I have a migraine.

You might be asking yourself why in the world this should count for my 40 days of risk/giving up pride journey for Lent. I think it counts, and this is why. I have a fear of people thinking I'm a hypochondriac. I never want to admit when I don't feel well, because I'm afraid people will think I'm complaining, making things up for attention, or that I'm that person who's always sick. I don't want to be obnoxious or a burden. I don't want to be someone who people can't depend on. So not only does this count, but it's actually a fairly big risk for me. You might think I'm whining or complaining. I might actually be whining or complaining. But here's hoping that you don't think less of me for it. And if you do, maybe I'll learn to be okay with that.

I watch too much television.

Television is one of the primary ways that I check out from the world when it is stressful, too painful, or emotionally exhausting. The movies I like tend to also be painful and emotionally exhausting, so I don't even generally watch movies when I'm in this mental state. Today, for example, I am coming home from a weekend in Chattanooga full of classes talking about trauma. Fascinating and mentally stimulating, but heavy and exhausting. So tonight, all I really want to do is wear pajamas, eat a large amount of Chinese food, and watch television with my dog. Sometimes it's self-care, and sometimes it's an unhealthy way to disconnect and remain self-protective. Which one is it tonight? I'm not sure. But it works. So for now, I'm okay with it.

I am here.

I've been thinking all day about what to blog. I've typed three different confessions in the last five minutes, then deleted all of them. And I'm aware that I already hate what I've agreed to do. Being vulnerable isn't easy. But I'm also aware that God has challenged me in this for a reason. Maybe this entry doesn't count. But I think it says something that I'm already regretting my committment, that two days of vulnerability has taxed me and left me feeling emotionally raw. So for today, this is all I have. Because this is vulnerable enough. And sometimes it's okay to just say, this is where I am. Here's my red dot. I am here.

Gold stars.

Today's confession is brought to you by an experience in class today.

I feel a war between fear, shame, and giddy pride when a teacher praises my work. I flash back to a time when being teacher's pet was both the only way I knew how to get attention and when it cost me the opportunity to have friendships. I fear being wrong, and I feel embarrassed when I'm right. I almost always feel regret after I speak up or raise my hand, regardless of the outcome. I try to drink in the praise but end up choking on the fear of it.

I'm thankful for friends in my life now who love me, embrace me and my nerdiness, and don't mind when I'm that obnoxious person in class. You beautiful souls are teaching me to know who I am and who I am not. Your love gives me courage and coaxes me out of shame.

Lent and Mariah Carey.

It's Lent season again, and God has given me another crazy challenge. Maybe one day I'll stop asking him to really change me through this process. But the struggle always changes me and humbles me and (I hope) makes me a little more like him (or at least makes me a little more broken that I'm not like him).

I don't really like being vulnerable. It feels uncomfortable and risky and out of control. I have felt very convicted recently as I challenge some of my clients in this area, and I'm aware that I'm missing a log in my own eye while I'm helping them to see the speck in theirs. So last night, as I, a true procrastinator, was asking God what to give up this Lent, he gave me an idea so far out of my comfort zone that it has to be from him.

The desire not to be fully known comes from insecurity. And insecurity is ultimately related to pride - at least for me. I am scared for people to see my shortcomings, because I want them to think I'm better than I am. That's pride.

So for Lent, I'm giving up pride. Doing this completely would be impossible, of course. But for forty days, I will post one thing each day that I'd rather people not know about me. It might be a way that I'm not very cool. It might be something vulnerable about how I'm feeling. But it will be real, and it will be risky. (Is anyone else feeling sick to their stomach right now?)

40 days of risk begins now. So let's start with something easy, just to get this ball rolling.

My favorite song to sing in the shower to warm up my voice on days that I have to sing is "Long Ago" by Mariah Carey. It's not a great song, and I don't know why it's the one that always pops in my head. I wish I were cooler, but I'm not.

As a side note, apparently the music you listen to at age 14 has the most emotional influence over you throughout your life. That's according to Dr. Spencer Reid on Criminal Minds, so take it for what you will. Super reliable source.

Sometimes it doesn't make sense.

Life doesn't go the way you plan it.

It seems like such a simple sentence. It's trite and cliche. It's something that we all know. Yet it's something that causes life's deepest pains. It's the thing that creates the heartwrenching questions of God's goodness and sovereignty. It's what causes a person to lose hope. It confuses us and shifts the paradigm of all we knew to be true until ______ happened.

Dr. Larry Crabb taught me something profound about a year ago. He taught me that we expect linearity in life. A+B=C. There are consequences to actions. It's sort of like the Buddhist idea of kharma - give good, get good. But life doesn't really work that way. I mean, I guess it does enough that we all learn to expect it. But inevitably, we get something that doesn't equal all the As+Bs we've done in life. Suddenly we realize that this isn't what we bargained for, isn't what we were promised. I have been struck by this over and over again in the few short months I've been seeing clients. But I can't talk about them. So I guess I have to talk about me.

