend let the worship leader know I had to leave right after instead of helping pack up. The moment the car door closed, the tears finally came. They were complicated tears: exhaustion and the five stages of grief all rolled into one drop.

  It's been two days and there are still aftershocks finding their way to the surface but there's also been a great deal of thought regarding all of this. 

  The team leader messaged me later, thanking me for "pushing through" and playing. It's left me wondering why quitting was not an option. This isn't the first time, either.

  What would have happened had I simply spoken up and told everyone that I had to leave or, at the very least, required a few moments to get my S#%* together?

  More importantly, why did I think I couldn't?

  Pushing through is not kind. Maybe it should be called "punishing through" instead. 

  (Long, long, looooong pause...)

  Why didn't it feel safe for me to say something? 

  I would have loved nothing more than to have put down my flute and wrapped myself in the stage curtains. It would have been safe there, tucked into the robes of Jesus. 

  The world could have waited. The clock could have, too. But that's not what I have been taught, is it my Lord? They always come first, no matter the cost.

  I'll close off today (as more tears come) with a drawing done yesterday. It started off being a pile of stones. They represented the weight of all of the things which cause panic attacks. But, in case you never noticed piles of stones in a field before, it's where trees grow. That's why there is one tree in the middle of a plowed field. It's where the stones have been piled. 

  God is good. AMEN!

  

  

  

Safe Haven

   "This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; He is my God, and I trust Him." Psalm 91:2

  This may end up being a bunch of random thoughts. Some are half formed but worth exploring further. Others are more solid but it helps to write them down.

  I keep mulling over the possibility of having thoughts about the future. Smile. Just writing about it gets my stomach in knots! Over the last several days, it's become apparent that the ability to set goals or have dreams is firmly rooted in feeling safe. It makes sense. Being insecure is born in an environment of insecurity.

  The details don't matter at this point. What matters now is helping this new idea of being safe continue to grow. Which, of course, involves leaning heavily on Jesus because I can't do it alone. Alone is not a place of safety.

  Community is. 

  Boy, I never thought I'd say that! 

  So if I choose to have a dream or a hope for the future, there needs to be a community involved to help foster, encourage, guide, pray for and support the effort involved in seeing a dream come to fruition.

  This means I have to willingly embrace the dreams and plans of One who is far greater than I. But, not only embrace them but believe what He says is true. 

  In the drawing shared a couple of days ago, there is a road. It winds through hills, sometimes hidden, sometimes in plain sight before vanishing over the horizon. It's not the first time this idea has been illustration of trust but that's what it is. Am I willing to trust God's plan?

  Trust is the daughter of feeling safe. 

  Maybe "safe" should be capitalized...feeling Safe because, if I may be so bold, this is another name for Jesus..."Safe"...I like that.

  Being able to set boundaries and maintain them can only come from a place of security. Yet another realization as I've mulled over the significance of coming back to safe.

  

  That's enough for today. These few words have stirred up emotions running the spectrum from anger to regret and back again. Regardless of where the sad feelings go, I find myself very hopeful and that, my friends, is because of Jesus.

  One last thought...is safe a destination or a way to live life?

  

  

  

Coming Back to Safe

  "The Lord your God is giving you a place of rest. He has given you this land." Joshua 1:13

  Coming back to safe. The words shared by a new friend. They are the kind of words where the Lord taps you on the shoulder to make sure you are paying attention. And I have because it's been a long time since I heard something that has stirred my soul with a deep, deep longing. Lord, I want this. I want to feel safe.

  When I was a little, my hardworking dad would grab a much needed nap on the couch. He would lie on his side when I asked him to make me a nest no matter how tired he was. It was wonderful to curl up in the fort his folded legs made. I don't remember if I read or played quietly so as not to disturb him, but I remember how it felt to be there. Safe.

  Eventually, the nest was outgrown and the one place of safety was out of reach. It gets complicated, trying to unravel the core lesson that nothing and no one was safe. Even if they were supposed to be. And as I reflect on more traumatic events, I think this is one of the greatest losses. 

  It makes me very sad to realize just how unsafe Cricket felt, and actually was. Her beauty made it so. And so began a long list of poor choices in a quest for the kind of love that includes being safe. Choices which, in the end, only reinforced there was no safety anywhere.

  I also now understand why knitting binges take over every spare hour and why I draw mandala after mandala. The repetition is constant, comforting. It's not dangerous unless I stab myself with the point of my compass. (Yes, this has happened more than once.)

  When I get going at something for days on end I can now ask myself, "Why don't you feel safe right now?"

  Coming back to safe...I think I need to surrender my role on the Health and Safety team at work. (Smile.) It fosters a constant need to be aware of potential dangers in the workplace. Silly, I know, but it triggers a level of hyper-vigilance and guardedness over and above the usual which, until now, I'd been unaware of.

  It's funny, everything going through my head are solutions and strategies around the things I need to do to nurture a sense of safety. Maybe the woman who unkindly called me a control freak years ago had the right idea after all. It's not but a wonder. 

  It's okay, my Lord, I won't forget about You. How could I? When Your presence is such a comfort; when the nest You make encompasses the entire world. How could I? When I am left amazed by how Your love has guided me to here and now. How could I forget about You? When you have blessed me with the kind people in my life who watch over me. How could I ever forget You when I wear Your prayer around my wrist? 

  "God is here. You are safe."

  I guess I've arrived after all.

  

  

  

Convergence

  "Be strong and Courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9

  Convergence is when two or more things come together to form a new whole. Nothing could else could define what has happened in the last week. I write today with the deepest gratitude possible, the kind that fills every fiber, every ounce, of my being. 

  First of all, a naturopath said my vitamin D levels were low. I was skeptical because I take quite a bit already, 4000 mg/day. My friend encouraged me to double the dose anyways. Lord, help me remember to do this when I find myself swallowed by the Black River. Within a couple of days, the shadows had started to lift. The increase in anxiety was causing some depression but when you are in the midst of it, the brain forgets the simple things.

  The increased D was started the day of the bracelet. 

  The bracelet: the tangible, sensory, touchstone of faith, has not been taken off since it was made. The words, "God is here. You are safe." have been my prayer no matter where the day leads. And it's led to new places.

  

  I was at a women's retreat for the weekend at MBC, the Muskoka Bible Camp. It's a campground/event locale in a beautiful part of northern Ontario. The red and gold finery of summer's end was everywhere. A couple of deer wandered around, comfortable in the presence of humans. They aren't something you get to see up close very often.

  My friend and I shared a room with two lovely ladies I had met when we went to Cuba last November for the wedding. It made it easier to decide to go. Besides, I really felt this was where the Lord wanted me to be.

  "God is here. You are safe."

  A small sketchbook went everywhere as well. It was another grounding tool when the noise and busy motion of a hundred and fifty ladies was overwhelming. It served another, higher purpose, too. It enabled me to pray without ceasing as the words of the worship or speaker or conversations ebbed and flowed. More importantly, it allowed me to listen to the Holy Spirit in the midst of it all.

