Quality Friendships: Setting the Pace

Recently I have been thinking about friendship and community.

You see, I am 29 years old, and I am just learning how to be a friend. I don't know how that happened, except that this subject is not exactly taught in school or church or even life. If anything, you kind of learn what not to do by the repercussions of negative actions or by having a bad friend yourself. For me, friendships evolved out of just being together at the barn, or having desks next to one another at school. Friendships evolved out of, “Well, since you're here, we should get to know one another.” Also, “I have a similar problem. Yes, we are meant to be.” From there the friendship would mostly become selfish; me, hopelessly insecure, trying to have my needs met from this person who just happened to be in my vicinity, with similar problems to me. A match made in Heaven, so I thought. Sometimes it worked out, thankfully, but mostly it was just not meant to be.

Living in community at Bethel taught me so much about friendship. I felt like an old worn shoe undergoing an extensive rehabilitation process, complete with wire brushes and buffers and polish. God was doing an inside out work in me, that's for sure. And, it wasn't just me. The environment was rich with this sort of transformation, so as I made friends, we were all having our scuffs buffed out, together, in community. This experience led me to make my first, real best friend. I only thought I had best friends before. Now, I am exceedingly sorry to those people because I realized I had never been a friend to them. I had been shallow, needy, and undependable. As I learned to really be a friend, I was unearthed for who I really was: desperate, vulnerable, and dependable. I was needy in a different way; I needed to know I would be okay, and those I was in community with wanted to know the same. So, we talked, we spilled the beans, we let one another see our imperfections and it created this rich soil bed for prospering friendships. Out of this season, one friend in particular became someone I connected in my soul with. A sister. 

Then, we moved. My heart grieved leaving Bethel, of course, but I really didn't want to leave my sister. The good news is, though two years have passed, I love her as much as ever.

I wondered though, without Bethel as a host environment, if I would be able to make as close friends as I did there. The good news is, it was possible. More than possible. I have several soul sisters here, women who are the true salt of the earth. Some of the most precious people I have ever known. They know me. They know what God is doing in me. Where I have come from, where I am going. Most of the time, they remind me where I am going. For the first time in my life, at 29 years old, I am learning to be a good friend, and sustain quality relationships.

How do you do it? Well, it isn't easy.

But, it is totally worth it.

When I think about my friendships, I keep having this vision of myself as an 18 year old. I am running track my senior year. When I began running track, the coach made me a sprinter, which tested me beyond all physical limits, and truly, I sucked. The next year I tried Cross-Country and experienced some success, a lot more than track had given me, at least. By the next year, we had a new coach for the track team and he was ex-military. I don't even remember his name, but I see his face so clearly. He cared about my mile times. He recorded them at every meet and every practice. At the end of the week, he would hunt me down and show me my times and give me this look like he knew I could do better than that. He assigned me the 1600m run, the 3200m run, and by my own personal choice, the long jump (pretty sure he told me I was not built to be a long jumper, but I insisted and he relented. He turned out to be more right than I was). Between warm-up, my events, and cool down, I ran almost five miles at every meet! There were many times I questioned my coach's sanity. I remember praying for rain on meet days. I confessed this to coach and he laughed and said, “An athlete should crave the game.” I laughed back, because I didn't crave anything about running, and I hardly considered myself athletic. Over the season, my time improved but the last several meets I could not get my two mile time down. I ran on Saturdays and Sundays. If my time improved, it was only by 3-5 seconds.

Then, the last meet of the season, the last meet of my high school career, my last event had arrived. The two mile. I was so ready. When the pistol shot, I took off ahead of my peers. Definitely not the best of the match, but I could hold my own. I don't remember when he joined me, but my coach eventually came alongside my run and set my pace. The entire time he was shouting, “You can do this! Come on! Faster! Pick up your feet! Let's go! YOU'RE GIVING UP! DON'T GIVE UP!” I know it's strange, but this memory stands out to me as one of the more intimate moments of my life. I guess because I thought I was going to die by spontaneous heart combustion, and he was there, assuring me my heart actually wasn't beating hard enough. I crossed the finish line, and no, I didn't win. But, my coach was jumping in the air, his stop watch dangling over my head (because I was hunched over in the grass, my entire body rebelling against me) and he was shouting, “You did it! You shaved 20 seconds off!” Then, when I was able to breathe in a predictable pattern, I straightened beside him, and yanked the stop watch from his hand to see for myself. TWENTY SECONDS! When you're a runner, this is quite the victory.

So, this moment I have seen time and time again when I think about what has made my friendships so rich and meaningful. We are running our hearts out, together. Not racing each other. Pacing each other. I know this is a metaphor, but I'd like to share some practical ideas.

1. Vulnerability.

This has to be said. I'll never forget one of my first small group meetings at Bethel, a question was posed in a group discussion, “What is your most difficult sin to erase from your life? What is your most common battle?” We took some time to ask God, soak, reflect, and then as we came up with the answer, the group leader informed us we would be going around to share. WHAT???! Now, this was a small group I was meeting with regularly and building relationships with, not just a random group of people. Yet I had never said some of these things out loud. Dare I say the truth? But, I did. And now, I say it all the time to my closest friends. This is my battle. These are the seconds I am trying to shave off my life. Faithful friends, they are not scared of this, for they know their turn will come and you will not abandon them, either.

I am convinced one of the greatest forms of vulnerability is simple the unveiling of your imperfections. I have gotten so good at this (it's a honed skill, I am convinced) that a friend called me out once, and said, “Summer, you always start your sentences, 'You know what stupid thing I did?” After this I realized I may have abused vulnerability a bit. All I know is that the scariest part of vulnerability was admitting I wasn't perfect and didn't have it all together. It's pretty simple from there.