I've experienced painful things in my life. I'm sure it's pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things. But recently, I had one of those rug out from under you experiences where it seems like everything is adding up to something beautiful, like you're being given a gift you didn't even ask for, and then the world is upside down and you realize the gift box is empty. And meanwhile, you're suspended in mid-air, still dizzy from the way everything changed so quickly. I say all this to say that this experience caused such dissonance in my head that you would have thought it was a much worse experience than what actually happened. And it was all because I couldn't make sense of it. I couldn't see the good being worked from the pain. I still don't, really. It would be so much easier for me to write this if I did. I've been through much more painful things with much more patience and faith, because I could see purpose for my pain in them. I was able to have a choice in the matter - between protecting myself and experiencing pain so that someone else might know the tiniest piece of the love of Christ. But this was different. I didn't see how God was working. I didn't have a choice. I felt tricked and exploited. And it didn't feel worth it.

I guess I'm writing this, feeling like I'm saying nothing, for precisely that reason. Although it's in the tiniest of situations for me, I can see how the bait-and-switch of life causes the most pain for those I sit with. I think that pain can be endured so gracefully and beautifully when we can see the poetry being written from it. But how do we live in the moments that seem completely nonsensical? What of the times when there is no beauty seen? When there seems to be no point? When the idea of hoping in a God who would play such cruel tricks is infuriating? When everything you knew about the world no longer adds up?

I've been learning lately that hope is intrinsicly painful. To hope means to acknowledge that the present is less than what it ought to be, less than what it is you hope for. Yet I think it is the only thing that brings any chance of joy. I pray that we can dare to hope tonight - embrace the longing that is a part of every soul in this world (for we were created for another world altogether) and know that there is reason and rhyme in every line of this lifesong, no matter how dissonant some of the notes may seem.

"Life is not what I thought it was 24 hours ago,
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with you,
And I'm not who I thought I was 24 hours ago,
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with you."
~ Switchfoot, Twenty-four

The 9th Thing I Love.

# 9 - Long conversations with strangers. Preferably in coffee shops.


“We pour out our miseries, God just hears a melody; beautiful, the mess we are; the honest cries of breaking hearts are better than a hallelujah.” ~ Amy Grant


I’ve had some incredible God moments the last few days. Maybe he’s trying to encourage me and show me that he’s with me as I delve into the depths of oft-uncomfortable self-awareness. Maybe he’s helping me learn who I am in him, so that I can better accept and face my mistakes, allowing me some freedom from the burden of my attempts at perfectionism. Maybe he’s teaching me how to offer myself some of the mercy that I tend to reserve for others. Or maybe he’s simply loving me - something that I can sadly forget in my efforts to serve him and love others. Regardless, I found myself stunned by a (warning, churchy phrase ahead) divine appointment today.
I was sitting in a coffee shop, reading a book for school and taking a break from transcribing my first "therapy" session. Although I wasn’t disheartened or even embarrassed by the recording, there were myriad things that I could have done better. Anyway, back to the coffee shop. I was packing up my things when I noticed an older man sitting near me. It was apparent to me that he had something heavy weighing on his mind, and I wondered if I should ask if he was okay. I kept watching him, and kept feeling that nudge in my heart to speak to him. I took my headphones out and caught his eye. Then I asked, “Waiting on someone?” It was an innocent way into conversation if he wanted to be engaged, and my hunch (AKA that kicking sensation the Holy Spirit uses sometimes) was right. This was a man who needed to talk. After a few moments of his story spilling out, he looked at me squarely and asked me, “Are you a Christian counselor?” I hadn’t spoken another word since my initial question to him. I was startled, but gave him the two sentence version of where I am in my life and where I plan to go. He nodded as if he already knew, and said, “I could just tell.” He continued to talk for about 30 minutes.
God used this stranger to remind me that, although I will make mistakes, he has called me to this profession and ministry. Though I may at times feel foolish, and though my errors may seem destructive or the skills may seem daunting, God has given me the ability to do that to which I have been called. I humbly give him my errors, and he beautifully weaves them with his grace and mercy into a tapestry of healing and wholeness. The picture will not be complete this side of heaven - for me, or for my clients. But if perhaps I can stay close to him, pressing into his chest and hearing his heart beat within me, I can catch glimpses of his artistry here on this earth. He is weaving it all together regardless of my participation or lack thereof. But I am so thankful that he allows my hand to rest on his from time to time, and my eyes to see what it is that he is making, if only in glimpses and snatches, as he pulls the beauty from our ashes.