  On Saturday during free time, my room mates went into town for some shopping. I opted not to go, feeling it might be too much on top of everything else. I also felt taking the time to prepare my heart for the scheduled meditative prayer session was crucial. This was where the Lord wanted me.  

  As I waited for the prayer time to start, the Lord had me draw a backpack followed by a signpost, the kind that clearly mark the directions when there is a fork in the road. One direction was the one of faith and joy and healing. The other was the path of fear, burdens, and a life of independent existence. The choice is obvious but something was holding me back. 

  "What am I afraid of?"

  It took a while before the answer came but when it did,..it was so sad to realize I was afraid to be happy. Postcard memories flooded into my mind of all the times when happiness was crushed, smothered or stolen. Happiness has always been a punishable offence. 

  Poor Cricket. We've felt this way most of our life.

  During the prayer session, as memories flooded in, I began the slow process of choosing to forgive the people who had played a part in the formation of this lie. It was a long list.

  "God is here. You are safe."

  And all things converged to this pivotal moment in time.

  Do I believe these words? Or don't I?

  The final drawing of the day flowed from my pen: a celebration of release, surrender, and hope.

  Cricket? God is here and you are safe. And even if we don't know where the road or the season will take us, this is where you, we, I belong.

  

  

A Grateful Heart

   "It is good to give thanks to the Lord, to sing praises to the Most High." Psalm 92:1

  After finishing the last post a couple of days ago, the bead bin was explored to create the bracelet. The bin is stocked with beads for numerous reasons. Some are small and are used to embellish crazy quilts or other sewing projects. Others are more suitable for little fingers.

   Little fingers love alphabet beads. That's why they are in there, in case little fingers come to visit and need to be occupied. 

  There were enough letters to spell out the prayer, "God is here. You are safe." Between the sentences, I added a small, silver cross to declare and remind myself Jesus is in the midst of it all. 

  I didn't want to use elastic because it wasn't strong enough. Putting spacer beads between the words was going to make it too cluttered. It took some thinking before it could come together.

  Being a bit of a magpie, the cupboard has a small tackle box containing items suitable for jewelry making and repairing. The pins used to make earrings were too short so a couple of paper clips were perfect for the job. A bit of chain and a clasp and I had my bracelet. 

  This simple prayer has helped me get out of my head. There were times at work when I could hear the anxious, hyper-vigilant, overwhelming screaming heebie-jeebies start to cry out. Speaking the bracelet prayer out loud shut them down. Or maybe...it gave them comfort? Either way, it enabled me to stay present instead of struggling to interact with the outside world.

  I said it a lot.

  Last night, there was another astounding realization...it's Cricket who has been trying to protect us because I could feel the doubt/disbelief that the prayer was true. You see, safety has been an illusion, something that was lost or stolen. The proverbial rug getting pulled out from under us is an ideal way to put it. 

  So this morning I have a grateful heart. For the prayer but more so for realizing how hard Cricket has tried to feel safe or to create safety. And maybe it's prideful or maybe it's just sad that she, we, have been carrying this burden for such a long, long time.

  Then my friend forwarded this:

  

AMEN!

                           

Depression

   "Cry out for insight, and ask for understanding. Search for them as you would for silver; seek them like hidden treasures. Then you will understand what it means to fear the Lord, and you will gain knowledge of God." Proverbs 2:3-5

  The last few weeks have been spent trying to come to terms with what it means to live with complex PTSD. I guess the meds had helped tone the symptoms down for years. Having them become so prevalent makes life challenging but I am determined to stay off the meds.  

  I am not anti-medication. They have been a huge help in getting me this far so I am grateful they exist. The risk simply outweighs their benefit at this point in my life. I don't want to end up with permanent neurological damage! Weight gain is one thing but that? Even my doctor wants me off of it. He's a good doctor.

  Which leads me to the need to find balance and a way to keep moving forward in spite of the challenges which face me every time I leave the house.

  

  I was walking through the grocery store. There was a man walking just behind me. He was a big guy in construction apparel, striding purposefully towards whatever object had brought him to the store. I couldn't see him out of the corner of my eye so I found myself turning my head just enough to keep tabs on where he was.  Eventually, I stopped walking and let him stride ahead.

  I was afraid. For no reason. The adrenaline rush of the fight/flight response had me on red alert.

  Logically, I knew he wasn't a threat but the problem is I am not working with the logical part of my brain. 

  If only it was that simple. 

  So I find myself feeling very depressed the last couple of days. I can't begin to describe how exhausting it is leaving the house for just this reason. When you are in public, people are behind you and the internal whispers start, "Not safe? Watch out! Danger is nearby! GET READY TO RUN!!!" My chest tightens, the primal brain takes over and everything becomes surreal. 

  It explains why I have such a hard time remembering names because when I meet someone new, this auto response goes into overdrive. 

  Thank You, Lord, for helping me understand what I thought was a short coming. It has nothing to do with not caring about a person's name or what they have to say. It's simply because the logical, thinking, memory forming brain synapses are on standby until the risk of interacting with someone new is over.

  I think part of the depression is not knowing how to stop this from happening. Heck, if I knew that, I'd be able to heal everyone who lives with PTSD! 

  Hmmm...what if I simply say, "God is here. You are safe."

  Duh...why does it take me so long to realize prayer can do what I can't!

  Lord? Forgive me for believing I have to fix this on my own. (We need to talk about why I keep doing this. I think there's some more repenting needs to happen.)  Forgive me for not turning to You for solutions. Thank You for Your patience. Thank You for providing this prayer of protection. Help me remember to say it as often as I need. In Jesus' most Holy Name, I pray. AMEN!

  PS...I am going to make a bracelet with this prayer on it! That way I have it as a constant reminder. That's better than writing it with ballpoint pen on my hand.

  Oh, I am nowhere near as depressed as when I started writing. It feels like a tremendous weight has been lifted. Maybe that's because it has!

  

Decompression

   "The Lord is the everlasting God, the creator of all the earth. He never grows weak or weary. No one can measure the depths of His understanding." Isaiah 40:28

  Where to start? Smile...I did a quick search to try and find the right words for describing the second most constant thing in a human being's life. God is the first constant. The second is change. 

  There has been a great deal of change lately: external things I have no control over even though they impact a great deal of my life. 

  There's been a lot happening at church. The Meeting House has folded as of September 1, not surprisingly although their closure came about because of an inability to get the proper insurance they needed. Please, pray for them as all the sites seek out the Lord's guidance on next moves. 

  This includes us although we are at an advantage because, even though we identified as a Meeting House site and utilized their resources, we were like a cousin. We have always been an independent, self governing body. With the closure, this has been to our advantage because everything is already in place for us to rebrand and move forward.

  We will still be part of the Anabaptist denomination. That's not changing. Just our name. We are now called Common Ground Church. The name was announced a couple of weeks ago after a team worked hard to come up with a name that is welcoming to all. It's a good name.

