Hello there, shame...

Almost immediately after I hit the word “publish” on my post last week, my body was flooded by a very familiar feeling.  I felt exposed, as though everyone was seeing me, and in being seen, I felt ashamed. I felt as though an enormous, heavy boulder landed on top of me. A heat rose up from within my chest, and an aching pressure began to spread from the center of my body, throughout my limbs. I wanted to crawl into my bed and feel instead the weight of comforting blankets on top of me, bury my head in the covers. 

Oh, hello shame, my old friend. Here we go again.

One of my earliest memories, perhaps my very earliest memory, is one of shame. I was only about four years old. A friend I’ll call Sara was inside my family’s trailer to play. We were putting together a block puzzle, a scene of Winnie the Pooh’s birthday party. It was tricky as the pieces were all cubes, with different pictures on each side. My uncle was there, watching us I guess. We were all sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. At some point my uncle leaned forward and asked Sara if she would like to play a game. 

“What kind of game?” Sara asked.

“It’s a secret game,” my uncle answered, and leaned in closer toward me to show Sara what he meant.

Sara said no, she didn’t want to play, and she needed to go home and find her mom. I remember watching her leave, and feeling overwhelmed that what my uncle told me all the time must be true--I was bad. Every time he touched me, my uncle told me not to tell anyone, or I would get into a lot of trouble.  My parents would be very angry with me, because I was bad.

I feel like that day solidified that lie in my heart. Since Sara could tell her mom, she was obviously good. I wished that I could be as good as Sara, but it was too late for me now. If I told anyone about the game, I would be in trouble, and I hated to be in trouble. Even more terrifying than being in trouble was realizing that if I told anyone, then they would know how bad I really was. I stared at the chocolate brown shag carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at the colorful scenes from the Winnie the Pooh birthday party on the blocks, while my uncle played his game.

Even now I can feel the weight, the ache, the pain that the shame of that moment brings to me. Even now I am burdened that Sara was strong, and I was weak. The voice in my head tells me I should have known better, I should have told someone; I should have been able to stop it. Even right this second, shame would have me believe that by telling my story, I am letting people know that there is something hopelessly wrong with me. 

That is what I have believed, in my soul, for years. I frequently think of myself a bad mother, an awful wife, a terrible friend. Not as a good person, who made a few mistakes or a bad decision, but as a deeply flawed person who is somehow inherently bad. While it is painful for me to feel that way, the greatest fear I have is that those around me would suddenly see that I am no good. Part of the fear that keeps me from wanting to hit publish on any story about my life is that same lie my uncle told me: “If you tell anyone, then they will know how bad you really are.” 

The truth is not that Sara was strong and I was weak, or that Sara was good and I was bad.  The truth is that Sara was able to leave in part because she felt safe to tell others around her. I did not feel safe at that time. But I do now. I am so grateful to be surrounded by many family and friends who know most of my shameful stories, and they love me anyway. 

Now that I am safe, I can stop playing my uncle’s game.  I’m not going to sit in my living room and stare at the red and brown striped carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at my dog and cat curled up together, while his game continues to go on inside my head. The shame I experienced, the lies I believed, they do far more damage in my everyday life than any physical scars I may carry. I’m tired of listening to the same tape playing over and over. This time I get to stand up and call out my abuser and say I refuse to believe your lies anymore. 

It’s funny that even after years of therapy and time, writing these few posts has been where I finally realized the root of my self-loathing. I did have a counselor one time ask me if I thought I was a good person. I told her no, I didn’t think so. I think she asked me why I felt that way, and at the time, I didn’t have an answer. Today I do. I think that I am a bad person because I have been told that I am a bad person for as long as I can remember by people in a position of trust. But those people were lying.

 

I know that shame and believing lies about ourselves is not specific to survivors of sexual abuse. All of us experience shame; it is a universal emotion brought on by all kinds of circumstances. Shame would like to keep everyone in the dark, to keep us from telling our stories. The truth is that when we make our way out into the light by sharing a little bit more of who we are with the world, we find out that we are not alone. We find new ways to connect and to show grace and compassion to one another, which is a tremendous gift. I have been so blessed by the kind responses to my previous post, and the encouragement from so many to continue. That support is a large part of what is motivating me to dig deeper and find the strength to share more of my story. 