That was a joke. But, it does open the door for honest conversation. I have a soul sister that dreams of becoming a sex therapist, and she knows I am always available for her to practice her shrink skills. I have this memory of sitting on her living room floor with no kids around. She has the best, most soothing voice, and asks me, “So tell me. When was the first time you saw a man's...” You know. It was one of those moments where I realized her and I would love each other forever. Then, I closed my eyes, and told her all the things about intimacy that had broken my heart when I was younger. Her commitment to let me process has brought me an immense about of breakthrough. She is my go-to therapist, not just for intimacy, but about pretty much anything.

2. Inspire hope.

What's their goal? Is it greater intimacy with God? Breakthrough in marriage? Finances? Pressing into dreams? See where they're going. Pace with them. Go there with them in your heart, and dream with them. I know most of my friends deepest prayer requests, and they know mine. One of my flaws is that I am endlessly fixing situations, so if a friend says, “This is what's going on,” my inclination is to respond, “Well, all you have to do is...blah blah blah.” Most of my friends know this and let me say my piece, though my goal, beyond fixing their problems or planning the map to their goals is letting them know that they will get there. I can see it so clearly. It's coming! We're going there together!

3. Prophesy.

Prophesying is really a fancy word for hearing from God for another person. It is a spiritual gift meant to edify. This is where you speed up a bit, inviting them to come along. I'm almost embarrassed to say this because I feel my friends are much better at this than I am. I can attest though, as a recipient, that it is such a blessed gift. Several months ago I was having a bad day, I think I cried from the morning on. I texted a friend about my dilemma, and she literally showed up at my house unannounced, held my baby, helped me make dinner, and passed off a prophetic word. It made such an impact on me, I have it taped to my cabinets. She wrote all these things God was saying about me, and how He saw me, and in the moment it change the course of my day. Now, when a friend writes me with a bad day or a problem, I am quick to ask God what He's doing in their lives, how He sees them in that moment, and pass it on.

4. Celebrate the small stuff

Celebrate it all, actually. But, especially the small stuff. So much of parenting and life and spirituality is mastering the small stuff. I like to think of these tiny victories as little bricks going onto a foundation. They are indeed worth celebrating. One thing this does is takes the focus of all the big stuff that is dissolving in life (my four year old is not potty-trained!! My husband never listens! Whatever.) and you realize that Hey, I did my dishes today. I got out of my pajamas. I read my Bible. God spoke to me. The small stuff adds up.

5.Abandon fear.

When you are in the business of vulnerability, fear will rear its ugly head. It's impossible for it not to happen. Just because it's raises it's head, opens its jaws, and prepares to speak (or devour you) does not mean you have to engage it beyond rejection. Just say no. Choose love. Choose truth. Recently I spent time with one of my closest friends, but because we are always watching kids, we rarely ever go deep. So, during our recent hang out, alone, I shared as much as I could, and I assume she did as well. It was so much at one time, I got home and immediately assumed she hated me. I call this Vulnerability Hangover. It's a thing. I texted her and said, “I love you. Do you still love me?” She wrote back, “I still love you.” Love casts out fear. I am getting better and better at telling my friends that I love them, and it's scary. No joke. Sometimes I am tempted to write, “Love you.” Something about that I makes it a little too personal. It's a battle to fight with your closest friends, though. Move towards them in love. “I love you.” Try it. In a world where most learn to hold back love as a form of control, lavish it, if you have it to give.

“You use steel to sharpen steel, and so one friends sharpens another.” Proverbs 27:17

This is one of the more common friendship verses. If you are looking to study Biblical friendship in depth, a good start would be Jesus relating to his disciples, cleaning their feet. Or a study of Jonathan and David. Friendship has the capacity to be rich, deep, and intimate. You have to envision iron sharpening iron, though. Sparks flying. An intense buffering process. It can be painful sometimes, but the product is valuable and sharp. The process fits you for battle, which is a literal and metaphorical way of saying life.

Jesus was not afraid of the disciple's dirt. He chose them. He served them. He cried in front of them.

Jonathan humbled himself to the point of giving his birthright as king to his best friend, obedient to God, devoted to friendship.

I can honestly say that some of my friends have become sisters to me. Nothing is hidden. They know some of the deepest parts of my heart. Is that vulnerable? Of course it is. Is it scary? Well, yeah. But, I've heard it said that courage is not the absence of fear, it's the confrontation of it. Real friendships take courage to be seen in your weakness. The transformation that takes place is phenomenal. It is Divine. I can't explain it in any other terms. While time is important, it's not about the time spent together. It's really about moving towards one another in love, despite what you see, and despite what you feel at times. (Proverbs 17:17, "A friend loves at all times..." Surprise! Surprise! It's in the Bible!)

An obvious caveat here is to choose friends wisely. Relationships, especially deep and intimate ones, do not happen overnight. So while the person next to you at the supermarket has the capacity to become a close friend, it's probably not a good idea to tell them a deep secret. I can't really say how those conversations come about except that you'll know. I have my soul sisters, but I also have many friends who are just that, close friends. And, if we continue growing closer, I will share more and more. 

I also have to add this: I'm sorry. To all the friends over the years I have not been there for. To all the friends who spilled their hearts to me and I left them high and dry. To all the friends who I chose out of selfishness. To all the friends I raced, passed, or refused to pace with, I am sorry. It's tempting to include a couple hundred excuses, but none of them change the fact that I have hurt people.

If you have been hurt by me or others, don't let that stop you from pursuing healthy relationships. Kris Valloton says we find our destinies in community. So if you are searching for a purpose in life, maybe all you need is a good friend. It's worth the pain. It's worth the process. Find someone to pace through life with. 