  There will still be home church aka Bible study. This is what had really thrown me for a loop. The group I attended was led by elders who have decided to step down from this role. I get it. They've been leading the group for years. I thought it had been cancelled altogether.

  Deciding where to go was hard. It takes a massive amount of effort to get involved with unfamiliar people in a new environment. Yes, I know them from church and all of them are lovely people, it's just...well...it takes me a long time to feel safe with others. To say I was devastated that the group I had been attending was no longer an option is a bit of an understatement. 

  I wasn't even sure I was going to join a group because, right now, I simply don't have it in me to start anew. This last med reduction is taking a huge toll. Even church was too much to face this morning. 

   My friend texted some good news when she got there. Even though there will be a change in who's leading the old group, most the people who have always attended are continuing to go. After reading the text, tears of relief and gratitude filled my eyes because I know it is a safe space. I don't have to go to war against the primal survival instincts that are always on overdrive. The Lord had heard my prayers.

  

  It's been an emotional few days packed full of realizations about the illness I live with every day, about the toll it takes on my body and mind. Skipping church today was a kindness rarely exercised when it comes to my own well being. I simply don't want the anxiety to win, to steal the good things in life from me.

 Today, I had to take of my Wonder Woman underwear and just be me: anxious, uncertain, fearful and overwhelmed. Had I gone to church, all of this would have escalated and, to be honest, I am really tired of how much energy it takes to spend time in a busy world.

  Lord, thank You for this day. Help it become a true day of rest. Help me find peace in Your arms. AMEN.

PS: I know the Lord tells us not to be anxious. I've wrestled terribly with the idea that being this way is utterly sinful. I've finally come to terms that my anxiety is not something any sort of conscious decision could change. Lord? How good are You at performing lobotomies?

In a Name

   "O Lord, I have come to you for protection; don't let me be disgraced. Save me, for You do what is right." Psalm 31:1

  There's a pot of leek and potato soup simmering away on the stove. A tiny chest freezer is a new addition to the household. It's great to have a place to store autumn's harvest without needing to sterilize jars. The soup base will nestle in nicely beside the containers of chili and roasted tomatoes already in there. 

  I found comfort in cooking this morning. There's something reassuring in the rhythms of peeling and chopping. It's grounding and leaves time for the mind to mull over recent events. 

  Once again I experienced a verbal onslaught in response to enforcing a boundary. The foul names tossed carelessly in my direction have struck like an arrow to my heart. Logically, I know their anger was due to the influence of drugs and alcohol but nevertheless, it's been hard to shake.

  Part of me believes what they said is true. 

  Why?

  Experience has taught me I have no right to enforce a boundary. Experience has taught me I had none or that it was my fault when a boundary was crossed. Lord, I don't know how many times I need to write this. It's starting to feel like a broken record!

  Yah...a broken record that keeps skipping and playing the same part over and over and over again. I need a penny to weigh down the needle arm so it stops this nonsense. (A well known hack for anyone who ever owned a record player.)

  Or is the record skipping because the scratch is so deep? Is it beyond repair?

  Lord, You are so good...A friend called to see how I was doing after yesterday's situation. During the course of our conversation I shared that growing a thick skin is the last thing I want to do. A thick skin is another name for numbing. It can't be done selectively. It numbs all emotions without discretion. 

  It's what I did to survive in my previous life and the Lord has helped me lose that black, suffocating armor. I don't want to put it back on ever again because not only does it shut down the heart, it shuts down the ability to sense the presence of the Holy Spirit. It is life lived in the shadowlands of a vacuum and very, very lonely.

  So...a thick skin...

  Hmm...being punished for feelings...yet another scratch in the record. 

  This isn't about being called a name at all, is it my Lord? It's about the shame and guilt I feel for being upset about it. It's about feeling broken and "not normal" for being sad or hurt (and I am going to add in feeling anxious.)

  Maybe the people who taught me to, forced me to put on the black armor are the broken ones. It was easier to tell me I was the broken one rather than offer comfort because, maybe, they wore their own black armor and had no idea what to do. (Thank You, Lord, for helping me find grace.)

  But I still say "forced me" because they did. I learned to wear the armor the same way I learned to tie my shoes: the message, the lesson, was repeated over and over, "Stop being so sensitive." And when I felt the feels of hurt, I was ashamed.

  Where's a penny when you need one?

  Smile... I don't have a penny, they stopped making them. I have something far better: a treasure trove of gold. It is far heavier than any old, worn and tarnished copper penny. 

  The gold is God's armor. 

  So, yes, I feel hurt because of someone's words; words spoken from a place of pain and intoxication. But there's a flip side to this record...I have also felt intense compassion for them. Their situation has moved me to tears at times. It's so very sad.

  You know something? I wouldn't have it any other way.

  I can easily forgive the name caller but more importantly, my Lord, this morning I can finally forgive the ones who molded, shaped and forged the black armor I wore for so very long. AMEN!

PS. It was during a time of meditative prayer, of waiting on the Lord, when He showed me the black armor I wore to protect my heart. He asked me if I was ready to take it off. I imagined undoing the buckles, of letting the heavy weight of helm and breastplate fall to the ground at my feet. I never felt so naked and vulnerable. This was over fifteen years ago.

  Smile. A lot has happened since then.

  

  

  

  

  

Gears

  "Answer my prayers, O Lord, for your unfailing love is wonderful." Psalm 69:16

  The idea of gear wheels has been rolling around in my head. Imagine if you will, a machine that stretches into perpetuity. Some of the wheels, connected by shafts, spin faster as they progress into smaller and smaller wheels. The larger ones spin ponderously around the edges of time. 

 When I was on the farm, part of my duties come hay season was to make sure all the gear bearings on the haybine (mower) and baler were amply greased. Without grease, they would overheat and the machine would seize. It was an unpleasant job involving crawling around underneath with a hand held grease gun to reach all the grease nozzles.

  I was fascinated by the mechanics of the old, circa 1950's square baler we used for a while: how it picked up the hay, fed it into a chute where a hammer would compress it into a square. The string would wrap around it. Well greased, metallic fingers tied a knot. A sharp knife cut the string and a bale of hay was made. Whoever invented it was a genius!

  The days spent hauling it around the hayfield helped me gain an intimate knowledge of the sounds and motion associated with the task. Sixty beats a minute: that's the speed the baler was timed to. Faster and the knots wouldn't have time to tie. Slower, and the hay didn't feed fast enough to make a solid bale.

  Lord? Where are You going with this?

  I can feel the anxiety spiking just thinking about it. There's a great deal of sadness for the woman who took on so much only to discover it was never enough. It was never going to be enough. 

  

  Maybe that's why I am struggling so much to accept my mental health challenges. All the grease in the world isn't going to fix worn out, broken toothed gears. But, does this make me "less than?"

  

  (There was a long pause as this question sank in.)

  If the things I do or cannot do define my worth, then I've missed the point of Jesus! 

