Chavah

Be Patient, My God, with me.

My reality is shifting faster than I can tap-dance. Who will I be at the end of this scramble? What IS the plan? I suspect that I am better off knowing less, and trusting more.

I am afraid of the thoughts that I think, and the things that I believe. I am ashamed of my own cowardice, which looks the woman in the mirror in the face, and says, “You can’t think that thought. If you think that thought, you will never be the same, again. If you fully realize that reality, you can never go back.”

And yet, I am being called into the light of reality, and truth. Scratch that. I am being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the glaring light of a really messed up reality. My head longs for the sand, but somehow, it has turned to concrete, and rejects my advances. My eyes are squeezed shut, my ears stopped up by my own fingers, and STILL, I hear the Voice, because it comes from within. “You have always seen these things. It’s time to stop hiding from them.”

I am horrified every time someone tells me how much they respect my honesty, my transparency, my lack of guile. If they only knew. I am only as honest with you as I am with myself, and there are vast tracks of the land of myself into which I have not yet dared to tread.

My prayer is, “Not yet, not so fast!”

The Voice says, “The Telos of all things is At Hand. Because of this, be sober and diligent in prayer.”

And I beg, “Please, please, may I only believe the comfortable things? May I only face the Truth that costs me little to nothing?”

And even as I ask, I know the Truth. The answer is, “No.”

The Truth will cost me Everything. It demands my all, my unswerving loyalty. My head is turned toward the field. My hand is reaching toward the plow. I know that this is a one-way decision. There is no turning back. So, I dance my tap-dance, one step forward, two steps back, weaving side-to-side, and beg the Voice, the Hound, to be patient.

The Facts are Not.

I don’t believe in facts, or objective reality. They don’t independently exist. I am not impressed with your empirical evidence, or what the most recent research shows to be “true.” All this to say, I am neither an Empiricist, nor a Materialist. There are realities that we simply cannot fathom.

I do NOT believe in the scientific method as a valid way to arrive at TRUTH, though it is a very useful way to collect knowledge and information that leads to greater technology. Basically, our manipulation of nature increases our ability to manipulate nature.

Science is useful. It is NOT all-knowing. Yesterday’s big breakthrough is today’s embarrassment. (Trans-fatty acids, anyone?) And yet, over and over, the “facts” are presented to me, via advertisements, articles, well-meaning friends and family, as though they are unchanging and should somehow hold sway over my decisions.

I have never lived this way. I don’t intend to start now. The facts, and what is “scientifically possible” have just never factored into my personal reality. For better or worse, I live by Faith in the Unseen. So far, it’s worked out for me pretty well. If you want to change my mind, or to teach me, don’t bother with a list of statistics, because I will simply stare blankly at you, wondering, “who funded THAT study, and what are they trying to sell me, exactly?”

Research, not so very long ago, showed that women shouldn’t breastfeed.
An empirical, scientific approach to childbirth has us reporting skyrocketing c-section rates, and one of the worst maternal-fetal outcome rates in the developed world.
Studies once showed that smoking is good for your health.
Coffee has been shown to both save your life, and to kill you, depending upon who paid for the research, and whether or not they love coffee.

Frankly, science, or empirical evidence is subject to the will of the observer. I have taken quizzes and surveys in the fairly recent past that are obviously intended to manipulate me into saying what the researcher wants to report as statistically “true.”

A couple of examples, paraphrased from memory:

“Do you think that the UN should come on American soil, and rob us of our Second Amendment Rights?”

“If a man gives a woman an expensive engagement ring, and asks to marry her, in the hopes of having sex with her, is it sex for money?”

I’m not deceived by this rhetoric, and you shouldn’t be, either.

Have you ever noticed that scriptures, no matter what religion you adhere to, are written as stories? This world, and our life in it, is not a grand experiment. It is a love story. I choose to live life in the narrative; I live amongst miracles.

When I was 6 years old, my mother was murdered, in Canada, where I was a citizen. Her murderers produced a “Will,” leaving me to their custody. My American aunt and uncle fought for me, and were awarded “temporary custody.” I never went back to Canada, or those people.

