Who are you, great mountain…that you should not bow low?

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I climbed the steep, wooden stairs, trying hard not to think about slowing down those behind me. I looked at the worn wood stairs, instructing my steps one at a time: step up, then again, then again. Some of the planks of wood were worn in spots to the point of seeing the path so many have used over so many years. As my nerves mis-fired, causing my muscles to tense further as I climbed those stairs up to the sanctuary I have seen many times on-line, but never in person, my toe caught on the second-to-last step and I stumbled.

My love was my oak, balanced and steadfast, did not let me fall. And though my face flamed at the thought, he smiled, reassuring me while he also held tight to my hand. We walked through the arched doorway and entered the sanctuary along with our beautiful daughter. My heart opened and I felt the presence of Jesus in the most tangible way…

Before I go further, I need to lift the curtain on the last few weeks….(actually, the last few years).

I wrote my last post on “lament,” a direct result of my own experiences in these last week, wanting to normalize the ache of lament and longing of so many others for peace and so often, at the mercy of an unanswerable “WHY.”

There is even lament this coming season of fall; so many both/ands: the lazy, easy days of summer swapping to the busy, schedule-heavy days of fall, school and sports seasons, the fullness of friendships and the aching desire to ease burdens related to health, crumbling relationships, caregiver fatigue and dessert-size void of grief.

Change, for the great majority of people is something to fear, in and of itself.

Our family is not immune. While I teach and assist with healthy coping, I also get to practice these myself. Did you see that, “I get to?” It is so hard to alter “I have to_____” with “I get to….” in an effort to remind ourselves that all things are a gift and that I do, TRULY GET TO: I get to walk up those stairs, where so many have walked, wanting, trying, pleading to meet God in that beautiful sanctuary. I get to walk at all, a gift not lost on me as I see another CP warrior in the sanctuary, moving in an electric wheelchair. I get to pray for dear friends, fighting infertility, another fighting for their very life in a long-suffering battle with depression. And I got to meet a dear friend who though we’d never met in person, has been the pastor, wisdom-giver and teacher for our family, especially during the Covid-19 pandemic.

For many of us, our relationship with attending and being a part of church communities became much more complicated in the last 5-10 years. While this is not a political post or even a judgement on “church,” the reality in my work and personal life could not be closer to the truth. Between the challenges of church attendance, financial issues and the ever-present fractures in relationships in the last decade for sure (if not before), our sense of safety and community even with church attendance has certainly become more tenuous.

About a year to the day before the world changed with the pandemic, our family faced a “crisis” of our own related to the church we called “home” for nearly 22 years, for many reasons. It was the church I was a part of since its’ planting, where I became an adult who loves her Savior, rather than a child of my parents who met, accepted and loved Jesus through their beliefs. They laid a rock-solid foundation of community, faith and love for the Lord Jesus. (They still meet with the same small-group of people, after nearly 40 years-absolutely incredible to me!) In my young adulthood, this was the church that gave me community, support and where I met my gift of a husband. It was the pastors here who assisted with the baptisms of our babies, and they were who we called in the happiest and hardest times of our lives.

But as time went on, the landscape changed and about a year before that mind-bending and life-altering pandemic, our church became unrecognizable to us and it seemed overnight, we knew it was no longer the right place for our family. To say that was a grief for me does not fully encompass the loss or the difficulty in finding our next church home. “Church shopping” is one of the biggest, most complex and emotional difficulties I personally and professionally have discussed with so many clients.

A dear friend and pastor told me about “a pastor on Instagram who is doing something on the Psalms, you should check it out.” This was just weeks before the pandemic, when we had begun to put roots down in another local church, but for some reason, I was dragging my feet in authentically investing. I did not look up the Instagram account immediately, even though I have ALWAYS loved Psalms. I was busy with a career, kids, marriage, and so many other parts of life.

Suddenly the pandemic was upon us and the entire world flipped upside down and seemed to zip up in an instant.

We were all a breathless as our way of life shifted in many ways, in mere hours. I was thankful for our kids youth pastor who was diligent about staying connected with students, but our church itself was unable to provide anything in the way of connection, support or even presence. While I felt completely unmoored, I remembered my friend John telling me about Pastor Steve Carter and the evening Psalms. From the first, “Good evening and welcome to the evening Psalms,” I felt the presence of Jesus as I had not ever before. Steve’s words were like the best glass of water, when I hadn’t realized I was even thirsty.

Steve began doing “social media live” videos almost every day, sharing his heart, wisdom, love for words and most importantly, sharing the love and relationship with Jesus Christ. His authentic, non-judgmental and humble presence was a new experience to me. He simply shared with such an authenticity and joy that I drank up those posts with a new desire to know Jesus better. It became my nightly ritual to savor those posts, listening and journaling at the end of my day and chewing on a phrase, verse or new perspective. I would text or call my husband and excitedly share with him new ways I understood the Bible, Hebrew words or some other way God himself was changing me. And because we did not have “a church,” we began to watch the evening Psalms as our church, our little family of five as often as we could.

By all rights, though he had no idea who we were, Steve Carter became our pastor as he wandered the dessert himself. (Literally and figuratively). He taught our growing teens about the “ok-ness of mid-rash,” the mountain top experiences with Jesus: my youngest has a FAVORITE – (emphasis hers). Psalm 8, where Steve describes going to the top of a mountain, covered with snow, spreads his arms wide and yells, “How can ANYONE NOT believe there is a God?” Suddenly, a skier comes flying by, and yells back, “I know, bro!” and sails down the mountain. (Paraphrased just a bit!) My daughter, cannot stop smiling as Steve smiles on the video, describing worship and the love of God the Father. “You get Jesus!” he joyfully states, explaining this relationship as the absolute GIFT that it is.