  It means I am not walking in the faith, grace, patience and acceptance of Christ because the "less than" gears are making a lot of noise. In fact, the "less than" gear is the one which has powered the mental and emotional machine for a long time.

  It needs to be replaced. But here's the thing, it's had lots of maintenance over the years. The "less than" gear has been polished, repaired, shored up, and greased. So Lord? How do we shut it down?

  Whenever maintenance people work on powered machinery, there is a lock switch to prevent it from being accidentally turned on when they are working on it. I like this idea. 

  It's time to lock this puppy down and reroute the power supply: the one that comes from standing secure in the belief that I am enough, just as I am. 

  

  Lord, this is a boundary thing, isn't it? Help me be quick to use the power of a lock switch whenever I start to feel "less than." Help me stand firm whenever someone's actions, attitudes or choice of words tries to grease the gears. In Your Name I pray, AMEN!

Grinding Gears

  "He (the Spirit of the Lord) has sent Me (Jesus) to proclaim that captives will be released, that the blind will see, that the oppressed will be set free, and that the time of the Lord's favor has come." Luke 5:18-19

  The prayer I wrapped in packing tape has found a way to be expressed through art. Drawing mandalas is calming and as the gear teeth took shape in this piece, it seemed appropriate to illustrate some of them as broken and worn down. As I outlined the initial pencil drawing in ink, there was an audible sound of gears grinding and catching. 

  It is also an illustration of passing time and the toll it takes. The centre gear is perfect. The outer ones, not so much.

  In being so hard on myself for what happened on Sunday, I'd forgotten one of the most important things. Trauma actually causes brain damage, similar to a stroke but without the symptoms of a stroke. I am thankful to be reminded of this again because it helps. It helps to remember my brain is what is broken here, not my emotions, not my soul, and not my spirit. 

  So the panic attacks are my brain utilizing automatic responses to stress. Stress ignites the fight/flight instinct. 

  Deer are always on the lookout for danger. They listen, eat a bit, look up and sniff the air. When a predator is spotted, the adrenaline starts to build, preparing their muscles for flight. They don't run right away, though. They only run when they are the ones being chased. They only run when they know what direction the threat is coming from.

  Experience has taught my brain that a threat can come from anywhere at any time so it constantly listens and sniffs the air so to speak. I think this is why I get so overwhelmed in crowds because the auditory and visual chaos is perceived as hiding a potential predator. Crowds are the long grass tigers hide in.

  The brain has mastered touch typing. I don't need to think about the letters in a word. My fingers find them without consciously thinking about it. It's the same as playing the piano. I see a written note and my hands automatically find it on the keyboard. It took time to learn these skills. And practice. But, now, these abilities are cemented into the neural pathways of my brain.

  It's a marvelous, amazing thing when you stop to think about it.

  Smile. I know I write about this concept frequently. I need to keep hearing it. It helps. Hopefully one day it will finally sink in!

  So maybe this isn't so much about fixing the broken brain, maybe it's about treating it kindly by being mindful of how much long grass I walk through.

  Maybe it wasn't a good idea to go shopping to multiple stores the day before playing at church. One (admittedly poor) night's sleep wasn't enough to give the hypervigilance/fight/flight/yellow alert time to settle down.

  My psychiatrist affirmed that most people with PTSD need considerable amount of downtime after going out into the world simply because it is exhausting.

  I think I have had an unrealistic expectation that this will go away once and for all, or will go away if I ignore the signs. This morning came with the realization I learned to type in high school. That neural network of a trained automatic response has had decades of solidification. It puts it into perspective, doesn't it?

  Lord? There is so much to pray for this morning. Thank You for helping not hate my broken brain...actually, it isn't broken is it? It's doing perfectly what it was created to do! (Smile...I just don't happen to like it.) Help me be patient with it when it goes into survival overdrive when I don't want it to. In Jesus Name, AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

Aftermath

  "Teach me Your ways, O Lord, that I may live according to Your truth!" Psalm 86:11 

  It's a mess, this trying to make sense out of chaos. I spent time in prayer yesterday trying to unravel the birthplace of panic attacks. No. It's really trying to find grace and acceptance that this is simply something I have to live with unless, of course, the Lord takes it away.

  Maybe if I explain it will help. Every day I live with the shadow of complex PTSD wrapped around my heart. Unlike situational PTSD which has a wonderful recovery rate with counselling and help, the complex version is just that: complex. It is the result of experiencing many traumatic events which may or may not be related to each other. The emotional and mental responses to trauma are usually the same.

  While the traumatic events in my life may not always be similar, without support, there was no addressing these things when they happened. This is what I prayed about in a written flow chart that revealed the interconnectedness of it all. 

  It was pretty ugly and very triggering so I tore the page from my hardcover sketchbook. This is something I rarely do. It was folded into a tiny package. On the back, I wrote a prayer giving it all to God. This heavy, heavy load was sealed in packing tape and tossed in the garbage.

  Cricket did what she needed to do to survive. The foundation was established at a very early age that emotional suppression was the only option. Emotional expression was being naughty, silly, juvenile, and it didn't matter if it was joy or sorrow. Any display of emotion was considered improper and shameful. 

  A sensitive child, Cricket learned to numb the pain and the joy. She learned to disassociate and disconnect because there was no other option in dealing with the unnamed and inexpressible feels that rose up inside. 

  Cricket had no champion, no comforter. She learned she was alone and that she had to be strong and grown up. 

  By the time we were seven, a form of depression called Dysthymia set in. The foundation for developing complex PTSD was firmly established. So were the coping mechanisms.

  The disconnect still happens when the feels get too big, when the world is too loud, too busy. Most of the time, I am completely unaware it's happening because the lifelong coping mechanisms are so deeply entrenched and automatic. Until the lid blows because I am not as strong as I used to be.

  And I am ashamed of this public display of emotion so very few people even realize I am falling apart. I guess this makes me a master of pretending everything is just fine. To do otherwise is utterly shameful...and those aren't God's words!

  What would have happened if I had allowed myself to fall apart on stage? If I'd "made a scene?" What if I had allowed people to see the real me? Why is this such a bad thing?

  Cricket knows. Being vulnerable is dangerous. The predators will pounce. That is the legacy of trauma and abuse.

  It's not being hard on myself, it's being hard on Cricket who never learned a better way to experience and work through emotions. 

  I am grateful the Lord has unlocked my heart and enabled me to experience deep and intense emotion. The emotional world is a far richer experience than I ever thought possible because the sensitive child has matured into a sensitive adult. It's why I know heartbreak is a real thing: it feels as though your heart is being torn in two and the physical pain of this runs from hips to shoulders. Without having felt this pain, there would be no place for healing to begin.

  So Lord, today I give you Cricket's emotional pain: the shutting down, the utter loneliness, shame, fear, guilt, resentment, anger, distrust, shock...but most of all I give you her acceptance of a burden that never, ever should have been put on a child's shoulders. Please, take this burden from us, O Lord, my Abba Father, because we are terribly tired of carrying it. In Jesus' name I pray. AMEN!