As a child, I dragged one leg, then learned to walk crookedly, and finally, to fake a “normal” walk. My left leg, it turns out, was an inch shorter than the right. Due to forcing myself to walk unnaturally, I had chronic pain in that leg throughout my life. There were days, in college, that I just couldn’t face the walk to classes, and I stayed in my dorm. Eight years ago, a completely crazy-appearing evangelist from Africa prayed for my leg, and it grew. I felt it happen. And I don’t hurt anymore. I hike.

In college, my husband and I set aside conventional wisdom, and started our family our senior year. Our original plan, and the advice we received right and left, was to wait until we finished our educations, and paid off our loans. Today, and 6 kids later, we have never suffered want. We haven’t collected the toys that are advertised on television, but that’s okay, ’cause we don’t have cable, so we don’t know what we’re missing.

I have given birth to 6 children without a single medical intervention. I believe in my body’s ability to do more than even I think it can. My first birth was long, and complicated, and we made decisions that, according to a scientific view, should have guaranteed my death. (I don’t recommend those choices, but I am grateful to be alive.)

Almost 2 years ago, our marriage was in crisis. Today, we are in love, and more importantly, we are best friends, because we believed that we could overcome the statistics, and that WE were worth fighting for.

Today, I believe that I can be whole, and healthy, and strong. I believe that God designed my body to heal, and to overcome challenges. I don’t care what the statistics show. I don’t care that the science claims that my illnesses are chronic and progressive. My experience has taught me that I am growing stronger every day. I have no reason to believe that I will stop healing. I believe that my Creator knows better than the scientists, no matter how well-meaning those scientists may be, and that if I earnestly seek YHWH’s wisdom, it will be given to me, including how to be whole.

Your reality is not my reality, and mine is not yours. But we all want to believe that our truth is The TRUTH. I see this all the time with my children. Two children, in the same place, doing the same thing, at the same time, and having the same conversation, will remember it in two different ways. They are BOTH telling the truth, because our reality is not objective. MOST of what they experience is actually their own thoughts and emotions during the event. They will argue endlessly for their point of view, because to them, it simply IS. Like my children, I would rather die fighting, and believing, than laying down, and settling for someone else’s reality. I have the maturity, however, to realize that mine is not the only reality. Reality is BIG.

Please, don’t bore me with facts. They are too small. The Truth is in the Story.

Stop Whining, Already!!!!

There are two women inside of me. One is an overcomer, who fights her way over and through any obstacle to seize victory and joy, wearing them as a breastplate and crown. The other is a pessimist, a conspiracy theorist, who thinks that the universe and everyone in it is against her. Every day, I carefully choose to feed the Overcomer, and starve the Pessimist.

Some people make the opposite choice, becoming more and more negative over time. Sometimes I wonder if part of starving my pessimist means asking them to knock it off, or leave me alone! Our companions shape us; we adopt their language, and their mannerisms. We become convinced of their worldview.

I’ve eliminated several human black holes from my life. I can’t withstand their energy and faith-sucking abilities. Others are on the block, awaiting the axe, because they JUST DON’T GET IT!

Here’s the deal. Every day, I see, hear, meet people who are AMAZING. They rise above their circumstances. They embrace the blessings that are reserved for those who overcome. They love, they laugh, and they cry. They press on.

And every day, I see blessed, healthy, intelligent people who have EVERYTHING, and still complain. They make me want to tear my ears off so I can’t hear them, to gouge my eyes out so that I can’t read their incessant moaning.

I appears to me that happiness, gratefulness and optimism are reserved for those who have endured.

The most sexually well-adjusted women I know, women who helped me to see my value and beauty, have endured marriages that ended due to their husbands’ infidelity. These women have overcome. I salute them.

I know cancer survivors, and people who live with devastating, chronic illnesses, who push themselves to run races, to climb mountains, and to dance. These friends have overcome. I salute them.

I know couples who have endured seasons of virtual hatred, of dead libidos, of bankruptcy, of extreme illness, and loved on. These couples have overcome. I salute them.

When I was younger, I did job training and oversight for handicapped individuals, and learned that those who fight the hardest for a job appreciate it the most. I worked in an assisted living facility, and learned that grateful people age gracefully, becoming more and more beautiful. Joyful people don’t age. They ripen.

All of these positive people amaze me. I want to be this amazing. And I think I’m on my way. I DEMAND it of myself. Failure is not an option.