I hope that as I continue to share more of my story, others will join me and begin to be able to share their truths as well. It is in being open and honest and truthful with each other that we take away the power that lies and shame may have over us. Telling our own stories, receiving kindness from others, hearing truth that challenges old lies, this is what gives us more strength to throw off the heavy weight of shame that has been holding us down. 

So, goodbye shame, you jackass. Until we meet again.

                “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable…If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. Shame hates having words wrapped around it. If we speak shame, it begins to wither. Just the way exposure to light was deadly for the gremlins, language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”

- Brene' Brown, Daring Greatly

Right Type of Story

I have been thinking quite a bit lately about my story.  I have been trying to unravel the series of events that make up the narrative of my life until now.  I am searching for clues, trying to fill in the blanks, putting together pieces of memory and outside views of certain chapters of my existence.  Because my story has very dark moments, I struggle to decide what exactly I want anyone to know about this journey, the conflict and climax and resolution of my experiences on this earth.  I know that the antidote to darkness is light, and the desire to shed light on hidden places causes me to feel compelled to find words to share about those dark moments.  But the words don’t come easily.

When I was six years old, I was being evaluated by a mental health worker due to confirmed reports of sexual abuse.  My uncle admitted that he was a pedophile, and had violated numerous children.  He acknowledged that he had committed various acts with me so many times that he could not recall the exact number or complete nature of the encounters.  Throughout most of the proceedings in the case, I was silent.  While I accurately confirmed the accounts of the abuse in a matter of fact way when asked, the most frequent note in the reports from various police officers, family service workers and counselors is that I refused to speak, and that I cried.

During one of many counseling sessions intended to help me talk about my feelings regarding the abuse, the therapist asked me to complete an exercise by looking at various pictures and telling him a story about what I saw.  A family services worker who was observing the session noted that I was extremely reluctant to participate in the exercise.  His exact words were, “La’Tisha is very much of a perfectionist and was afraid that she would not tell the right type of story.”  Already, at the age of six, I felt a desperate need to please the people around me.  I had already seen that when a story deviates from the allocated plan, upheaval would follow.  I knew that my story caused problems, people were angry, and it was better to keep my mouth shut than to invoke more trouble by speaking how I truly felt.  I needed to tell the right story, the one the people around me wanted or needed to hear, and I made it my business to do so.

Years later, I want to find a way to speak for the little girl who cried silently.  I believe that the story I tell—with my life, my time, and my words—is important.  I know that a good story can open our eyes, shift our perspective, and change the way we see and interact with the world around us.  I want to tell my story of beauty for ashes, of restoration for what the locust has eaten, in a way that makes others believe that kind of reconciliation is possible.  I’m trying very hard, though, to be less concerned about telling the “right kind” of story.  The only story I have to tell is my own.  The only way I can tell my story is to share it honestly.  The only way this story can be wrong, I think, is if I do not tell it at all.

I am tired of being silent about how surviving this kind of childhood trauma affects my life every. single. day.  I know that I am not the only woman who is trying to be a loving wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend while constantly battling the demons of her past.  I believe that my children should know something of what I have experienced, because I believe that history we do not learn from is destined to repeat itself.  It is time to find my voice and speak.  I want to tell my story because I know how isolated, lonely and discouraged I feel at times, and I believe it may help others to know that they are not alone.  It is time for me to break the silence of what it means to live as a survivor.

Because these are the most important truths: I live.  I survived.  Each and every day that I continue to struggle to be here, to be present, to be enough, is a victory of survival.  I am realizing that the truth is that I will never completely move on.  I will move forward, but I cannot change what I see in my rear view mirror.  This is my life.  Every once in a while, I have to look back and notice that the past is still there, behind me.  Sometimes, peeking in that rear view mirror helps me to correct my course.  Keep moving forward, but don’t forget what got me here. 

That is what I’m setting out to do.  Look back through that past and acknowledge how it has shaped me.  Stop trying to shut it down and pretend that I am fine now, and that the story isn’t integral to who I am.  I need to accept the fact that my abusers took from me things that I will never be able to regain.  The plan now is to get loud about how I’m dealing with that loss, and to share gratitude over all that I have also gained.  Some days I will blog about the here and now, and other days I am dedicating to writing the past in a book.