Surrendering Control

 As of late, God has me on this vulnerability train. I can't explain it, but suddenly, being honest about myself feels less terrifying. In a terrifying sort of way, that is. By that mean I mean, to pull the heavy armor of self-preservation away is liberating, but to be exposed is frightening. Yet, God loves us, flaws and all, and the quicker we can rest in His acceptance, the quicker we are able to take a good, hard look at ourselves, at our flaws, and deal with them. You find the healing you need, a piece of your heart gets mended, you pass it on.

So while I'm on this vulnerability train, I want to divulge a process God has had me in for several years now: Surrendering control.

For my entire life, people have assumed because of my size that I must have an eating disorder. I have wanted to invite perfect strangers to my meals so they can see with their own two (nosy) eyes that I eat more than enough food. It's called metabolism. As I grew older, and the speculation continued, I began to think there must be a serious problem with me. Why couldn't I gain weight?

Soon words like thyroid and adrenals and gut health began to enter my vocabulary. I also had a history of food intolerances. Long story short, I quickly learned that some foods fed my health, and others starved it. The end. I sank into a lifestyle of Yes and No's when it came to my diet: Yes, I can have this. No, I cannot have that.

It was comfortable. Not to mention, God provided for all of my convictions. We had just enough money to purchase organic foods, and in months of lack, it seemed organic vegetables would appear on our doorstep (TRUE STORY). I had not a care in the world....until we went on vacation.

Vacation: when you just have to eat fast foods, sometimes. Vacation: when Daddy tells mommy to “loosen up.” Vacation: when it is nearly impossible to find gluten-free and hydrogenated oil-free foods. I became a very irritable, miserable, hungry woman on this trip, many years ago. By day two, I had only eaten kale with lemon juice on it (it's okay, you can laugh at me). I was trying so badly to heal my gut, I could not bring myself to eat a decent meal. I decided I would rather starve than eat something processed.

That's when my husband sat me down and told me he was pretty sure I had an eating disorder.

What?

Yes, I thought he was crazy. He was never on board with my food choices. He always thought it drained our budget. He hated sauerkraut. He thought bone broth smelt of dog poop. What does he know? But, after having a meltdown at Disney Land (THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH) because I couldn't find anything that I could eat, I began realizing that maybe my husband; my accusatory, non-supportive husband, could have a point.

And, everyone knows that admitting you have a problem is the first step to dealing with your problem.

 I dealt with mine by getting home as soon as possible and detoxing for a week.

Months passed by.

As part of my beliefs about food, I never rejected something offered to me. One night, we were at a friend's house and she prepared a non-organic pork loin in the crockpot. . I don't remember thinking this, but the truth of the matter was, I would have never purchased a non-organic pork loin at that time in my life. But, because she made it for my family, I ate it. A lot of it. I had like five servings. I was absolutely starving.

This was around the time I began to confess to my husband that I was going to need help. I talked to a mentor mom that I trusted. I told my best friend (the one who fixed me the pork!). And, I began to talk openly with God about it, owning my struggle. For me, that never meant surrendering my standards, it meant elevating my faith above food. 

Why is this story relevant now? 

Well, this week I am volunteering at VBS. I was mentally prepared not to eat a perfect diet. Pancakes for breakfast were going to happen. Doughnuts. Pizza for lunch. Bologna sandwiches. 

The first morning, the staff celebrated with doughnuts from a popular place in town. I grabbed one up, and decidedly split it in half. As I absolutely relished my doughnut ration, my best friend gasped, “Oh my gosh! You are eating a doughnut! Who are you?” I blinked twice. She says, "I'm so proud of you." 

I told my husband that afternoon, “Do you think I still have problems with food?” He laughed at me, “I think you're a prude...?”

Work in progress, right here.  

Allow me to emphatically say that when I ration food, refuse food, plan, and allow myself to feel consumed by guilt, I am not in faith. I am not trusting God. I am reigning with all of my might any bit of control I can gather. And the truth is, it's not that much. It's prideful and prudish. It's the pinnacle of self-preservation, the opposite of authenticity. It's entitlement. Most of all though, it's wretched, all-consuming fear.

As I prepared to write this blog, I heard God say SO clearly 1 Timothy 4. Here we go:

“For every creature of God is good, and nothing is to be refused if it is received with thanksgiving. For it is sanctified by the word of God and prayer. If you instruct the brethren of these things, you will be a good minister of Jesus Christ, nourished in the words of faith and of the good doctrine you have carefully followed....For bodily exercise profits a little, but godliness is profitable for all things, having promise of the life that is and of that which is to come....For to this end we both labor and suffer approach, because we trust in the living God, who is the savior of all men, especially those who believe.”

So, let's break this down: "Everything God created as food is good." Technically, Paul is talking about the old covenant of food laws being null. But, the principle is that food is sanctified by prayer. There is speculation that the old testament law was enforced to keep people from falling ill. Example, the people were told not to eat pigs because they fed on trash It was God's attempt at preserving their lives. In the New Testament, we are given authority over all things, including our food. We can bless it. Gratitude is also a necessary component of our meals, and we all know that gratitude is the most powerful weapon to wield against entitlement.

Then, I love the next line: "If you instruct others about this, you will be a good minister, nourished in the words of faith." NOURISHED. There is nothing more nourishing than faith. This has been my greatest tool in overcoming food control, planting my feet firmly in the gospel.

“...For bodily exercise profits little, but godliness is profitable for all things, having promise for life.”

You know, when I control food, it is an attempt to preserve my life. To be healthy. But, read this scripture carefully: godliness gives us the promise of life, and the life to come. It preserves our lives.