I am the ultimate optimist. I’ve seen how bad life can get, so I know how good it really is. I had a teacher in high school once ask me, “Why do you compliment yourself?” to which I replied, “Well, I’m certainly not going to wait around for you to do it!” I had already learned that she was not an optimist. One should never wait around for something positive to come out of someone negative. It’s pointless.

And in case you think I’ve never suffered, think again.

I’ve been abandoned, orphaned, exported, rejected, abused, molested, assaulted, manipulated, and scorned. I’ve been chronically ill, perpetually malnourished, and clinically depressed. I was raised in a graceless, fatalistic religion, and taught that I wouldn’t live past the age of 24, because the Anti-Christ was going to take over the world any day now, and then Jesus would come rapture us all away in the year 2000. I’ve been slandered, and libeled, and misunderstood. I’ve internalized others’ hatred, and made it my own. I’ve pondered the headache relief offered by a bullet to the brain.*

But I choose to remember the positive, and to make it my future:

I’ve been protected, hidden, imported, accepted, hugged, kissed, rewarded, pleasured, and loved. I’ve found the key to my health, and been given the resources and skills to turn it. I was raised in a religion that taught me to read the Bible, and it turns out that all that other crap isn’t even in there. I’ve been praised, rewarded, and unconditionally supported. I’ve had endless opportunities presented to me, because other people saw untapped potential in me that I couldn’t even see in myself. I have overcome, and my life is blessed.

Your life is what you make it. Your challenges are steps to a brighter future. So, don’t whine at me when your legs hurt. At least you can climb!

I am alive, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Every positive thing you ever hear me say is a battle cry. This is me, demanding victory of myself, of my God, and of the Universe. Every setback has given me new growth to attain. To whom much is given, much is required. I figure that if God made me this strong, then She/He must have a really big job for me to do. Here’s to taking on LIFE, and that MORE ABUNDANTLY!

* This is not a current issue, at all. And yes, I promise to make sure my doctor reads this. It won’t be news to her.

Fighting My Inner Church Lady

(Note: This post has been modified, via the comments. Sometimes, things are much better than they seem! In my experience, this is USUALLY the case….)

I went to church this morning. Please forgive the jumbled blog post. I’m still recovering.

My family and I arrived an hour late, and then my “things must always be as I expect them to be” son had a near-total breakdown over the fact that our messy crate of McCall notebooks, pens, crayons, and child-amusing toys had disappeared from its former place in the back of the sanctuary.

I can’t blame anyone for removing the eyesore. We had been absent for months.

Going back, even for half a service, was much harder than I anticipated. I was clobbered by anxiety and fear as I combed my hair, and changed out of my Betty Boop, “Naughty Girls get Nice Gifts” t-shirt and short black skirt into jeans and a conservatively cut sweater. The sweater was, for the record, bright orange. I still had my spark, but not my sense of humor, it seems.

The fact is that I am afraid of church ladies.

There, I said it. That being said, I know that even feeling that way is a judgmental attitude on my part. The very label, “church ladies,” hearkens back to a not-nice-at-all SNL skit. And, the fact is that a couple of my dearest friends (women, even!) were there this morning, and they have continued to be my friends, and to maintain those relationships whether or not I show up to the same building that they do on Sunday mornings.

Our pastor hugged me, bright orange sweater and all. He would have hugged me in my Betty Boop T-shirt, I’m pretty sure. I’m also pretty sure that he would have been answering to some church ladies if he had. But, now I’m judging. Again.

I judge people whom I perceive as being judgmental, and this makes me judgmental. And then I judge myself. What a mess I turn out to be!

When we showed up, our pastor was preaching about who the Accuser of the Brethren is, and not being like him. He was encouraging humility, and being willing to get kicked in the teeth when you get down low, and humble yourself. He spoke about how often being a Christian in America seems to be all about accusing others, and how wrong that is. He encouraged us to love unconditionally.

A few people did reach out. I appreciated each one, and then a few of the ladies beat a hasty exit, refusing to even glance in my direction. I expected that, and coming in the first place was an act of humbling myself. This afternoon, my teeth hurt. There’s at least a chance that they each had a pressing engagement, and simply had to leave. But I’m a bit over-sensitive at church, and a smile and a wave on your way out the door doesn’t take any time at all.

The fact is, though, that they probably have no idea what an effort it is for me to show up on Sunday morning. They have no idea that they have the power to hurt me. They’re running to protect themselves. They run because my family’s continued absence has made them feel rejected, judged and scorned. At least, I’d like to believe that. It hurts less than the alternative theories I could manufacture.