As survivors go, I know that I am fortunate.  Throughout the storms I faced as a child, there were always places of shelter.  I am grateful, so grateful, for the opportunities to be where I am today.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who showed that they cared and intervened on my behalf.  And so I recognize that when I raise my voice, I do so not only for myself, but also for those who were not so sheltered.  I raise my voice for those who are forever silenced by their circumstances, those who are perhaps destined to repeat the cycles of abuse, those who had no pause for breath in a lifetime of shame, beating, berating, and abuse.  I also raise my voice for the little girl who could not find words, and silently cried.  This is ultimately where I find the courage to share my story, on behalf of the many, many stories that may never be told.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;

ensure justice for those being crushed.

Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless,

And see that they get justice.”

Proverbs 31:8-9

Golden Day of Summer

Today, it felt like summertime around here.  We celebrated our rock star who is soon-to-be-five-years-old with an easy bash at the pool.  Friends and moms and dads hung out, had treats, and cannonballed off the diving board with wild abandon.  We lounged in the water all afternoon, surrounded by sunshine and smiling faces.  Heading home we showered and lounged some more, indoors with screentime for a break from the heat and sun.  Tonight was family night, spaghetti for dinner, a quick Wii contest, and mint chip ice cream for dessert, just to really bring that summertime feeling home.

As I gave Brynnlie Grace her breathing treatment and rocked her to sleep, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for all the goodness we had today.  No sooner had I begun reflecting on how perfectly summery our day was, and how glad I was that we could share it together, than I started to become plagued by guilt and worry thoughts.  Why should I get to be so blessed? How can I enjoy all of this luxury when someone is starving, or grieving, or less fortunate? Shouldn't I be *doing* more with my life, or at the very least, doing a better job of what I am doing?

I stroked Brynnlie's hair and kissed the top of her head.  No, I thought.  I will not be robbed of the joy of this day.  God has given me this life, and it is an incredible gift, and I am meant to celebrate it.  It is OK if I don't spend my life solving world hunger, or looking for grief, or feeling guilty that I have been blessed.  That is the opposite of what he has for me.  I am meant to rejoice in today, and to know God's great love for me, and to look for ways to love those around me.  It is enough.

Days like this one are rare.  All of us will have days that are not so blessed. This is what makes it even more important for me to celebrate the day we had.  Our family.  Our friends.  Our love.  Our blessings.  

This is the day the Lord has made.

We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Psalm 118:24

There are only a few of them left, you know.  These golden days of summer are fleeting.  I'm making memories around here.  I'm celebrating the goodness of God, the heat of the season and the grace of the moment of life that we are in.  I'm going to remember this day, and I hope my children will too. I'm going to try to do a lot more rejoicing and being glad in the day the Lord has made, and less worrying about whether or not there is something else I am supposed to be doing at the moment.

Loves, friends.  Go grab a golden day.

Bread & Wine: A Recommendation and A Review

One stunning realization that has echoed in my brain since acknowledging that i. am. not. strong. is that my inherent weakness requires that I must care for myself.  I must nourish my body.  I must give myself rest.  I must build up and stretch the muscles needed to carry me through my work as a mother.  I must go to the source of all strength to sustain me, continually.  (If God's grace is sufficient for my weakness, I must learn to understand that grace.)  It would seem these are basic requirements for a life well lived, but they are tasks that have eluded me as of late.  I have skipped so many meals, and given my body a poor excuse for food when it grumbles.  I have not slept when needed, and tried to force sleep when fresh air would have been a better choice.

And then...

Right in the beginning of this season of relearning what it means to nourish myself, I was given the incredible opportunity to read an advance copy of Shauna Nieuquist's newest book, Bread & Wine: A Love Letter to Life Around the Table.  As soon as my copy arrived, I tore it open and began to feed my soul from this book celebrating food, love, and doing life together. Shauna's words nourished my soul and fed me something I was hungry for--an affirmation that the little ways we serve our family and friends matter.  The meals made for friends in celebration after having babies or in comfort after experiencing illness or loss, those meals put something of substance where we cannot find words. Bread & Wine showed me that Tasty Tuesday family meals around the table, trying new foods on our fanciest plates, are a way my children and my husband experience my love for them.  It reminded me that Coffee & Muffins morning playgroup with moms is that space--that table as a safe zone--that so many of us desperately need.