Notice Paul doesn't say that self-preservation and taking care of ourselves is not profitable at all. No, not that. But, it is only a little profitable. I also wonder how many of us grow ill or feel overcome by fatigue and think, "I just need to eat better." Maybe we do? Or, maybe we need to submit to the process of becoming more Christlike. 

Now, to finish up the scripture, "to what end do we labor? To what end do we suffer?"

Not starving ourselves.

Not hating our bodies.

Not shaming our children because of their food choices. 

Because we trust the living God. 

Now, I am not saying that we should not eat healthy. Trust me, I would never say that. There is however a risk for anything to elevate itself above God. That is called idolatry.

Idolatry is very dangerous. And, eating disorders are never about making food an idol. It's making yourself an idol. This leads me to James 3:15, “For where envy and self-seeking exist, confusion and every evil thing are there.”

So, we'll stop there. But, yikes. Every evil thing.

The answer is to not serve yourself, but serve God. Nourish yourself with faith. Pursue godliness. Have open conversations with God about your personal food convictions, and write them down. Ask yourself as you eat whether you have approached the meal in fear or faith. More than anything, take a deep breath and feel yourself float into His palm. He is fully trustworthy. 

“Do Not Leave Your Longings Unattended”

     This morning I had the great privilege of sharing my story at MOPS, my journey of reclaiming my passions amid parenting. Wow. I am still in process, but it has been an immensely rewarding one. As I typed up my "talk" I found myself thinking of a story, perhaps my own, and minimized my speech to let myself type freely. I love to tell stories. I printed off several copies, as sharing fiction can be vulnerable, but so many friends asked for copies, I was sad I had not printed more. At least this way, I had more time to edit (forgive the typo's in the original copy) :). Since many did not read my short story, I am taking a risk and sharing it on here, in hopes it will encourage someone. Yes, I will feel incompetent and insignificant, and I confess this to break the hold of fear, and it only partially worked, but I still wrote it to encourage some and this is why I share.  

                             Do Not Leave Your Longings Unattended

  

          “I don't know who I am anymore.” Sarah rested a cheek lifelessly against her palm, a knobby elbow propped against the kitchen table. The sky was split in half beyond the window, a orange horizon hung below a hazy gray covering. She resented the postponed evening, as the children took advantage and insisted on later nights. Now, they were finally asleep, 37 minutes after their bedtime. She sighed. Her husband, Carl, was rummaging in a kitchen drawer just behind her, prepping the coffee maker for an early morning pre-scheduled brew. He rammed the filter drawer with the heel of his hand.  “This thing is so old,” he spoke to himself, just under his breath.

           A clatter and snap filled the silent kitchen. Carl grumbled. “I guess I'm going to Wal-mart. Unless you can survive without coffee?”

          “Negative.”

          “I thought so. Need anything else to make it through tomorrow?”

          Sarah sat straight, rousing her mind to a wakeful state.  “Bread, peanut butter, milk, cereal...” There was more, but she couldn't think of it right off.

          Carl's face twisted and he rested a hip against the counter,  “Didn't you just go to the store two days ago?”

          Sarah tipped her head sideways, “I did, but-”

          “And, you went $50 over budget.”

          She expected him to go there.  “Honey...”

          He sighed, giving in, “It's fine. I'll get what you need.”  He drug his hand across the counter top, catching the keys with his fingertips and flipping them into his palm before they tumbled off the side. A little game he played with himself. Sarah was listless.  “I heard what you said, and I don't know what you want me to say.”  He caught her eyes,and his expression softened. “I'm sorry.”  He shrugged with one shoulder, rehearsing the grocery list she had given him in his head. Before he could walk away, she called out to him. 

          “Am I the same person I was when you married me?”
         “You're better,” he assured her.

          “You have to say that.”

          He rolled his eyes, “You're a little more introspective than you used to be, but other than that....” he shrugged again as her gaze pressed him. “You're stressed more than I remember you. You seem worn out, but Clara gets you up several times at night, so I understand. You're a little more anxious,and I can't remember the last time you had fun.” Was that what she wanted to know?

         Sarah dabbed at the first bit of tears that formed in the corners of her eyes, a stinging wad sat in her throat.

       Carl strode across the room and fell to his knees in front of her, “Gah, Sarah.” He felt the first subtle twinge of remorse, then, anger. First at himself, then at her. “You pushed me to say all that. I think you're a great mom.”  He grabbed a limp hand from her lap and squeezed it, “I wouldn't change anything about you.”

          She nodded over him, though her tears fell like a rainy day window.

          Carl's eyebrows peaked, “You really don't get out enough.”

          That was always his answer.

          “Do you want to go to Wal-mart?” he asked, his voice perky.

          A late-night, kids-free trip to Wal-mart was tempting. Since when was 8:45 a late night? Since when was a trip to Wal-mart tempting? She shook her head, looking past him. “Wal-mart won't fix this.”

         “Have you tried praying about-”

          “Why do you always go there?” Sarah whined, and lowered her head into the crook of her elbow, choking out a train of sobs.

          Carl rolled his eyes, “Because God knows you better than I do.” He waited for her to calm, and squeezed her hand again, urging her to return to the conversation. “I pray for you,” he offered, his voice smooth and full, like honey.

          Sarah lifted her head, a soft smile curved onto her face.“So, tell me what to do.”

          He laughed quietly as he pulled himself from the floor and sat in the matching chair just by her.   “What do you need? A day off? To cut back?”  He folded his hands together like he was closing on a business deal.  “Do you need help with the kids? Do you need-”

          “I need peace,” she said, cutting him off.

          He stretched his frame against the chair back, drawing away from her, “Only one person can give you-” he started.

          “I know,” she said, her voice low and sharp. At least her tears had dried up. “If that worked, I'd have what I needed.”