I have a long history of making church ladies (and men) VERY uncomfortable.

As a teen whose physical dimensions resembled a Barbie Doll’s, I listened to my pastor rail against young women who tempt men with their bodies, and I learned to walk with my shoulders hunched. I learned to wear baggy clothes until I grew up and away from them.

As a recent college grad, with a degree in Classical Studies and Religion, I learned that “conservative” country churches don’t appreciate women who are educated, and have opinions. Especially about God, or childrearing.

As a young mother, I learned that nursing, even discreetly, at church will create such a maelstrom of gossip and upset amongst the women of a “liberal” church that the pastor will call you and explain that you are a terrifying woman, and you’d better stop hurting his sheep.

And as a new business-woman, who felt called to fight the colossal mess that sexual relationships and marriages in our culture and churches have become by fighting the Madonna-Whore complex with every ounce of my being, I discovered that my pastor is amazing. He’s not threatened by female sexuality, me, or what I do. He floors me.

And church ladies are still church ladies, because the face says, “we support you,” but the actions, and the several complaining calls to said pastor last summer say otherwise. Frankly, I don’t know how to respond. The women who are my friends outside of church are still that, and both their faces, and their actions agree.

“We love you.”

“We support you.”

I believe them. And I know that my pastor wants so desperately to see his whole church that way. He wants to believe that we are all loving, accepting, etc. He is NOT the Accuser of the Brethren. That’s certain. I’ve never met a more accepting, yet call-you-on-your-bullshit man in my life. And he says, “WE support you.” In my limited understanding, he’s the first pastor to really try. (Except for James Reist. Dr. Reist, who baptized our first son, is also amazing.)

I meet women every week, men too, who need someone like that in their lives. I need more people like that in my life. We all need to be loved unconditionally, and told to get our shit together, too. But the Sunday morning mask-fest, where we all pretend to be something we’re not, and complain to the pastor when someone steps out of line, is not the place to bring them.

I know that much of my discomfort at church is because, in a group so small, “several” complaining calls is significant. I know that much of it is because of my history in churches. And I know that maybe, just maybe, I am supposed to humble myself, and let them kick me in the teeth. Half of me wants to climb on stage and demand that they just get the stoning over with. (Except that I’m pretty sure things are split about down the middle, and I’d just be creating a rift so large that the community itself might disintegrate. Or maybe it’s egotism that makes me think that they care enough, either way.) The other half of me wants to run away, so that I don’t have to, once again, be the woman who makes people at church uncomfortable. None of me wants to put on my shiny happy mask, pretend that I enjoyed seeing everyone, and then call to complain to the pastor when I get home.

No, I didn’t enjoy church this morning. Yes, I could tell that my casual, honest comments to a couple of people felt like slaps in the face. The avoidance of others felt like a slap in my own. The whole experience inspired me to don my running shoes. (Of course, Aaron can be VERY persuasive. He got me to church this morning, and if he so chooses, he’ll get me there again, I’m sure.)

Yes, I knew that the friends whom I see away from church, too, were genuinely happy to see me. And my pastor gave me the world’s longest hug. He can feel me pulling back; he sees my family and I slipping away. I don’t know what to tell him. He’s doing all he can, but the entire institution of church in America seems to be at odds with him.

He’s right. Being the Accuser of the Brethren is the American way of Church. And I’m just as guilty as anyone else. I was raised in it, and I don’t know how to get free from it, except to stay away from church. But in doing so, I am judging those I leave behind. I’m deciding that they judge me. I haven’t asked them, either. As soon as the church ladies called the pastor, instead of me, I categorized them as people who don’t really love or accept me, at all. Judge not, that you be not judged? Yeah, I fail at that. Judgment, it seems, is a web, and we’re all caught in its sticky strands.

Age is Not My Enemy Anymore

You have no idea what you have done for me. Your face is still lingering in my memory.

Regal, undeniably sexy, attractive even to me, you sat at my table. Your smile was knowing, your eyes had seen much. I wanted to sit at your feet, and soak up your wisdom.

Your shoulders were held back; your head was held high. You owned the room. Your clothing was subdued, yet spoke of quality, not fads. Your hair was softly curled around your smiling face. You had nothing left to prove.