"The heart of hospitality is about creating space for someone to feel seen and heard and loved. 

 It's about declaring your table a safe zone, a place of warmth and nourishment."

The most beautiful thing about this book, for me, is the way Shauna's hospitality shines through the pages.  As I read her stories, I feel seen and heard.  Although our stories are different, the feelings she shares are universal.  The association between food and shame, the ways food is tied to both giving and receiving love, and the fears that hold us back from new experiences--these are pieces of each of our bigger stories.  Shauna inspires me to try new recipes, to invite more people into my home, without overwhelming me or making me feel guilty or like a failure because I haven't done it before.  She shares game-changing roasted broccoli and simply and perfectly prepared scrambled eggs right alongside elaborate dinner parties featuring printed menu cards--and I feel as though sharing love through each meal is not only possible, but the only ingredient that is truly necessary in any preparation.

If you are looking for encouragement as a home cook, a friend, a sister, a wife, a mom--you will find it in the pages of this book.  Leafing through these pages, I feel as though I am at Shauna's table.  I am sitting in her safe zone, and it is a place of warmth and nourishment for my heart.  Not only is my heart encouraged, but Shauna opens her heart to me as well.  She brings me into the hard places in her own life, the moments that catch you off guard and steal your breath and don't represent your best.  She shares with so much honesty that I am drawn deeper into her story, and become more wiling to examine the darker places of my own story.

"That's what shame does, though.
It whispers to us that everyone is as obsessed with our failings as we are.
...
Shame tells us that we're wrong for having the audacity to be happy when we're so clearly terrible.
Shame wants us to be deeply apologetic for just daring to exist.
...
But I want to dare to exist, and, more than that, to live audaciously,
in all my imperfect, lumpy, scarred glory,
because the alternative is letting shame win."

Bread & Wine may begin as one woman's love letter to life around the table, but somewhere in the middle it became a beacon shining on my own loves.  It continually reminded me of times where I did more than exist, where I have lived, at my own kitchen table.  My table is a well-worn hand-me-down from my husband's late grandmother.  It is a simple wooden kitchen table that held lovingly homemade dishes every Sunday afternoon for years, served to my husband's family and friends in his grandmother's dining room.  When we first married and the table passed to us, it mostly supported heavy textbooks and bowls of popcorn through late-night study sessions in our college apartment.  The first holidays I hosted revolved around that table, though, and then it was crammed to bursting with friends and food.  I have spoon fed babies there, admonished toddlers to sit still, listened to children roaring with laughter over their own knock-knock jokes, and shared in the first "real" conversations of growing big kids.  Although it is beginning to show signs of wear, I cannot imagine ever parting with that kitchen table; that table is where I have lived.

Shauna's words remind us of the way of food.  She brings us back to our need for nourishment and our need for one another.  The table is one space we share our common needs.  Shauna's invitation, throughout this book, is "Come to the table."  As I closed the book and began to digest her words, that is exactly what I wanted to do.  In my first reading of the book, I was ravenous--so hungry for soul nourishment I could not slow down enough to taste the nuances of each section.  I cannot wait to begin the book again, and this time consume it slowly, as you would a favorite meal that has been lovingly prepared, returning now and again to the table for a bit more of this or a little of that.  And as I reread it, I have every intention of coming to the table.  Bringing my family and friends, and preparing the recipes along the way.  I plan to make Shauna's Breakfast Cookies for playgroup and host a get-together that will involve trying Mango Chicken Curry--a whole new genre of food for my family.  I plan to revisit favorite recipes and freshen up our staples, being mindful and aware of the work that I am doing.

"...there's no replacement for what happens when we make something with our own hands, 

directed by our own senses, 

motivated by our own love for the people we're serving."

I look forward to sharing more of this journey with you, as I try recipes and share moments from around my own beloved kitchen table.  I encourage you to "Come to the table," as well.  Read this book and be inspired to try something new.  Read this book and be reminded of the places you have lived, the food you have enjoyed, the life all around you.  Read this book and be encouraged to love those near you well, by sharing your home, your heart, your food.  Above all else, friend, read this book and be nourished.

