exposed

I do not like who I see sometimes when I get a full look at her.

The person you see is fairly tame and in these online spaces is mostly well-behaved. She's rational about the things that trouble her deeply and though you hear her heart ache from time to time, she's mostly able to keep it together.

As these layers are burned away, I see someone else entirely. Skin and muscle peeled back, nerve endings exposed and raw, I have been coming to see who she really is -- the red and throbbing life underneath it all.

She knows trials and troubles are promised, and she knows she should endure these things as discipline. A move away from family, friends, and familiarity and mysterious health issues are refining her soul. She knows she's being taught to trust deeply in the Giver and not in the gifts themselves. She observes what she perceives to be the ease and happiness of others and thanks God for how He's blessing them.

Truth is, she loves the gifts more than the One who gives them. Trials, tedious and prolonged, have worn her down like water over a rock and make her doubt what she knows: not that He exists, but if He is good. She pouts and pines away in the hopes that she will somehow get her way. She wonders what she has done to get here (is it punishment? does she inhabit God's blind spot?) and what she could do to escape. She has considered that if it meant her circumstances would improve, she would turn her back, give it all up and try something new. She wonders what kind of God has the power to heal, but withholds it from her. She knows that He counts her tears, but protests that she'd rather not have a reason to cry them in the first place.

She is not as devoted and faith-filled as she thought she was. She is selfish and proud, desiring above all else her own comfort and happiness. She fears that this is all there is, that this is as good as it's going to get, and that she had just better get used to it.

Every time she thinks the last layer has been pulled away, He finds another, peeling it back easily as the skin of an onion. It seems to her that there is nothing left, no covering for her nakedness. And so her insides are turned out and her raw nerve-endings are exposed, unprotected. She is totally exposed, entirely vulnerable even to the most infinitesimal threat. She is afraid. He is, after all, the One who burned away her layers of protection. Will He protect her now?

She does not know what He will do next, or how He will be with her, but she knows for sure that she is something truer now than she was before. It burns and it stings, but it occurs to her: this is what changing feels like; this is the business of being made new.

leaning. learning. letting go.

I am feeling awake and alive these days; it is a return I've anticipated. I can taste, feel, smell, and enjoy again. I can appreciate beauty and move freely. I actually ran up the stairs today, skipping steps to retrieve my laundry. It was glorious!!

While I have no desire to go back to a place where I feel empty and drained and sluggish and heavy, I don't want to lose my grip on the truth of how truly bereft, how terribly empty I am without Christ to fill me. Things that I thought came from myself like the ability to extend basic kindnesses or to practice selflessness really don't originate anywhere within me. They start with Him.

It was never more clear than when I had nothing in myself to call upon: it starts with Him. I'm not sure how to say it in a way that doesn't sound trite or pithy. But after starting each day at the end of myself, I got a crash course on leaning into Him moment by moment.

I am already seeing the ways in which I am defaulting to old habits and ways of being. I find that when I can lean upon myself, I do. When I insist on being strong, it invariably limits the ways in which the power of God can be made perfect in my weakness. Leaning into Him more fully is a lesson I am learning and one I suspect that I will continue to learn and re-learn over the course of my life.

If anything, I'm perceiving with greater clarity how concurrently painful and beautiful it is to let go, and how ready He is to fill us when we finally do.

photo © 2008 jen fox photography

point vierge: being before doing

From this weekend's sermon:
The biblical call of what we do is always superseded by the challenge of who we are.

Other notes:
Be like Jesus.

The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love. [Psalm 103:8]

Unless the Lord builds the house,
its builders labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the watchmen stand guard in vain.
In vain you rise early and stay up late,
toiling for food to eat--
for he grants sleep to those he loves.
[Psalm 127:1-2]

Maybe that's why I feel as though not much is going on. There's not a whole lot of doing as I find myself in the midst of my own point vierge, waiting in a place that is the cusp between sleeping and waking, between darkness and light. It is a threshold, a doorway between who I was and who God has designed me to be.

Doing is not the point. Perhaps right now, obedience means sitting still. Waiting.