All around us, young, vibrant girls of 19, and 25, perhaps, buzzed. Their clothing was the latest fashion. Their makeup was flawless. Their figures were without a roll or stretchmark. They looked one another up, then down, comparing. They fretted, smoothed, adjusted to hide each flaw.

And you smiled at me, knowing.

We were something beyond these children.

And your smile at me was an honor.

And you changed me.

You dear woman. I love you. I wish sincerely that I had asked you for your name, for your number. But perhaps I am wrong. You have done your work, here.

And you are not alone. You are joined by others, your fellow sages, who appear to me, silently, confidently, displaying the grace that comes with age and experience. I will never look back. Like you, I will age well, like a fine, red wine. My boldness transformed to richness and complexity.

Like Sophia Loren, and other gracefully aging beauties, you have given me a reason to look forward, not back. I cannot ever be those children, again. But someday, I hope to be one of you. I am eager for that day. The day that I, like you, become regal.

Isn’t it Time We Fleeced these Wolves?

I am angry. This anger burns in me, feels like a lump in my throat, and a tremble in my core. I want to pick up the phone, and make a man cry. I want to make him sob with remorse. But he won’t. Calling him out on his lies will simply confirm his fear and hatred of women. He will wonder how my husband let me get so out of control.

He’s a liar, and a cheat. He’s an abuser, and an enabler. Tonight, I sincerely hate him, and I want to pray Psalms of vengeance at him. But I realize that this one man, this one Pastor, is just one of so very many. My anger at him is misdirected. He is WRONG, and I think he may, in fact, be evil. But he’s just a pawn. He believes his own lies. At least, Dear God in Heaven, I hope that he does, or his Evil is beyond my ability to understand.

In the Messiah’s time, Pastors were called Teachers of the law, or Pharisees. About them, he said:
For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers. –Matthew 23:4

I’ve never met this man. I do not know his name. It’s better for us both, this way.

I do know that women come to his church, and are bound in strips of legalism that tear their skin, that make them bleed until they are shells. I have watched one, vibrant woman slowly die before my eyes, assisted by her husband, supported by their pastor. I met another woman this past week into whom this pastor had just sunk his talons. Thanks to his influence, she had nearly violated her own restraining order against a dangerous man. I pray to God that I set her free. Please, dear God, don’t ever let her go back to that church!

Psalm 94 says:
20 Can a corrupt throne be allied with you—
one that brings on misery by its decrees?

These men, these pastors. Their teaching is corrupt. And I have watched them make women miserable all of my life!

Dear God! These men are why I can no longer call myself a Christian.

You brood of vipers! I will not identify myself with you! I will not follow your rules! I will NOT BE SILENT WHILE YOU CRUSH WOMEN’S SOULS!

Damn you.

Or in the words of Psalm 94, again:
1 O LORD, the God who avenges,
O God who avenges, shine forth.
2 Rise up, O Judge of the earth;
pay back to the proud what they deserve.
3 How long will the wicked, O LORD,
how long will the wicked be jubilant?
4 They pour out arrogant words;
all the evildoers are full of boasting.
5 They crush your people, O LORD;
they oppress your inheritance.
6 They slay the widow and the alien;
they murder the fatherless.

I do, I must hope and believe that there is a change on the horizon. That the men who beat women down, and bind them in self-hatred and fear for all of their lives will, finally, be exposed for the charlatans they don’t know that they are.

Judgment will again be founded on righteousness,
and all the upright in heart will follow it.–Psalm 94:15

But I cannot fight this battle by myself. I know that there are others, somewhere, who see this evil. Women who, like me, have seen the rampant infidelity rates among the clergy. Or, perhaps we should discuss the molestation?

Tonight, I’m mad because all of my life, I have watched and listened to Christian clergy support and enable abusive men. I have listened to them accuse and manipulate women into believing that they deserve to be abused, that they are Eve.

We are NOT EVE! We are Chavah! And I know, dear men in religious power, that your power is an addiction, and you’re afraid to let it go. That’s okay. Just keep telling abused women to go back to violent men. Keep lying to women about what scripture teaches, in order to secure your own, superior position in their eyes. Keep abusing that position. Just keep telling young girls that they are stumbling blocks. Make them ashamed of their beautiful curves. Just keep right on cheating on your wives, and convincing them it’s for their own good. I dare you. You have been given plenty of rope, and the noose has been forming for millennia.