May I Never Forget

It's been 19 years...  How can that be possible?  19 years since the dark and rainy April night when I really learned how to put my life in His hands.  Almost two decades have gone by.  It seems like a lifetime ago.  Truly, it is only a blink, a tiny blip on the radar of eternity.

Our days on earth are like grass;

like wildflowers, we bloom and die.

The wind blows, and we are gone--

as though we have never been here.

He always remembers.  Somehow, it sneaks up on me.  I forget what a significant day I am living, but he remembers.  It is grace straight from heaven when he walks through the door, with arms full of those fleeting wildflowers.  Yellow flowers.  Beautiful cascading shades of yellow flowers that remind me of liberty, faithfulness, friendship, happiness.

The Lord is like a father to his children,

tender and compassionate to those who fear him.

For he knows how weak we are; 

he remembers we are only dust.

I am weak.  I am only dust.  And yet the Lord remembers me.  He thinks of me.  He sent a man to be my husband when I did not believe I deserved one.  He sent a man who would remember when I forget.  A man to remind me who I am and what God has done when I have all but forgotten.  

Let all that I am praise the Lord;

with my whole heart I will praise his holy name.

Let all that I am praise the Lord; 

may I never forget the good things he does for me.

May I never forget...  I will remind myself of what it meant to be a fourteen-year-old girl.  I will remember adolescent emotions and hormones and uncertainty wrapped up in too-long arms and legs and feet.  May I never forget that young girl, abused from the start, unsure of how much to take, wondering when she would find the courage and the strength to say, "Enough!"

I will remember her on that night, 19 years ago.  How she felt that day while being berated, enduring the hours of lies and deceit.  She listened to her father's voice tell her she was a liar, she was broken, she was wrong, she was unworthy.  I remember how she struggled against the binding he tied around her wrists.  How her face stung when he hit her. How her resolve strengthened within her as another voice began to rise up from deep inside her heart, combating the lies and overcoming the pain.

The Lord is compassionate and merciful,

slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love.

...

For his unfailing love toward those who fear him

is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth.

I will not forget how the promise of that unfailing love filled her heart as she laced the white tennis shoes on those early teenager feet, too big for her body.  How every breath was a prayer as she made her preparations to leave.  I will remember how her heart pounded as she placed her hand on the doorknob, "Trust in. The Lord. Trust in. The Lord."  Thump-thump, thump-thump, steadily pounding so hard and so loud in her chest as she turned the handle and threw open the door.

But the love of the Lord remains forever 

with those who fear him.

His salvation extends to the children's children

of those who are faithful to his covenant, 

of those who obey his commandments!

May I never forget that I am here today because 19 years ago a young girl encountered God in a real and tangible way.  The love of that incredible God filled her fragile heart and broken body with the courage and strength to choose another way.  God gave her the immediate strength necessary to race through the door, out into the dark, rainy night and he sustained her through the years of pain and struggle that bold move initiated. The Lord gave her a husband who reminds her of how great God's love is toward  her.  The same God gave her three beautiful, precious children and continues to extend his grace to those children now.  He continues to faithfully honor his covenant and gently guide her toward his commandments.

Praise the Lord, you angels

you mighty ones who carry out his plans,

listening for each of his commands.

Yes, praise the Lord, you armies of angels

who serve him and do his will!

Praise the Lord, everything he has created,

everything in all his kingdom.

Let all that I am praise the Lord.

It's been 19 years for me...  19 years since I placed my life fully and completely in God's hands, walked away from the abuse and out into the storm, and began to walk toward completely trusting him.  19 years of yellow flowers reminding me again of his continued faithfulness.  

Maybe for you, it is still a dark and rainy night.  Perhaps you are trapped and bound and beaten down by circumstances or people in your life.  Maybe you're still waiting and praying for the strength and courage to say, "Enough!"  Today, as I remember the good things God does for me, I will earnestly pray for you that this will be Day One.  I will pray he sends his armies of angels to steady your hands as you lace up your shoes, place your hand on the doorknob, and throw open the door to your future.  It may begin as an all-out sprint through the mud on a dark and rainy night. It will not end there.  I will pray that he sends you an angel who will not let you forget the good things he does for you.  He will be faithful.  You can trust in him.  

May I never forget the good things he does for me.

All Bible verses are from Psalm 103, New Living Translation.