          Carl rolled his tongue around his mouth, withholding so much he wished to say. Correction never satisfied Sarah. She was too bright for that. “Well,” he started, leaning forward again in his chair, “You need a change.”  He had to help her think for herself. It was a learned trait, one he had honed after 8 years of marriage. “What do you think that looks like?”

          Her eyes searched the ceiling, for this is how she did her best thinking. “I do need a break,” agreeing with his suggestion. “And, I need help.”  She sniffled at the admission, a pool of tears filling her eyes, again. Why couldn't she parent three children happily? Keep up a house? Maintain a schedule? Other people did it without dissolving on a weekly basis.

          Carl was nodding, his black and white brain calculating the logistics. “I'll take Sam to soccer this week and get Molly to dance.”

          “You do so much, Carl,”  Sarah said, then dabbed at her eyes with the collar of her shirt. Carl could do it all, and still shepherd a congregation. Even now she saw him picking away encrusted food at the kitchen table, swiping the remains into his palm. “Stop it!”

          “This table is filthy,” he said before realizing this would not comfort her. He gave a haphazard shrug, “It's not a big deal. We only eat off of it.” That was not helpful.

          Sarah pulled in a long breath, “So, you'll take over some errands this week?”

          “Sure.”

          “That will help.”  She rested against the wooden back of the chair, gazing past Carl. Somehow, the solace she had been seeking still eluded her. The swarming tension was present within, keeping her awake, pulling her away from Carl. He persisted.

          “What are you going to do about Sarah?”

           She raised an eyebrow, “What?”

           Carl nodded, decisively, “What will you do?”

          “About what?”

          “About yourself?”

          She chewed on his words, then searched the ceiling again. “I'll probably go to sleep soon...”

          “You sleep every night.”

          “Not enough.”

           A slight smile spread across his face, “You and me, both.”

          Sarah sighed and fell forward, resting her head against Carl's shoulder. He was a rock; a steadfast,true friend for every season of her life.

          “Sarah Simpson. What would she have done at her wits end?”

          This was her maiden name. An immediate picture of herself adorned in mismatched pajamas, a sloppy bun wound atop her head, appeared in her mind's eye. She was sprawled across a twin-sized bed, her bent knees in the air like twin flagpoles. She was drawing. For hours she would do that, staring on at a still prop, her mind in constant motion, energy flowing throughout her entire body, though it always focused her. She smiled at the memory. But, what did Sarah Simpson know? All she wanted was to become Sarah Crandall, Carl's wife. Sarah Simpson didn't like herself, either.

          Carl smiled, recalling a memory of his own,“Sarah Simpson would have tucked herself away in a quiet room. She would have prayed and written in a leather bound journal she had cut and sewn herself.”

          Sarah sat up and faced him, a curious smile on her face.

          “My hippy wife,” Carl said, completely endeared.

          Sarah laughed genuinely then sat back against the chair, calming. “I used to draw.”

          He nodded, other memories flooding back.“You used to read your Bible with a box of crayons! And, when we drove a long distance, you would pull out markers and color your arm. It was your personal canvas!”

        Though she cupped a hand over her mouth, it failed to stifle girlish giggles.

        “I remember! Oh God,I remember!”

         “Why'd you stop?”

          Sarah knew when she had stopped. After Molly arrived two months early, there had been no time to rest or eat or think anything beyond dreaded what-if's. Then, when Molly lived- Thank God, Molly had lived- she hadn't drawn again. “It feels foolish to have needs when others need me as much as they do.”

          Carl's expression fell, remembering Sarah as her former self. She had been so free. Had he done this to her?

          She read his mind, “I wanted to be a wife and mother more than anything, but I've traded myself.”

          His knuckles traced her cheekbone like the tip of a feather, “We need you.”

          “Who am I?” She asked, her eyebrows drawn, the lines across her forehead thickening.

          “She's in there,” Carl assured her gently and smiled. “Now, if you want coffee tomorrow...”

          “I know,” she conceded, “You need to go.”

          He kissed her forehead, then stood, retrieving his keys. He left.

          As Carl pulled from the driveway, Sarah strode quietly through the living room and opened a corner closet. A soccer ball, two overstuffed jackets, and three iron golf clubs tumbled out. Kids. Clutter. Carl. She rolled her eyes. A tattered sketchbook was tucked in the corner on a top shelf, and she fingered the edge, barely catching the corner with her middle-finger and pushing it closer. When it was in her ownership again, she left the spilled contents of the closet and walked away, the sketchbook flat and against her heart.

          The sketches were elementary, boasting of undeveloped talent. But, some of them had a special touch. Substance. She couldn't look away from one particular sketch, a wrought-iron bench on a quiet ocean shore. She had sat for hours in the sand that day sketching, her elbows digging round dents into her thighs. Her knuckles aching. Her heart fluttering. The emotion roused in her again.

          Draw. A quiet voice within her spoke.

          She smiled slightly, focusing inward. “It's been years,” she said under her breath, dismissing the suggestion. Or, maybe it was a command? She heard nothing more. Yet, the deep corner of their plush suede couch called to her. Her feet carried her there, slowly, and even when she arrived, she stood staring at the empty spot, wondering whether she should give into it. How long would it hold her captive? A red crayon lay tossed aside on a neighboring end table. Sarah chewed on her lower lip, her eyes darting to and from the red crayon and the corner cushion of the couch. She drew in a breath, then lowered a knee onto the cushion, then another,then she turned, facing outward, and readjusted several times the way a dog might before deciding how to lay. Her knees tipped forward, the sketchbook resting against her soft stomach, her thumbs tracing the page with the bench. She turned the page, and it was blank. She reached over the arm of the couch for the crayon, and took it into her possession. Her fingers cradled the crayon, then gripped it, and she pulled a scarlet ribbon across the page. She didn't know what she was drawing. She was just drawing. Her heart was thumping.