  PS: It's much later because I sat on this post for a couple of hours trying to decide whether or not to share. The tears came and with them, release. 

  I am also left with deep gratitude for the tremendous healing that has happened as I have leaned into Jesus' perfect love. Panic attacks used to be a daily event.

  There's another burden I'd like to lay at the foot of the cross...the fear of losing control and trust me, a panic attack is control going out the window..so while I can hide it, it takes every ounce of strength to do so. Lord, forgive me when I feel it's up to me to stop this "nonsense" because, truth be told, there's no stopping it when it happens. 

  Help me be patient. Help me not get so angry. Help me forgive the teachers whose lessons forged the chains that bind. Help me finally accept the limitations and effects of living with complex PTSD. Help me find grace and peace. Most of all, help me reach out for help, to say the words, "I am in trouble," when the panic/overwhelm starts to gather momentum. In Your Name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

Yet Again

  "He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; for He will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease." Psalm 91:2-3

  Another round of med reduction was finished a week ago. It's the one for anxiety that can potentially cause permanent neurological damage. My doctor is on board which is wonderful. There's only one more round to go before I am off it completely. That will have to wait for spring because this round of reductions has been difficult.

  Lowering the dose is the easy part. The body adapting to it is what is kicking up a storm.

  It was all I could do to get through church. Being on worship meant an early start to get set up and practice: organized and noisy chaos. 

  In the brief time between practice and the service, I avoided going into the crowd who were gathered for morning coffee and conversations. The anxiety was gathering momentum. Up on stage, right before the service started, the tears and shakes started. 

  Hyper vigilance mode was full on which means the smallest of noises gets amplified, the slightest movement has the ole body gearing up to flee the tiger. There's a lot of noise and movement in a gathering of people. And even though I knew there was no real threat, when the automatic brain gets going, it rarely listens to reason.

  On stage, there was no way to escape. I grabbed my music stand as a grounding object, focusing on the cool, smooth metal. I stopped looking at the crowd. Playing helped, too, as a focus other than the rising panic. There was lots of counting involved.

  It took a while to pack up everything before being able to grab my kit and get out of there. I know I talked to a couple of people but I have no idea what was said. It's hard to concentrate over the inner screaming of "RUN!"

  In hindsight, I could have left the packing up to others and maybe that's something I need to pray about because I am sure it would have been just fine to have done so.

  It was a long drive home. The six minutes felt like hours. A car passing the opposite direction would create a startle reflex. Good thing there was a road in front of me to focus on. Good thing I live in the country where there weren't that many cars.

  It took the rest of the day to recover and figure out why this had happened. The day before had been busy. We had gone shopping to numerous stores. While I enjoyed it at the time, I need to be mindful of not doing so much in a day. The primal brain gets overstimulated. 

  I also hadn't slept very well and woke to a world that was slightly surreal and loud. Yah...yellow alert had been ordered from someone else in command.

  Sunday was the overload point.

  My friend says I am terribly hard on myself about the panic attacks. What I think happens in the aftermath is a massive wave of grief sweeps over my heart. I am angry. I want to deny I have a problem. The bargaining, acceptance and depression are there, too. It's a lot of emotion to contend with at once.

  The rest of Sunday was spent in recovery mode to give my mind and body a chance to calm down. By bed time, the world wasn't quite so loud. 

  I had a good sleep last night: nearly ten hours. This sort of thing is exhausting. However, the body still isn't ready to turn off the high gear. The hum of the fridge sounds like a freight train! 

  Waking up again in yellow alert mode had me panicking about being late to eat breakfast. Yah...when there are no tigers, the mind will create them. Just in case there are some hiding in the long grass. 

  I sat on the side of the bed and prayed:

  "God is with me. Jesus is with me. The Holy Spirit is with me."

  That's way better than holding on to a music stand for dear life.

   

Further Realisations

   "But I, the Lord, search all hearts and examine secret motives." Jeremiah 17:10

  Many ghosts have been stirred up: echoes of the past. They are a noisy bunch, reminding me of missed opportunities, reminding me of the decades of silence...ironic, that, how noisy silence can become.

  So I have no idea where today's writing will go. Lord, I surrender the keyboard to You...

  Let's start with a small confession. Yesterday's blog has left me rather uneasy. Cricket is waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under our feet because yesterday was a day of standing up for myself. Grown up me knows it was the right thing to do. 

  Why is this so hard? 

  I know the answer. The ghosts do, too. I wish they'd just shut up.

  Many years ago, I had a series of three appointments with a psychiatrist. This was before the Lord blessed me with a really good one who has supported me for years; one who is very, very careful using any sort of medication. 

   At the time, my medication had been changed in the hospital so these three appointments were simply follow up with the sole purpose of monitoring the situation as the dosage was slowly increased. The point behind follow up is in case there are any adverse side effects.

  The newly prescribed antidepressant had the extremely unpleasant side effect of causing suicidal ideation. More irony and is not uncommon in antidepressants. It was bad. It was constant to the point I was reluctant to slice a piece of cheese, afraid the knife would turn on me. This was one of the nicer ideas. 

  I told him about this and his response was to say I simply had to get used to it. For six months I tried. Nothing changed. 

  The third and final appointment came to a close with no resolution, no change in the side effects. Increasing the dose had only made it worse. 

  The doctor scribbled his notes and without even looking at me or saying a word, pointed his finger at the door. Our ten minute session was done.

  I staggered out of the office and leaned against the wall, utterly defeated. The tears poured down my cheeks because he had reminded me I was invisible, that my needs were of no consequence and that I had no voice. 

  I bet he treated his dog far better.

 

  If memory serves me right, a few months later I was back in the hospital. Once again, due to incompatible medication. They can drive you crazy. So can the ideation when you know it isn't you!

  I wish I had gotten angry. I wish I had grabbed the doctor's notes and threw them into his face. I wish I had...I am glad I didn't. Being arrested would have only made things worse.

  But that would have meant challenging authority and that, my friends, was a bold DO NOT DO! EVER!

  Lord, I will choose to forgive this doctor for the damage he caused and continues to cause. I am not alone in my experiences with him. He is still practicing and inflicting terrible pain on the vulnerable and sick.

  While I am still terribly angry at the injustice, I am also aware of how much I continue to justify his treatment: his culture's attitudes towards women, he was burnt out, he was having a bad day, he was overworked...maybe he had a poor sleep the night before...maybe he had to use the bathroom...

  It's what I do. It's what lets people continue to treat me with no respect. I let them think it's okay by telling myself it's okay. 

  So that's why today I am unsettled. There's a whole lot of unexpressed anger simmering beneath the surface. The hot, glowing embers of silence are waiting to be fanned into a full on maelstrom of flames.

  This is not healthy.

  Lord? Help me understand the line in the sand. Help me understand when it is okay to turn over tables. Help me understand where and when the other cheek is to be offered. Help me overcome the fires. In Your most precious and Holy Name I pray. AMEN!