Good Good Good Good Friday

Today is Good Friday.  For those who believe, this day is essential to our understanding of all that is salvation.  It is the real, tangible measure of God's grace and goodness to each one of us.  Any hope of a future with God, any belief that we can be united with him in his love and goodness, any tiny thread of faith in what he has promised hinges on the reality of Christ's sacrifice for us, and our willingness to acknowledge our great need for that sacrifice.  Good Friday is a day where we rejoice that an overwhelming surplus of love and grace and forgiveness has been squeezed out of an overwhelming amount of suffering and sacrifice and pain.  It is a day of reflection, a day to remember that tiny flame of hope in the midst of a darkness where it seems all has been lost.  There are not enough words for us to understand the enormity of this incredible gift.  I am a sinner.  I am broken.  Yet he loves me.  So he gives himself.  So he forgives.

By God's grace, I have called myself a Christian most of my life.  I have believed that "God so loved the world he gave his only son" from a very young age.  I have acknowledged that I am a sinner, that we all sin, that we all fall short of the glory of God.  I have understood that the price for sin is death, even spiritual death that separates us from our creator God.  I have rejoiced that the story doesn't end with our sin, but is interrupted and rewritten by his sacrifice.  I have been glad that Jesus paid this death-price and made a way for us to come into God's kingdom, with forgiveness.  I have tried to walk in love to others because of how great his love is for me.  I have worked to comprehend the enormity of this amazing, unprecedented, unmerited grace.

Yet I have struggled.  I have questioned God's goodness and wondered about the truth of his love.  I have wrestled with a question that so many before me have pondered.  If the Bible is true, if God loves us so much, why on earth does he allow so many awful things to happen?  "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life...God's light came into the world, but people loved darkness more than the light, for their actions were evil."  (John 3:16, 19) God sent his Son to save us, and yet evil remains.  When I consider God is offering eternal life and forgiveness to everyone, including those who choose evil--those who have betrayed the trust of a child, stolen her innocence, changed the entire course of her life, or refused to protect her--I am angry.  I question how this can be, that God loves me, and yet allows these sins to go unpunished.

And then I remember.

But he was pierced for our rebellion,  

crushed for our sins.

He was beaten so we could be whole.  

He was whipped so we could be healed.

These sins have not gone unpunished.  Christ's death, his pain and suffering, not only forgave the sins I have committed--lies I have told, the covetousness of my heart, or the ways that I, like a sheep, have strayed away and left God's path to follow my own.  His pain and suffering, and ultimately his death, was also punishment for the sins that have been committed against me. When I ask, "God, how could you forgive this awful wickedness?  How could you not cry out for justice on my behalf?"  He answers, "I did."  

Yet it was our weaknesses he carried;

it was our sorrows that weighed him down.

And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God,

a punishment for his own sins!

I am looking for justice, seeking to understand how a God of love could allow such a thing to happen, and it has been in front of me all along.  My weakness, my sorrow, the grief I carry because of the sins committed against me--Christ took the punishment for those sins, too.  How have I not ever seen this before?  He did not abuse me, and yet he bore the whip and the crown of thorns and the weight of the cross in the place of the man who did.  Every swing of the hammer toward his nail-pierced hands bears the weight of the sin and sorrow and grief inflicted upon me.  When Christ is beaten and mocked for crimes he didn't commit, and offers his forgiveness, how can I withhold it?

He had done no wrong and had never deceived anyone.

But he was buried like a criminal;

he was put in a rich man's grave.

Although he was innocent, Christ took the punishment for those sins.  For the sins of a sick man, who abused innocent children.  For the sins of a mother, who did not cover her young.  For the sins of a father, who sought only his own will.  Christ was beaten, spit upon, and mocked for the pain and the suffering that these sins brought into my life.  Oh, my beautiful Savior.  Oh, that I might cry out now for the injustice you suffered.  Blessed, blessed redeemer.  Beautiful one who took the weight of shame that I might walk free and at peace.  Your punishment sets me free from harboring a need for justice.  I can let go of the pain from this wickedness, at peace in knowing that you have paid the ultimate price.  

When he sees all that is accomplished by his anguish,

he will be satisfied.