          Draw yourself. The quiet voice within was awakened, yet again.

          She smiled, even as her heart ached. “I am a mess,” she said aloud, no louder than a whisper. But, she obeyed, scribbling the very sunset she had seen that evening. Suddenly, she jumped from the couch, the sketchbook tucked beneath her elbow, and ran to a nearby drawer. It flung open with force, and she pulled a handful of arrayed crayons from its midst, as many as she could fit into her palm. Then, she returned to the couch, capturing the orange sky in its splendor, a fingernail slant of sun as it sunk below the horizon, and a patchwork of clouds that had dotted the atmosphere before the haze. Then, she drew the haze; the dreariness that would soon become nightfall,and the very tone she meant to convey gripped her within.

          Morning will come. The quiet voice spoke,and she nodded to herself, understanding.

          Sarah barely noticed when Carl stepped into the living room.

          His face lit up when he saw her, so familiar, and yet, someone he had never seen before. A seasoned Sarah; one who was not quite as playful and free as her former self had been, but still, one he had always known she would become: mature, deeply intelligent,a kind and gracious mother towards his children. A woman. That was it. She had become a woman. Curled in the corner of the couch, her over-sized nightgown hanging over her knees like a tent, the sketchbook resting in her lap. Had he ever loved her more?

         “You found your peace.” He said, his eyes warm and tender towards her.

          She held up a finger, signaling him to wait. Then, after a brief moment, when her drawing was complete, she raised her eyes to face him, her expression aglow, “I found my sketchbook.”

 Summer Krismanits

You Will Not Miss a Thing

Today as I write, I want to invite you into a very personal space of my heart. I feel like the Apostle Paul when he writes, “No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it {perfection} but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.” (Philippians 3:13)

I am so painfully in process, I hesitate to share any wisdom, but bear with me, as I feel I have an assignment from God to share this.

When I first entered the Charismatic church, I was but a shell of a person. The flag-waving, tongues speaking, and passionate worship hardly penetrated my hard heart. I could not understand what I was seeing, but I soaked it up, nonetheless. Our very first time attending Chapel in the Pines (for my family that remains there), we happened upon a fellowship luncheon. I didn't know anybody there, though I felt like God Himself had planted me in the family right off. I can't explain it, but I knew I belonged. The reason we had even attended was because Paul's father, though he was in the ministry himself as a priest, had sent us there. I was struggling with crippling panic disorder and we had heard that the only deliverance minister in town attended this very church, so we went.

Here I was with my one child in tow, standing in the midst of a bustling fellowship luncheon when a middle-aged fatherly man approached me and rested his elbow on my shoulder, completely casual. “Well,” he started, and looked into the distance beyond me, “You, precious daughter, are not going to miss a thing. God is saying that over you today. Not going to miss a thing in your life.” I had no grid for a prophetic word at this time, so I mostly considered him odd and parted ways as quickly as I could. 

To include a brief back story, I began to receive counseling from this church's deliverance minister, and allow me to emphatically say that deliverance is an active, real, tangible, effective, powerful ministry that set me free from panic disorder after nearly a decade of reliance on anti-depressants. I consider the man who prayed with me a father in the faith, and how blessed I am to have met him. 

Back to the prophetic word, though. I began reciting it each time the spirit of fear dug its greedy talons into my soul. “NO!” I would say out loud, “I am not going to miss a thing!” Interestingly enough, as I continued on my life journey, combating fear in nearly every realm of my life, I discovered that my greatest fear was actually that I was missing out. If I felt lonely, I thought no one loved me. When I was ill, I thought for sure the remainder of my life was being yanked from my control. When I was frustrated, I feared justice would always elude me. When I was angry at my husband, I felt in my heart I would never experience a healthy, wholehearted marriage.

Missing out was my greatest fear, and so I clung to this word as a lifeline. On turbulent airplanes. In messy family drama. In the middle of catastrophic toddler tantrums when going out in public took two hours to administrate I would tell myself, “I WILL NOT MISS A THING!”

All of this I believed until Paul's parents were killed in a car accident. Especially in the company of those with strong family ties, particularly grandparent figures. I began to dwell on what my kids had lost by losing their Opa and Nana, and living at a distance from my parents. The pain was so overwhelming I could hardly stand to be around people, even my closest friends, sometimes. I began to suddenly realize how much of our family's journey had appeared to accomplish the very OPPOSITE of the prophetic word, as we have moved about the country doing what we believed God had called our family to do, resulting in multiple new beginnings with no family, no friends, no money, no stability, and no job. My flesh began to full on reject this word more times than I can count. And, why wouldn't it?

One day, after a glorious sun-shining afternoon spent with extended family, I wept from the passenger seat of my van. Not one person had failed to hug my children. They were received, celebrated, and loved upon. But, it just wasn't the same. The fear that I was missing out weighed so heavily upon me, I began to question the goodness of God, and the existence of God, altogether. I screamed at Paul, “I JUST WANT YOUR PARENTS BACK!”

There came a point when I had to reconcile what I had been told eight years prior. When the truth of that word crumbled beneath my experience. Then, that same day in the van, as I wept over my losses, I closed my eyes and asked God what-on-earth sort of tease it was to give someone like me a word like, "You will not miss a thing.”

I began to experience His overwhelming love and affection in that moment, and though weak, took up my declaration once more. I realized that all of my hope is in Him. I began to declare that I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living, and it has already begun. I will taste and see that the Lord is good. This realization that the most fulfilling experience in life will come as a result of knowing God opened my heart not just to trust Him more {still in process, here}, but to thank him. I began thanking Him for all of the goodness right in front of me. 