I will tell them the truth. And we will rise. And Chavah will be revealed. The image of God was made flesh in TWO parts, male and FEMALE. Your religion is crippled, because you’re missing half of the picture. You’ve abandoned the Breasted one, the All-Sufficient, El Shaddai. She will be reflected. Women will see the image of God in the mirror, once again.

You can peddle your andro-centric view of Divinity for a little while longer, because this war is too big for me to win, alone.

Meanwhile, I wonder if anyone else sees. Even better, I wonder if anyone else is willing to fight. And I wonder, where are the true, courageous, good men, who could stand with us, and put a stop to the lies, once and for all?

Who will rise up for me against the wicked?
Who will take a stand for me against evildoers?—from Psalm 94

My Struggle

Here are some, random, poetic thoughts on all of the things I don’t say.

Prose, you fail me.
Straight words would be too much.
This Truth is too sharp, too quick.
You will cut them.

Poetry, I call to you.
Your curves are luscious.
I long to sink into your softness.
You will comfort.

Death, I defy you.
Chains, you will break.
Fear, I bind you.
Cage, you are empty.

Life, I bring you.
Light, you will shine.
Freedom, I share you.
Path, you are mine.

Slowly, gently, I will undress you
Truth
And they will see
Love.

God, give me the patience
The grace
The self-control
To savor that which I long to gulp.

I will drink of this cup
slowly, lest it return.
We will be free.

Insensitive

I was cruel, yesterday. I’m ashamed of myself. That wasn’t the me I want to be.

Though I am an assertive, outspoken woman, I am kind. I am an advocate. I hope to be an inspiration. When I encourage you to Be The Bitch, I am asking you to risk that label by standing up for yourself, reaching for the stars, and refusing to be “Just a Girl.” Being The Bitch is not license to be just plain mean. But I was.

I was talking to a man. A man who has offended me for years. A man who has said and done hurtful things to me. A man who has openly judged me. This is no excuse. The fact is, he was the hurting one, yesterday. And there is no excuse for kicking a man when he is down. None. And, if I’m honest, I will admit that this is probably not the first time I’ve hurt him.

Why do I do this? Why do I act out in ways that horrify all that is good and kind within me?

Insensitivity.

You see, yesterday, I put on my “game face.” I went somewhere, expecting to be hurt. I didn’t go for me. I went for my husband; I went for my children. I went to see people I’ve missed. The scared little girl inside me didn’t want to go. I fought back the bile that rises in my throat in fear several times, yesterday. So, I put on my armor. We all have armor. Mine is physical appearance, and a gracious smile.

Hair: bad hair day, put it back. Leave out some tendrils to soften my face. We can’t go looking as hardened as we’re actually trying to be, today.

Clothes: Cute and comfortable. Lose the shirt with the tiny stain. Weakness draws fire. There are no chinks in this armor.

Shoes: Designer heels. When walking through fire, do it in style, I always say.

Face: Impeccable make-up, bright smile.

I felt safe. Ish. Okay, not really. I was scared to death. But damn, I looked good. I watched my p’s and q’s. I went out of my way to be gracious and polite, all while keeping my metaphysical fists in front of my face, ready to bob and weave, to defend the scared little girl.

It was actually a nice visit. Everyone else was gracious and polite, as well. I got loads of compliments on my armor. (Perfect. Just look at the armor people, and please, whatever you do, don’t ask me about the woman underneath, because she sees the elephant in the room, and this is a day to be gracious, and polite. Everyone here has pain. Everyone here has questions, and worries, and misunderstandings. Have a cookie.)

And then I hurt my hand. I hurt it badly, and was trying VERY hard not to draw any attention to myself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to get attention for my weakness, my mistake. (I learned the hard way that it is necessary to hold a semi-automatic pistol in a completely different way than a revolver. I’ve always been a revolver girl. My first time shooting my semi-auto was a big lesson. That slide can do some impressive damage when it kicks back into your thumb joint. But I digress.)

I was weak, and distracted. I should have left. Right. Then. I ignored the elephant. I forgot that my metaphysical fists were up. I sat down next to the wrong person. The man-most-likely-to-get-hit-by-a scared-AmberDawn. And I was cruel. It was just a little, ‘funny,” sarcastic comment. But it struck home. I saw it happen. I wanted to grab that zinger back, and plant it in my own chest.