God is Good

  "I (the Lord) have not sent these prophets, yet they run around claiming to speak for Me. I have given them no message, yet they go on prophesying." Jeremiah 23:21

  He is good indeed!

  It's early and dark outside. I don't often wake up so soon but it was a restless night with fitful dreams. Moments of wakefulness were full of unspoken words, the kind not said because...well, because I have a huge flaw. 

  I find it very hard to stand up for myself. You see, I don't want to inflict pain on anyone else. I know what it is to be hurt. I don't want my words to come from that place of hurt or anger. The problem with this is that my silence ends up poisoning my heart because silence is the fertile ground for bitterness. 

  I have much to learn about what a healthy relationship looks like because, until recently, none of them were. Some of them still aren't but for a multitude of reasons, those people are part of my life. 

  Thank you, Lord, for helping me discern next steps in these situations.

  Some days, it feels as though I am about to explode. Today is one of them. I just want to smash and tear and destroy. All because of a couple of comments on the blog. The one I deleted contained one word, "die." It was written over and over and over. It echoes what someone said to me in anger a week or so ago, "You're so nasty, you should just kill yourself!"

  That jewel was in response to me enforcing some boundaries they didn't like. They have no idea what it took to do so but, based on their response, I doubt they even care.

  The person I was standing with encouraged me to walk away, "Because you don't need to hear this."

  Yah, I didn't.

  I don't understand why or how people can say something like this to anyone. As for the hurting person who posted the comment, there is safety in anonymity, isn't there? As much as I am curious to know who wrote it, I know God knows and that is sufficient.

  I will walk away.

  There's a great deal of hesitance in writing about the next comment following, "Doin' the Work." but I feel it needs to be addressed. 

  Anonymous spoke about making peace by going to someone and asking them to forgive you for hurting them and offing forgiveness for how they hurt you. 

  Today is such a day.

  I forgive you for the hurt caused by the dismissive term, "inner sentiment," used to define the deep, spiritual healing found through expressing forgiveness (and repentance I might add) before God. 

 

  It's very sad that you have been hurt. Are you waiting for someone to say they are sorry? Maybe there's a reason they haven't. Have you asked them? Have you asked them why they walked away? Can you find the place in your heart to forgive them anyways?

  I am sorry for asking these things on such a public forum but I have no idea who you are. I am only deeply reassured in the knowledge that God knows you and that's all that matters.

  And I am guilty of doing the same thing: waiting, hoping, someone would say they were sorry for what they did to me. Releasing my expectations of others is a work in progress. Every. Single. Day.

  Which also brings me back to my huge flaw of not standing up for myself. Chances are, they have no idea how much pain they caused. And that, my friends, is on me.

  Lord, hear my prayer. Thank You for Jesus because we need Him more than ever. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

Doin' the Work

   "Teach me Your ways, O Lord, that I may live according to Your truth!" Psalm 86:11

  A friend asked me what "doing the work" actually means. They made me pause for thought because I'd never really put this concept into definitive terms. So this morning, while salsa is simmering away on the stove, it seems like a good idea to explain what this means to me.

  It all started the moment I asked the Lord to not let me be bitter about all the things that had happened in my life and to my life. It was my very first prayer as a believer.

  Bitterness is the devil's poison. It consumes all the good things, all the blessings the Lord so freely gives because it blinds us to them all. I admit, at times, bitterness has a way of creeping in but only for a moment, a season if you will. I've discovered that in talking/writing/praying about how I am feeling, there's a release as I come to terms with the things which made me feel this way in the first place.

  Doing the work requires honesty with God. There are no bad feelings He cannot soothe, no pain He cannot heal. However, being honest with God means we need to be honest with ourselves, too. This is not always a bad thing although the enemy of our souls delights in making sure we only focus on the shortcomings of our humanity, the sins we have committed, the harm we have done to others. The devil doesn't want us to see all of God's blessings that make us special. he definitely doesn't want us to embrace the forgiveness Jesus has waiting for us. We only need to ask.

  My heart's desire is to become the woman God ordained me to be at the dawn of time. He has taught me to forgive. He has given me grace when I cannot find it in my heart. 

  If memory serves me, in the book, The Shack, God talks about forgiveness as taking our hands off someone else's throat. It's not about them, it's about and for our own peace.

  It's why the Lord teaches us to forgive over and over and over again. Each time we forgive or even make the choice to do so, our death grip on someone else loosens and we are freed. Letting go of a need for vengeance or justice is one of the hardest things to do but hanging on to them is a breeding ground for bitterness when we feel neither is happening. 

   In God's time, it will. We may never see it or know about it. I've learned to be okay with this after having many a prayerful conversation with Jesus about it all. At least, I try to be okay with it.

  (I just want to say that if someone is a danger to a child or has harmed a child or if personal physical safety or even life is in danger, please, get in touch with the authorities immediately! Abuse in any form is utterly unacceptable.)

  Giving ourselves space and time is important, too. Wounds are incredibly complex. While I have often found healing in one area surrounding a specific event, the Lord will frequently have me revisit the memories because there's more to it than simply a one and done. So patience is important. It's the sister of surrender.

  Now, surrender isn't because we have been defeated, not at all! The best way to think about it is as if someone came over for dinner. Their plate is filled at the stove, it's taken to the table and set before them. It doesn't matter if the plate has a chip on it. (Smile...I like this visual. Can you imagine if the plate you were offering was given to Jesus? I don't think He'd care one bit that the green beans were overdone.)

  So we offer the plate and in return we are filled. That's surrender, too, making space to be filled.

  Doing the work is also nurturing gratitude and expressing it. Sounds a bit like a cliche but it isn't. Prayers of gratitude help us get outside of our pain, our struggles. Being thankful makes the hard stuff come easier.

  Doin' the work also involves community. Sometimes, the hurts are just too big to unravel on our own. But if we are willing to find healing, it may take the involvement of a therapist or group to help understand the impact of those experiences. It might take some time to find who or where that is. There are many options available to anyone looking for support. Don't be afraid, either, of recognizing when it isn't the right fit. God has something better ahead.

  People who have experienced similar things have taught me a great deal about the impact of abuse and trauma on every aspect of my life. 

  I know well from experience that fear is the greatest obstacle. Curiosity and desire will kick it to the curb.  

  I've had to put on the brakes every now and then because sometimes, it can be more than I can handle. Sometimes it takes time to gather up enough courage to face what needs to be faced. That's okay. 

  I also pause to let all I've learned sink in because it takes time to digest a new understanding or to allow the wounds time to heal. That's part of why my blog isn't something that is written every day. 

  As long as I am on the earth, this journey will continue. There is no timeline. No deadline. No final grade. There is no one pressuring me to "get over it." I simply want to. 

  There are some things that have happened which had such a profound impact that complete healing may only happen when the Lord calls me home. I find it hard to accept some days but nevertheless, these things I give to Jesus because in Him, anything is possible.