Now I know, even as I grieve, even when life is unfathomably unjust, even when scarcity and lack is all around me, it cannot cripple me permanently. Though the feelings and experience painfully exist, much more than I wish at times, my spirit resides with Him who is able to do more than I can ask or imagine, according to His Spirit at work within me. Now I know this word is rooted in my identity, not in my experience. How great is the love the Father has lavished upon us, that we should be called his children! How can we miss anything when we grasp this? The words of the familiar chorus, "All you need is Love, Love, Love..." ring through my mind, and an endless amount is available. 

God seeks to guide us and satisfy us in the very areas we lack. He strengthens us, causing us to flourish, bear fruit, and even rest in seasons we are being stolen from, and scarcity reigns. He is sufficient. I wanted to release this very word today: You will not miss a thing. Began to declare it over your life. Fight for this promise in the natural, but rest in the Spirit, knowing that God will accomplish His purposes in you as you partner with Him. He will never fail. Grief and self-pity cannot co-exist where the God of abundance has authority.

Please don't hear me say there is no allowance for grief, there is an incredible amount of grace for the process. There came a time in my own journey, several years later, where I had to stop thinking of all the things, the very many things, I had missed out on, and see what I had gained. It pointed me straight to His Providence. 

Honestly, at times, it's just faith; meager, sloppy, less-substance-than-a-mustard-seed, faith. I get this. You won't always see it, even as you believe and declare it. This is what sets us Christians apart from the rest of the world and makes us seem a little crazy, I get it. But, don't miss the opportunity in places of pain to take up your position in Him, as His child, in His presence and beneath His wings, knowing that in DEATH AND LIFE you will not miss a thing, because you are so loved.

“The LORD will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” Isaiah 8:11

Thoughts on Connection and Parenting

Sometimes I am tempted to tell people with young children to “hang on” because it gets easier. You're still on the clock 24-7, but more of an on-call, as needed basis. It is less demanding, for sure. As the children get older though, my role changes. For so long, I was eager for the role to change and as a result taught them to dress themselves, drop their dirty clothes in a designated pile, brush their own teeth, and finally, wipe their own poos (can I get an Amen?). When people tell me the little years fly by, I'm inclined to glare. It took five years, FIVE brutal years that I plowed through, strengthened only by the anticipated milestones, cute toddler lisps, and the way they simultaneously eat and wear chocolate ice cream (SO-CUTE). Here I am now, though, with two school aged children! I made it! I love the conversations, the connection, and the shared interests we are developing. I love their budding personalities. I love their innocence and perception of the world around them. They teach me so much about the world.

They also teach me about me. There are times when an outraged, spoiled, wild school-aged child is like a big mirror. Or, a brokenhearted 5 year old dashing to her room after a simple correction is a reflection of me. These are the times when I think, "Can I just wipe your butt, again?" 

Last week, Sonora was having a meltdown. I asked her if we could talk, and she said, “I just want to be alone!” She ran away from me, so I let her have time to herself. After a couple of minutes of prayer and discernment I knew that there was a deeper heart issue thing going on. I approached my sobbing 5 year old and calmly explained that she was not in trouble, and I was not angry at her. Yes, I had fussed at her for a minor infraction, but she wasn't in trouble.

I said, “Sonora, I know you're feeling guilt and shame right now. But, you don't have to. I forgive you.”

She wouldn't look at me.

I told her, “I know you have something that hurts inside of your heart. Let's close our eyes and ask Jesus to show us that painful place and then how we can fix it.” I prayed for her out loud, and peeked to make sure her eyes were closed.

When I was finished with the prayer, I asked her, “Did Jesus show you what hurts?”

She said, “Yes, He did. And, it's you.”

This is the difficult part about this stage. The mirror. This is not the first, or second, or third time this has happened, that I have been the “splinter” in their heart. This happens. I am human. I have problems. My problems spill out onto my children, and then they have problems. This stage is hard. It's not about changing diapers and wiping bottoms. It's about connection. As a 28 year old, I am just learning to have solid, healthy relationships. Learning to be a good friend has been part of the process God has me in. I am in process of learning to be fair, kind, and loving with people. All the while, teaching two little people how to be fair, kind, and loving. I am teaching something that I am just now getting a grasp on. Part of having strong connections is vulnerability. Part of having good connections is learning to receive criticism. Both of those things hurt.

But, I press on.

“How did I hurt you?”

“You hurt my feelings when you said that I hurt the baby. I didn't meant to.”

She was spinning Trinity in the office chair and spun her out onto the ground! I was watching-- my phone was PUT AWAY! It all looked safe, until she sped up and out went the baby. I grabbed screaming Trin and held her close, then glared at Sonora, “I told you to be careful. Look! The baby is hurt!”

That was it. A mean face. A quick, calm scold. A little manipulation.

“Sonora,” I said later, as we talked. “I know it wasn't your fault, but I was upset because the baby got hurt.”

Sonora sobbed. “It's just, the baby is not your only kid.”

It's like Indian Sunburn sometimes. It hurts. I wonder how on earth God is going to make something good out of my mess.

I told her she was 100% right. I made the decision to let the kids spin Trinity on the office chair. I was watching. I was wrong. The 5 year old was right. I asked her to forgive me.

She said, “I do forgive you, but I still want to be alone.”

I gave her some more time, and after awhile, I grabbed a handful of chocolate chips and held them out to her like a bone to a puppy. “I'm sorry. I was not a kind mommy to you.”

Sometimes I am just not a kind person, especially when I am afraid.