And so I will sit and wait, hands open: surrendering the old, ready to receive the new.

darkness & dawn photo by kirsten.michelle

penetrating layers of memory

Perhaps I shouldn't be, but I'm continually surprised at how God is leading me down this new path: the things He points out, the places at which He has me pause and look and take in the landscape before me, the detail He points out, the stones He turns over. I'm closely examining places I've become accustomed to overlooking, finding myself drawn to examine memories of myself that were on dusty shelves of forgetting: memories that at first glance, have no apparent connection to what drove me to this path in the first place.

I'm studying memories of myself that I haven't thought of since I passed through them. I find myself curious in my remembering: not quite afraid, often tenatively comprehending the view. Making notes of what I observe there.

I'm surprised at what reveals itself when pen passes over paper, at the truth once buried so deeply in my consciousness coming so easily to the surface now. One memory leads to another, and to one before that. And so the layers of memory peel back like an onion, revealing the truth beneath. I hand each layer to God, sometimes tentatively, sometimes with eyes squeezed tight and face turned away. But each time His hand comes to my face, and I open my eyes. He gaze locks with mine and peers deeply into to the heart I am still coming to know. There is no reason to be afraid. There is no shame. Just grace and understanding. Love. And so I open my hands and hand these things over to His care.

Really? You want this? You can redeem even this?

I can trust Him with these things.

I can trust Him to lead to the next layer and the next, knowing that only He understands what needs to be uncovered and recovered, acknowledged and surrendered.

As I'm drawn deeper, I wonder what I'll find when the next layer peels away, and where all of this might lead: this journey deeper into knowing myself, this pulling off the white sheets that have been covering and hiding these spaces in my heart.

One day, it will be important for me to share what these things are with you; I know this. I can trust you with these things, too. But for now this path is sacred, the time for revelations still in the realm of not yet.

journal photo by kirsten.michelle

just sayin' ...

NOTE: For those of you that may be new to this space, this blog started out as a way for me to process and journal through my exploration of the Traditional Catholic faith. Ultimately, it's a path I chose not to go down, but found much in my exploration that I continue to value and treasure that has changed for the better the way I engage with God in prayer and in worship. I recently had to communicate to the priest who was leading me through the catechism that I would not be returning for further instruction, nor did I have the intent to convert.

This is something I had some measure of fear to declare, knowing what his thoughts would be when he became aware of my decision. It was Terri (love her!!) who first asked me the question I had not yet asked myself: what is it that you fear from this conversation? I realized that it boiled down to being afraid of what they'd think or what would be said of me to others. Like many people, I prefer that everyone who knows me would think well of me. Writing this forced me to embrace the truth that no matter what anyone else might think, my soul is firmly in the grip of my Heavenly Father.

The letter was mailed last week.



Dear Father,

I am sorry that I missed your call the other day. I succumbed to the flu over the weekend and had little in the way of a voice that day. I hope you will forgive me for not calling back, but at present, I think it best to express myself in writing.

First of all, I wish to thank you for taking time in your instruction with me and for our conversations on the phone as well. I have learned much over the past several months and have come to hold an increasingly deep appreciation for the Catholic Church: for its historical roots, for the profound and deeply-rooted beauty of the liturgy, for learning about the lives of saints I never knew before, and for so much more. The family at Holy Redeemer is such a precious, beautiful, and generous one.

That being said, I wanted to let you know that I will not be coming back. This is not a decision I made lightly, but I am certain it is the right one. While I respect that your convictions are to the contrary, I rest securely in the knowledge that my heart and soul are safe in the hands of God.

I could launch into pages of testimony regarding all the reasons as to the whys and the hows of my decision. I could go into detail about my prayers, my tears, and the nights of heartache. But I realize that even if I wrote some fifty pages more and laid out the best constructed arguments, it would be to no profitable end for either of us. I am reasonably certain my testimony would do nothing to convince you that I am not in error, that my faith is not as one-dimensional as a cartoon drawing.

Let it be said that I came to God with open hands and after a few months of stifling and suffocating it, an open heart. What freedom came when I remembered that my heart and my intellect need not be in such opposition to one another, that I need not be caught at the center of this self-imposed tug-of-war. As Solomon wrote, I learned and am continuing to learn to trust in the Lord with all my heart and not lean on my own understanding. I am utterly content to be His child, to know this perfect Love that casts out all fear, to abandon myself to Him wholly with all that I have, to know that I can neither contain nor define Him or subject Him to any limitations. I have trusted and am continuing to trust Him to lead me and am overwhelmed by the blessings He pours out on me. I know that I am at the center of His heart, and that He is evermore in the center of mine; I am swept up in the story He is telling.