   The greatest motivator for "doing the work" is having the most important lesson of all reinforced every time I dip my toes into the Black River. I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God is with me. He has always been there, even in the darkest depths of the water. 

  I want to close out today with acknowledging that doing the work involves prayer. A lot of it be it visual, vocal, song, silence, waiting, or giving thanks for the sunshine. Prayer is the foundation of a healing relationship with God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Prayer is the key that unlocks the truth. And that, my friends, is something to be thankful for!

  

  

  

A Cold One

   "A person without self-control is like a city with broken-down walls." Proverbs 25:28

  Thank You, Lord, for leading me to this verse. It is perfect in every way.

  The subaudible had its way with me yesterday. I found myself reacting to a situation which ignited the automatic responses which were mastered in the years I lived with a husband. 

  If the subaudible had a smell, it would be the aroma of whiskey, beer and manure caked, leather boots.

  If it had a sound, it would be the click and serpent's hiss of an opening beer can.

  Years ago, I went to a presentation regarding Eye Movement Therapy. It was held at the local Legion, the place where war veterans gather to drink. Even though it was in an environment I wanted no part of, the draw of learning about a way to heal trauma was far too important. 

  In the background, the Legion was preparing for opening. The tinkling, musical chatter of beer bottles, while harmless in and of itself, triggered a massive surge in my fight/flight response. The person doing the lecture was rather taken aback when I shared what was happening. She said my trauma was far too complicated for EMT to be much help and that I needed far more therapy than what this technique could offer.

  Over the years, I've learned there are no short cuts. Ya gotta do the work.

  I've also learned that the Lord is always there to help me see the way out. He is my greatest and most trustworthy therapist.

  I find myself rather disheartened in realizing just how quickly the subaudible can usurp my self-control. The smell of beer, the sound of a can opening, opens the floodgates. The old ways learned to survive the onslaught of anger and nastiness which were attached to these sounds takes over. All the things I did to appease the drinker smother the ability to even think about doing something else. The urgent need for survival also disconnects the thinking brain to allow the automatic mechanisms complete control. 

  I think our subconscious has no concept of time. It's sole purpose is for survival and it will cause us to do anything towards that goal. Even if the surviving is done in unhealthy and unsustainable ways. Yes, submissiveness helped me survive the long, dark years with an alcoholic. But in doing so, I lost myself.

  Even though I don't drink, alcohol made me its slave all the same.

  It's safe to say I lost control yesterday. Not in a violent, explosive way because that isn't in my nature but by assuming the posture of submission and appeasement. I behaved like a whipped dog. I didn't even realize that's what I was doing until today. I just knew something had gone terribly wrong.

  Oh, Lord, this pattern of behaviour is so deeply ingrained that I find myself incredibly disheartened. My marriage ended twenty years ago but that old life, the old ways, the un-Godly ways, still have the ability to hijack the present. And that's the hardest thing about all of this.

  Will I ever be free? 

  Help me, my Lord, find my way out.

  

  

  

Another World

  "All the heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display His craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make Him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard." Psalm 19:1-3

  The harvest is under way. A pan full of tomatoes from the garden, celery, peppers, garlic and fresh basil is roasting in the oven. The best and easiest way to make spaghetti sauce! Cook it hot and leave it undisturbed until the veggies start to char. Once most of the water is roasted away, it all gets pureed with an immersion blender. The easiest couple of hours where the oven does all the work.

  The black currents are frozen in bags, waiting for the last few berries to ripen. When they are all picked, it's time to make black currant syrup AKA Ribena. It's a delicious addition to ginger ale or club soda. Just in time, too, the last bottle from last year is nearly gone.

  It was wonderful to be away again for a couple of days to visit another friend of my friend. They live beside the Gull River about two hours north of here. It's a beautiful area where the multicolored granite of the Canadian Shield erupts from the ground. The shimmering, twisted layers of pink, gray, red and black are offset by the deep greens of cedar and pine forests. Occasionally, a flash of sky and shadow appears in the numerous lakes, ponds and streams which dot the land. 

  The Gull river runs quickly, deep and smooth. The water was warm and a pleasure to swim in to get away from the heat and humidity of a mid-summer's day. 

  The variety of pebbles along the river bank is utterly fascinating. No color is forgotten or missed. The silty sand which wraps your toes in softness sparkles in the rippling sunlight of the shallows: a light show of stars beneath your feet. 

  I also heard a bat! It wasn't the echo location sounds heard as a child. It was more of a squawk. There were two of them flying close together so I figured it was one telling the other to back off their air space. They did sound rather annoyed. If bats hear sounds we don't hear, this must have been a very, very loud objection. I couldn't help but smile.

  This mini holiday leaves me with much to be thankful for.

  I am thankful for the childlike awe and wonder that leaves me transfixed by a pebble held in the palm of my hand. It is never the same twice no matter which way it is turned.

  I am thankful for the blessings of the river. For being cooled off. 

  I am thankful when my heart dances with the morning mist.

  I am thankful to have heard a Green Heron's cry. I'd never heard one before.

  I am thankful to have learned how to be still and free my senses. These joyful times and places become postcard memories, saved for those days when the Black River runs deep.

  

  I am thankful the Lord gave me a gift of awareness on so many different levels. I am thankful, in such precious moments, I can forget my troubles and get lost in God's most wonderful creation. At times, I can almost hear singing in the ripple of water, and in the leaves stirred by the faintest of wind's whispers..."Praise and glory and honour be to God, the One who made us all!"

  AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

Processing

   "So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus. And because you belong to Him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death." 

Romans 8:1-2

  I spent the heat of Tuesday afternoon creating this collage. It's a big one, filling two11x14 inch pages. It was a time investment of several hours of magazine browsing and worth every second.

  I am glad I took the time because the art always helps when thoughts are too big for my brain; when the ideas leap into my consciousness far too quickly to make sense of them. It helps me slow down and catch my breath.

  It always amazes me how these come together, how random magazines contain everything I need to express a visual prayer. It's a subaudible language of a different kind learned through a walk with Jesus.

   In the midst of it all, there are two things which stood out, the keys to the whole piece. They are the two children weighed down by heavy, overloaded backpacks.

  The one on the left, with need as their burden, faces a storm of confusing, conflicting lessons about their place in the world. While it seems they carry the weight easily, backpacks have a way of getting heavier the longer they are carried.

  But then there is always hope as personified by the child on the right.

  "Love rejoices in the truth."

  No matter how heavy our burdens, no matter how long we have carried them, no matter what is in the pack, truth will set us free. We need not be afraid or ashamed to give it all to God. Truth can only be found through honesty.

  As I assembled the chosen images, I developed a richer understanding of how need has driven my choices, the good and the bad. Anyone in marketing knows this is the driving force behind everything. At its very foundation is the need to be loved and accepted.

  But all marketing ads contain a whole slew of fine print underneath the huge picture of happy people who have used their product. That's where the adverse side effects and warnings are written in tiny, tiny print with the sole purpose of absolving any sort of liability by the advertiser.