But cute, cruel little jabs, delivered with a smile, can’t be taken back.

Shortly after that, with 3 of the ladies, I brought up the cute tattoo on the elephant’s behind. Shit. The elephant is now seen. I left. Right then. “Well, honey, I’ve insulted X, and mentioned Y. I think it’s time to go, before it gets any worse.”

Sometimes, you have to allow space to let love abide. These people will love me better if I’m gone. No sharp jabs, no elephant.

Riding home, I reflected on the whole situation, and realized that being INSENSITIVE makes me INSENSITIVE. When I try to pretend that everything is okay, and that I am invincible, I hurt people. At the very least, I offend them. I thought about all of the hard, cruel, painful things that have been said about me. I thought about the actions and rejections that still smart, no matter how I resolve to forgive and forget, and I realized that I’m not the only one.

I grew some compassion, yesterday. I looked at my husband, and said, “I wonder what wounds they’re hiding? What is making them insensitive? Why is THEIR armor in place? Why have their fists been up?”

The fact is, we’re all hurt, and we’re all hurting one another. You cannot live with your fists up, and never slip up and hit someone. Eventually, you’re going to get hurt, and weak, and defensive enough to go on the offensive. For some people, this is every day. For me, it was yesterday. I knew what I was walking into, and I don’t know if I could have done things differently, unless it was to simply stay away.

Staying away would have been simpler. But, in the long run, I know that yesterday made me a better woman. I learn so very much when I am wrong.

My Daughter, an Instrument of God

“Then ____________ was the best Christian, because he said that God just came and fixed it.”

This comment by my daughter, as we drove home from an “us girls” only shopping trip to the Paper factory, BOTHERED ME!!! She was telling me about a story that she and her classmates in a Drama class had made up, that day. She felt less spiritual than another child, because HE believed that God could just come and “Fix it.”

He’s the best Christian because he said that God just came and FIXED IT???? Excuse me?!?

So, I took a deep breath, counted to 10, and initiated a little talk.

“Shalom, saying that didn’t make him the best Christian.”
“It didn’t?”
“No, honey. You see, God CAN just come and fix things, but usually, he asks us to do it.”
“He does?”
“Yes, honey. God can be the hero, anytime He wants. But God likes to let us be the heroes.”
“Is that why, in movies, they always show PEOPLE being the heroes?”
“That’s right! God being the hero, and a person being the hero is the same thing. God likes to make us the heroes.”
“That’s like Joshua and the Battle of Jericho, and those nice people, who hid those men.”
“You mean Rahab, honey. Rahab hid the Israelite spies, and it saved her life.”
“Yeah, HER!”
“Shalom, do you believe that God could have hidden those spies by Himself?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, he could. But what would have happened to Rahab, if God hid the spies?”
“She would have died, like everyone else…. And Joshua won the battle, and so did God.”
“Right. God is the hero, and so are we, when we obey Him. Why do you think God lets us be the heroes?”
“He loves us.”
He loves us, indeed.

I LIVE for conversations like this one.

My daughter has just been empowered. She sees herself as an instrument of God’s will. She believes that she is a blessing, and can be the hero. She will not sit back, allow Evil to triumph in her life, and wait for God to come and save her. I am teaching this precious woman of God how to bring the Glory of God’s Love and Will to bear in her own life, and by extension, in the world.

I will, I must empower women. I will release the feminine side of the Divine Image upon a desperate world that needs us. I will start with my daughters.

Shamelessly Tearing My Tunic

I am a heretic.

I no longer believe that emotions should be denied, stuffed, or hidden neatly away. I long for a culture wherein tearing one’s clothing, pouring ashes on one’s head, and sitting on a pile of dung is an appropriate response to devastating news. I wish to live in an age where ecstatic, naked dancing is the worship of a king.

I’ve been living around these parts (you know, Western “Civilization”) for about 34 years, now, and I’ve noticed something decidedly unsettling. Emotional expression is only allowed to children, and people who are mentally ill or handicapped. Really, though, we’re trying to teach them to know better, too. And if we can’t? Well, we have drugs that will fix that little problem. But meanwhile, since they either can’t fully understand the rules, or can’t manage to follow them, we label them in some way, so that we can dismiss their feelings, and return to our own job. What job? The incredible task of categorizing, managing or denying our own emotions in socially acceptable ways is the North American’s primary task, I’m pretty sure.