She took the chocolates and curled up in my lap. I sat with her while she played a game on her tablet, until she said her love tank was full and dismissed me. Soon after I walked away, she followed me. I was typing away on the couch and she curled up until half her body was on my left thigh, and her elbow knocking into my rib cage. It was beautiful. I had her heart back. All it took was ripping my heart out, but it was worth it.

I used to have lots of theories about parenting. I have read about a trillion books, and if you asked me, I do have a couple that I prefer and recommend. It has really come down to one “theory” for Paul and I, and that is to parent from connection with our children. It's not easy to record the fact that I mess up a lot. Or, that I am the splinter in my daughter's heart sometimes. I am committed to our connection, no matter how uncomfortable for me or them. It is not a shortcut. It is not a sprint. It takes so much humility, you wonder sometimes why there isn't an application to become a parent. Should I really be in charge of raising little humans?

Probably not.

But, I am. In the meantime, I am committed to this connection thing. I am sort of in the baby stages of what it can look like to stay connected. Kind of like I'm in baby stages of learning how to have quality connections with others, and even though it can be a vulnerable experience, I know it works and it's worth it. Here are some quick things I have picked up in the baby stages:

 If you build a strong connection with your children, you can trust them to be honest with you.

Yeah, they don't mind at all telling you that you are mean, or cruel, or unfair. Use discernment here. What child hasn't screamed, “I hate you!” in a moment of blind rage? I'm not talking about those moments. I'm talking about eye contact. Holding hands. And, an honest review of your performance as a parent. You need to be a safe place for you kids to tell you about you. Don't worry. You have every right to tell them when they're messing up. It's connection. It's trust. The pendulum swings both ways. I love asking my children, "What can I do to help you feel closer to me?" or "Has mommy done anything in the last couple of days that hurt your heart? How can I help?" My children are very forgiving and usually just require a game of tag or kickball to gather their hearts back again.

Don't forget how God feels about you.

Sometimes I just want to curl up into a ball and cry. I know I've messed up. I have to remind myself that God is doing something really big in my life. He's using my kids to turn me inside out. Weed my garden. Prune my tree. This kind of pain produces growth. It's good pain. Yes, there is good pain. Anyone who has birthed a baby knows this!

Be okay with the fact that sometimes, you are the problem. Let their prayers be part of the solution.

Deal with your mess. I'm allowed to say this as someone who is actively dealing with my mess. This looks like an explosion of anger, and a confession. This looks like a manipulative glare, and asking God what made you so afraid that you couldn't think straight?  When these things come up, admit your mess. Sometimes I will admit to my kids, “Mommy has an anger problem sometimes,” and then I will proceed to ask forgiveness from them, and from God. I will invite them to pray with me, “Jesus, please help me be calm when I am dealing with my children. Help me love well.” I want them to know that when I scream, or glare, or manipulate, it's really not about them. It's me. And, I'm working on it. Sometimes things don't change as quickly as I like, but I know that I am changing. I lose my temper a LOT less. I manipulate less. I glare less. I engage more. I am changing, so I know that submitting to God and process works. It just involves humility, painful humility but with eternally valuable 'healthy human fruit'.

Enjoy the fruit.

Trust me, it's everywhere. Connection parenting has tremendous fruit. It's honest confessions from the children. It's that breathless sprint from their room when Daddy is pulling out of the driveway and they need to say 'goodbye' one more time. It's those moments when your son is trying to apologize and he grabs your face in between his palms, “I won't say I'm sorry until I can see your eyes.” It's those moments on the playground when they recognize injustice, manipulation, cruelty, anger, and they come get you. They know it's wrong. Sometimes they do crazy, bold things like tell strangers on the playscape, “You can't treat people like that."

There are moments when they drop onto the couch beside you and ask, “Will you pray for me to have self-control?"

Then, there are moments when something hurts so badly, they grab onto you for comfort. You are both humans, clinging to one another, reaching out for God, and it always feels like Heaven shows up when you're fully alive, and fully seen. As bad as it hurts to be seen and known in my weakness, when they invite me into theirs, I never want to leave. It is my highest honor as a parent to be allowed to see them and hold them in a vulnerable moment.

Lead them to the Perfect Parent

In the end, even if you are weighed down by loads of 'healthy human fruit,' you will still mess up from time to time. Those triggers you've had since birth, though dealt with and Washed in the Blood, will resurface on a day when you have the flu, or slept 3 hours because the toddler kept you up in a noisy storm, or whatever else. They will come. And, whether they happen often, or once a year, it's important to remind your children that even when you fail them, God is the perfect parent. Don't ever allow them to believe that you are the perfect representation of God. No, you are in process. You have many good days of expressing the Father's nature, but after the flu, or sleepless night #42, you have succumbed to humanity yet again. Make sure you tell them that God is not ashamed of them, and will never glare at them, or manipulate them. I tell my kids all the time that I will never be enough for them, but God will. I read stories in the Bible, books on revival, and testimonies that come across my favorite sites, all revealing the Father's heart. I never want them to turn away from God because they think He parents like me in my weakness. Though unfair, we all have moments where we took our own parents shortcomings and reflected them onto God. Humans are human. God is God. It's a wonderfully healthy line when we can separate the two.

I really love connection parenting. I love those moments where I am “fishing” for my children's heart, and they grab hold. Those easy moments. I have grown to love those hard, trying places where my problems caused them pain. My sweet child will become like a bottom dwellers, hiding in a place where no simple fishing line could go. These are the times when I must ask forgiveness, be filled with God's grace and love over me, and and humble myself before them, spilling out what I can only receive from God to them.  When reconciliation comes, it is a quiet moment of victorious realization, "This works." It's worth it, and while it starts in the home, it grows me in ways that affects nearly every sphere of my life.

I am not insinuating that there are not times to discipline! Here are my views on that.