Let me be more like you, Jesus.  Let me understand greater the depth of your love.  Let me be satisfied by all that was accomplished by your anguish.  Your death has brought me forgiveness for my sins, yes.  But this Good Friday I am overwhelmed by your sacrifice, for you took the punishment for the wrongs done to me, making it possible for me to offer forgiveness, and I don't have to look for answers to those questions anymore.  

This story is very personal for me.  I do not know that I have the words to convey how the Holy Spirit brought this precious realization to my heart.  I do know that I am not alone.  I know that there are others, struggling to believe that God loves within the messy fallout of a broken world.  I know that we all question at times the truth of his love for us.  This world is full of sorrows.  But there is a man well-acquainted with sorrows.  He is not unfamiliar with grief.  Ask him where the justice, love, grace and forgiveness can possibly flow from.  Question how you are to go on, walking in love, under the weight of so much darkness.  This Good Friday, consider the man on the cross.  I believe he will answer you. 

Two Years...

Can it really be two years?  Two years since I first held you, first glimpsed your chubby cheeks and tiny, folded ears?  Two years since your Daddy whispered, urgently, "Grace.  Her middle name must be Grace."  Two years since this song played over and over on repeat and I prayed, "You hold, God. You hold." Two years since you entered the world, purple and screaming and real and finally here.  

Brynnlie Grace, our sweet Baby Girl, two years ago you were born into this life; into my arms.  I remember holding a one-day-old bundle of you tightly to me in the hospital room, sunlight pouring through the second floor window, while a hymn was streaming on the computer.  I remember tears pouring down my face.  Your Daddy wanted to know why I was crying.  I couldn't answer.  I didn't know.

Maybe it was hormones.  Baby blues, coming on strong with this third baby cradled in the crook of my neck.  Maybe it was lack of sleep, since hospital beds never do provide all the rest a new Momma needs.  Maybe it was the fear about how I would manage three kids and how you would eat and if we would sleep and all the many possible challenges that we might face in the next few days, weeks, months, years...  I suppose it could have been so many things.  

But I think maybe, Baby Girl, the tears I cried that day were the beginning of admitting that I have been living a lie for a very long time.  It is a lie that has been a part of who I am, how I have defined myself, and what I have believed for as long as I can remember.  I have been living a lie, and with the beautiful, miraculous, wonderful arrival of you in my world, I am learning how to admit the truth.  

This lie carried me.  It brought me through dark nights and ugly days in my childhood, days that were filled with struggle and abuse, nights where my very soul was torn apart and my innocence was lost.  The lie has sustained me through grief and through chaos; it has bolstered my body through the daily need to just. keep. going.  Somehow, your very presence is helping me to find a way to admit the truth.

For two years, I have clenched my fists and gritted my teeth and still held on, against the wave of emotion that washed over me in that hospital room.  The same emotion that has threatened to unravel me some days, as I have fought an inner battle between holding on and letting go.  I have clung to the lie, but you are teaching me and helping me to see the truth is much more beautiful, although it has tried to bring me shame.  

The lie...  The simple statement I have believed and lived and fought with, the proclamation that seems good, that others affirm in me, the mantra I have needed in order to survive is simply this: I. AM. STRONG.

The truth...  The wonderfully broken and difficult and humbling truth, the truth that brings me to my knees, that I cannot say aloud, that threatens to break me in half when I admit it is this:  I. AM. NOT.

I. AM. NOT. STRONG.

i. am. weak.

As I held you in my arms that sunny January day two years ago, the hymn that played in our hospital room proclaimed, "In Christ alone, my hope is found.  He is my light, my strength, my song," I think somewhere, somehow, in that moment I knew: I cannot live this lie anymore.  It has been hard to speak the truth to myself, and to see the truth as good.  I am tired.  I am weary.  I am not strong.  I am weak.  These true statements make me feel embarrassed and ashamed.

I want to be more for you and your brothers.  I believe somehow that being strong would be better.  Yet the good news about the truth is right there in your name, Baby Girl.  Brynnlie Grace.  Grace.  Your Daddy knew that it must be your middle name, as God whispered this word to his heart that day:  "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (2 Corinthians 12:9, NIV)  

I am trying to believe that I can boast about my weakness, that grace really is sufficient.  I am still struggling to admit my weakness and find my way to grace.  But when I speak your name, when I call you, "Brynnlie Grace" and you smile and laugh and fling your arms open wide toward me, I think I am getting closer.