I do mean it most sincerely when I say that I am thankful for the instruction I received and for the welcome I received at the parish; I was delighted to be included in that close-knit community for a time. And so I respectfully request that you accept my decision not to join the Catholic faith. I do respect your convictions, but cannot adopt them as my own.

inexorable trust

I have had such deep and abiding joy since I surrendered both my heart and my mind to God over the past few weeks. In some ways it feels strange not to be in a continual state of struggle, to have prayers composed of tears and beating fists. In many of my prayers over the last several weeks and months, I have asked to be brought to a place of peace and rest. Now that I am there, it feels somewhat strange and foreign. I am by no means inactive, but I am resting. It is a sweet and blessed place to be.

I am continually in awe at how God can use whatever choices we make, whatever we offer to Him in order to mold and shape us into the fullness of who He created us to be. I have no idea whether or not He intended me to explore a traditional and ancient mode of faith, or whether that direction was one of my own choosing. But I really don't think it matters, nor do I feel a compelling or pressing need to figure it out. No matter the choice, Yahweh can bring about blessed and beautiful fruits from it.

He knew my heart was not fully His, nor was it ever fully mine. I was so selective about engaging my heart not only in my faith, but in my relationships with others and with myself as well. I can see the beginnings of my stoic tendencies back to my earliest days, denying forgiveness for playground offenses, steeling myself against the pain of childhood betrayals. When teased and taunted in middle school, I drew inward, becoming cold and numb. This carried through to high school and eventually to college where, in a moment of despair, I told a friend maybe some of us just aren't meant to be loved. It was my way of numbing myself against the pain of rejection and betrayal; what I did not realize is that I was likewise numbing myself to goodness and joy. How this must have grieved the heart of God!

There were times throughout my personal history where I allowed myself to receive and to feel, to experience both joy and grief in all their fullness. But I was so selective. My heart was on a leash and the moment I sensed the slightest risk, I called for a retreat, stuffing it quickly behind a thick and prickly armor.

As I walked through the catechism and experienced the traditional Catholic mode of worship, it appealed to that very stoic and guarded part of me. There was something that was intellectually appealing about prescribed prayers and proper forms, of calculated motions and genuflections, of consistency and historical rooting. But the more I began to intellectually assent to these things, the more stifled and distant my heart became. I felt the chasm deepen and widen; I started to feel as though I was choking.

Anyone who has followed here knows the rest of the story: how I struggled and faltered, how I cried and plead and beat my fists on the floor; how I eventually leaned away from my own understanding and threw myself heart first into the arms of Jehovah-Shalom; how in that moment of surrender I began to trust without a doubt that I have been, am now, and will be sheltered safely in His arms and in the center of His heart; how in that place of childlike abandon and utter trust, two parallel lines intersected inside me; how I returned to a church home ready to welcome me back; how my heart and I danced and still dance in worship, singing, shouting, raising hands to heaven without even a twinge of self-consciousness. My body, my voice, and my mind are responding to a faith that is heart-first. I dance like a prisoner set free of her chains, sing like someone who has long been denied her own voice. If I could, I would defy the laws of gravity and fly; and it is so very good that it does. My heart's tethers have disappeared altogether.

I would have not chosen on my own to struggle, fight, and suffer as I did, but neither would I trade any of it for what I have now. I am more His than I ever was; I am more the child as an adult than I was on the playground. I am His, and it is good, it is true, it is so indescribably beautiful.

I know the day will come when I will talk to the priest, when he will ask me why I have not returned to the parish. And I know by what he taught me that when he learns of my return to my church home, of how I will not be converting, that he will think I have fallen out of God's good graces, that I am apostate, that I will most certainly not be welcome in heaven. Even now I pray for the grace to respond in truth and with love, to explain that I belong to Yahweh; that my return to my faith home came as an act of complete and utter childlike surrender to God; that I am at the center of Jehovah's heart, and that He is at the center of mine.

Blessings and peace.

playing with light photo by kirsten.michelle

new year, new look

Because things have been transforming in me and in this space as of late, I'm going to be tinkering and toying around with how this little space looks. Don't be surprised if it looks differently from one day to the next.

Let the sun shine again, and ... let the commenting begin!