And so, my readers, I will confess some things to you. If you so choose, you may classify me as childish, mentally ill, or socially inept. I don’t care.

When I write, I feel a deep satisfaction and pride.
When I dance, I feel energized, and sexy.
When I play with my children, I feel free, and guilty, because surely, I should be more authoritarian.
When I am misunderstood, I feel pain, and sometimes anger.
When people complain about me, instead of to me, I feel betrayed and angry.
When I am the subject of gossip, I feel alone.
When my children hurt, I hurt.
When my children smile, I am fulfilled.
I am plagued by fears that I am not doing enough, saying enough, or being enough.
Sometimes, I want to be alone, and EVERYONE makes me feel cornered.
I am afraid of my own power.
A misplaced crumb, containing gluten, can create a sudden rush of panic in me.
When I get sick from gluten, and I don’t know where I got it, I feel hopeless and afraid.
I need people, and I long to feel like I truly belong.
Sometimes, I resent the fact that “It” is not, after all, about me.
When I am left alone too long, I feel abandoned and rejected.
When I make a difference in someone’s life, I feel triumphant and fulfilled.
When I teach, I am satisfied.
When I fall short of my own expectations, I feel ashamed, as though anyone else expected so much.
When people try to deny me what I perceive as my rights, I get angry.

Tonight, I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I am tired, and weak, and my emotions are creeping out through the bars of their cage, and demanding my attention. I feel guilty, because I feel things that I think I shouldn’t. After all, they taught me in church, as a child, that good Christians always feel joy, even in the midst of suffering. If you feel anything less than joy, trust and peace, you MUST be in rebellion against God and HIS will (emphasis on the HIS).

But, I forgot something, as the waves of guilt crashed over me. Only the old, “good Christian” AmberDawn had to come under that accusation. I WILL break this cycle! I commit myself now. I must stop feeling guilty for FEELING. Emotions are what they are. They are a physical response, and I cannot help having them.

I am not alone. I am surrounded by other women, friends, acquaintances, and customers, who struggle with the same problem. We are told from birth that good babies, little girls, young ladies, and women don’t cry. Think of the song, Silent Night. The Divine child, awakening in His mother’s arms, “no crying he makes….” Only sinful babies cry. They just don’t know better, yet. I hear women, over and over, confess their emotion-guilt. They feel lonely, sexually frustrated, angry, misunderstood, resentful, etc. They don’t dare show it. They feel guilty for even feeling it. I tell them that their feelings are not an occasion for guilt, but for action.

Emotions are not the problem. What we need to control is how we express them. Simply stuffing them down, until an explosion occurs, is the wrong approach. I think that this is oftentimes why people drink or do drugs, or simply give themselves over to the control of their emotions. The caged, denied emotions grew, and made babies, and grew again, until the cage wasn’t strong enough, anymore. And that’s when things got ugly. That’s when we took up the bottle, or accepted a label. Emotions will be heard, sooner or later.

Readers, what if we stopped feeling so ashamed? What if we left guilt behind, and just said, “Wow, I feel _________________________,” as though our emotions were an important part of our lives, and not just the part we try to manage and deny? I think that we might learn a lot.

Maybe that man makes you instantly afraid, because he is a predator.
Maybe your instant distaste for that woman is because she is actually a threat to your way of life.
Maybe your anger will move you to take important action.
Maybe your loneliness will drive you to form new, soul-feeding relationships.
Maybe your giddy joy will infect others, and they will experience happiness, as well.
Maybe your panic is justified.
Maybe your pride is justified, as well.

Maybe all of this is true for me, as well.

I’m starting to believe that my emotions are a tool, a gift that is every bit as precious as my intellect, and my body. When I hide them away, especially from myself, I am, effectively, cutting off a metaphysical limb. And removed limbs leave phantom pains behind. None of the usefulness, all of the pain. Perhaps it’s time to say “Thank you” for my emotions. I think I’ll start with some hysterical laughter, and a good cry.

Why don’t you try it, too? Maybe we’ll both learn something. Maybe we’ll both be changed in good, profound ways.

Try tapping into, experiencing and learning from your emotions. Then, please leave me a comment. I’d like to hear that I am not alone.