  The fine print is the subaudible of the advertising world.

  Advertisers know if we are unhappy, we will look to their products for fulfillment so they work so hard to help us hate our selves, our lives, our homes, and even the people in it. They feed our sense of inadequacies with a rich diet of must have's, must do's and must be's. 

  

  The hard part is not falling for it. Especially if the lessons of the media have been reinforced through relationships, upbringing and culture. The subaudible talks to itself, bolstering the toxic words it never says.

  Ah, but if we listen carefully, we can hear it. We can hear it when we look in a mirror. Chances are the mirror is not kind. 

  Who taught you this? What happened in the past that reinforced this idea? Where did you learn what beautiful is? Why do you believe it?

  I'll steal the "when." 

  When I give it to God, the subaudible will be silenced and I can look upon my reflection and see the person God sees. 

  "Love rejoices in the truth."

  Oh...wow..."beauty" as we know it is a man-made construct! 

  Now doesn't that idea rock my world...

  

  As I read through what was written, as much as I was speaking with you, dear reader, I was speaking to Cricket, the child who has carried a heavy back pack for a long, long time. 

  And you, dear child, are far more beautiful than a mirror could ever show. You always were.

  

  

  

  

Complexities

   "So letting your sinful nature control your mind leads to death. But letting the Sprit control your mind leads to life and peace." Romans 8:6

  God is good. Always. 

  I was blessed to be away for a bit. It was a much needed break but a week away in summer means the gardens had a chance to get ahead of me. The harvest has been early and plentiful. For that I am most grateful. Few things taste better than a ripe tomato warmed by the sun!

  During my time away, there were many open and candid conversations with my friend and the people we were staying with. At some point I made the following comment, "Values shape beliefs. Beliefs shape our values." My head nearly exploded as the ramifications of this idea lit the gray matter up in a display that would put fireworks to shame.

  I've been mulling it over ever since; this circle within circle interconnectedness of identity, culture, familial and generational traditions, experiences, and finally gender. These influences on our understanding of our place in the world are very complex but they can also be conflicting. This morning I need to add truth to the mix because truth is influenced by our beliefs and values.

  God is good. He blessed us with His Spirit for times such as these because human truth is not always right or even remotely true! So how on earth do we discover what is true? How can we measure the validity of the truths we are taught?

  Yesterday came with yet another fireworks explosion. The way to truth is to find the love. If what we value or believe is absent of love, chances are it is a lie.

  Simple, yes?

  However, as a human being, I know my own understanding of love is broken. So how on earth am I ever going to unravel that which needs unravelling?

  Baby steps. 

  For example, if I believe a woman is worth less than a man, it means I don't value women the same way as men. Since I don't value women the same as men, it means I believe they are less than. See? Circles within circles!

  When I look at this idea through a lens of simple kindness, one of the many facets of love, it is not even remotely kind so therefore it is not true. 

  I can hear my culture, upbringing and experiences rebelling against the idea that women are as valuable as men.

  The inaudible voices can be very loud at times. And I say inaudible because no one ever told me directly that women are worth less than men but I learned this lesson well all the same.

  This is the hard part: letting the inaudible speak regardless of what it has to say. It can be ugly and hate filled and angry. But, as long as the inaudible remains in the shadows, Love's truth is unable to give it the peace it is really crying out for. Shutting it out doesn't provide space for forgiveness or repentance. 

  Forgiveness and repentance are acts of love and kindness.

  If I choose to allow the Spirit to grow my understanding of pure love, the Jesus love and way, it means I am willing to replace the rotten cornerstones which have been the foundation of my values and beliefs. Because you know one of the things I value the most?

  Truth, as seen through the eyes of Jesus. 

  PS. "But, as long as the inaudible remains in the shadows, Love's truth is unable to give it the peace it is really crying out for." 

  This sentence was added in during one of the edits. Immediately after writing it, I felt a shift in the fabric of my being and understanding.

  The inaudible is not my enemy. 

  The voice belongs to Cricket, crying out to be heard and set free of the toxic values and beliefs that were heaped on her tiny head and heart. It's all she's ever wanted.

  You know something, Cricket? It's all I want, too, for both of us.

  Lord Jesus, hear our prayer. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

Intersectionality

 "I (Paul) pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you may know what is the hope of His calling." Ephesians 1:18

  The Oxford dictionary defines intersectionality as the following: The interconnected nature of social categorizations such as race, class and gender, regarded as creating overlapping and interdependent systems of discrimination or disadvantage." 

  Clear as mud. Except the other morning I was up earlier than normal. 

  A dead ash tree towers above my neighbor's yard. Bleached and skeletal branches seem to touch the sky. Three birds had perched high in its branches to catch the first warming rays of the sun. A robin trilled his wake up call to everyone. A Mourning Dove grumbled about the early rise. The third member of the trio was a tiny Goldfinch, dressed in brilliant yellow livery, who trilled his welcome to the day. It was a chorus fit for the grandest stage in the grandest city in all the world.

  The three birds sang for a long time. None was threatened or angry about the other bird sitting so close. I wished...I wished people could be more like them.

  I thought about the birds, how each is unique and beautiful in their own way. I thought about the tree as being the source of what brings them together. They didn't fight over it. Each bird had found a place uniquely suited to their size because a Dove could never sit where a Goldfinch can!

  

  Intersectionality...The three songbirds have many disadvantages in common despite their differences in appearance and size. They are prey for cats or foxes. There are bigger birds in the sky who will kill them. Their offspring are extremely vulnerable until they can fly. Weather and the elements can be lethal to adults and chicks alike. 

  

  I am trying to understand a very complicated social construct created by discrimination in all its forms. As an English speaking, educated, white person in North America I have distinct advantages or privileges based solely on these things. In fact, I got these things with very few or no obstacles because I was white.

  However, as a woman with a disability I have also been subjected to discrimination and prejudice solely because of these things. I can't change the obvious signs of my gender but I am able to hide my disability so most people don't even know about it. (Officially, it's called "Passing.") However, I hear what is said about those of us with these sorts of challenges all the time.

  Intersectionality is when there is cross over discrimination between various areas of prejudice. It's the dead ash tree connecting everything.

  My dead ash tree is the culture I was raised in which taught me there was a hierarchy of gender and skin color. I am trying to cut the thing down. Much of it has already fallen thanks to Jesus but I will be the first to admit, I have a long way to go and a great deal to learn.

  I have been challenged to fight racism by the racially oppressed. Yet, how do I fight something that has been part of human nature since the Neanderthals were wiped off the face of the earth by humankind as we know it? How do I fight something that set tribe against tribe? Culture against culture? Religion against religion? How do I fight something the devil has forged in the human heart for generation upon generation? How do I prevent this generation from teaching the next ones to hate?

  Maybe I need to sit in someone else's tree for a while. Maybe I need to invite them to sit in mine. Maybe we can find a common enemy then. Maybe then we can work together to change how we view ourselves and each other based on the lies we have learned.

  Maybe...