For two years, our family of 5 has listened, sought God in new and intimate ways because of Steve’s teaching and example. We are profoundly grateful and of course, because I value saying the things, (especially when we think the good things, because we don’t say that enough,) I reached out and shared our gratitude and hearts. We have found a beautiful connection. I joke at home with my family that we are “friends,” because I have so much respect and have learned so much, also because I often “make friends” with many. My family says they can’t take me anywhere, maybe this is my inner “Mr. Rogers, ” making friends in “my neighborhood.”

After this season of church together at home, learning from my friend, Steve, we all began to stir a bit to return to God’s house, to begin finding a “new” in-person church. I will readily admit that I was the one of our five who struggled the most with the “church shopping” ahead of us…for many more reasons than this blog has time for. The biggest, in truth was my fear of being hurt again by “church.” Not God. While many described a dessert or drought in their relationship with the Lord during COVID, my personal experience was very much the opposite. I am by nature, an introvert so the time of sheltering and safety brought in part, the opportunity to rest, to seek and to just be, with our family, but also with God. He used many, but especially Steve’s teaching to show me his pursuing heart in all together new ways.

I think this was part of my fears with returning somewhere to traditional worship, sometimes engaging with many at a time is challenging, both for my body, but also for my emotions. I am not a “floater on waves” but rather a “scuba-diver” in social interactions. I wantto make those I am interacting with feel any important and be heard. Truthfully, I am terrible at small talk…

God gently and consistently reminded me that there was a church waiting and kept putting my former childhood church on all of our minds. I am a bit ashamed to admit, I was resistant at first. I think most of us would like to distance ourselves from our “weird and awkward” younger selves, once we’ve become adults, would you agree? But God certainly had a plan and such a beautiful one.

The first Sunday of Advent did find us returning to the church I grew up in. I held my husband’s hand and his wise advice was, “walking in and finding a seat is success.” Success it was! The sanctuary was beautiful with an early December glow, we were greeted by my former pastors with hugs and genuine joy that we were there and instantly welcomed by acquaintances and a few special loved ones.

We have plugged in in beautiful, surprising, and holy ways, from our youngest (also an introvert) spontaneously asking to join the worship team, our teens finding community in the youth program, and for us, the blessing of new friendships that only God could orchestrate. This path is one of the richest and holiest of my life so far…

Steve Carter returned from he and his family’s own sojourn and is now preaching in Illinois. We’ve tried a few times in the last year to make it to his church and finally meet. It has been difficult to make a date work between our kids many activities. Until this past weekend.

My husband and I were taking our oldest to a college visit about an hour from Forest City Church. When I messaged Steve, he was indeed scheduled to preach. Throughout the college visit, time with our girl and listening to God’s leading over the weekend especially, I felt so much gratitude. I so thankful as well, to finally meet this friend who has so blessed our life.

He stood out in the sunshine, greeting guests as the three of us walked up. He leaned around the man he was speaking with and the recognition and smile we received was nothing but a gift. We all three understood the the blessing of spending a few minutes together. He offered coffee, directed us upstairs to the sanctuary and then went to get ready to share his heart.

Remember the beginning of the blog today?

Walking into the sanctuary after navigating those stairs had my heart beating a bit harder than usual, if I can be honest. I was afraid I would be “fan-girling” upon meeting our friend Steve, but truly, I think I was fan-girling more about how God himself just orchestrates every single step of our journeys for our good. To sit in that sanctuary, I was so humbled to know and love my Jesus SO much, to be in this space and could almost feel an intense anticipation at what the morning could bring. God took over my over-firing muscles and insecurity about climbing those beautiful but steep steps and almost whispered to me, “just wait, it’s going to be SO. GOOD.”

Oh my goodness. I don’t even have words. Worship was so full and tangible that I thought the roof was literally going to come off that decades old building, with beautiful arches, stained glass windows and scads of history. The first song had me in tears – Never Lost. But a few lines just leveled me.

“The night cannot whisper away what he said in the light.”

“Wind, listen to the sound of power on my lips…

“And who are you great mountain, that you should not bow low?”

Oh my Jesus, please remind those that need the biggest reminders, that the darkness is not stronger than even your whisper in the light – even when the dark feels so, so powerful. Please remind us that even the mountains, both majestic and daunting, MUST also bow to you. Remind us that even the wind, beautiful, frightening and fierce, CANNOT remain against how powerful you are.

The community, the worship and yes, Steve’s preaching was a blessing upon blessing. I am overjoyed that we able to be a part of it all, that God continues to put words and music from Sunday on my heart. I cannot stop singing, “never lost,” even the title of the song seems to be God’s way of whispering to me, “no matter what, I’ve GOT. YOU.”

Gratitude to Forest City, Elgin, for hosting and sharing all the beauty of your community. Steve Carter, thank you for being faithful to your calling, for being a pastor to our family. Hope to catch up again soon! You are a gift. To our dear “new church family,” you may never know how much we needed you and our gratitude for embracing us. Mom and Dad, for your love, legacy and faith that you pass on to each of us, I will never be able to say thank you enough.

Jesus, you are everything. Thank you for leaving ALL, never lost.

Both/And

Psalm 8


What do princess markers, Rubik’s Cube and Banana Nut Muffins have to do with Lament?

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I wanted to take a moment and say a genuine thank you. I have been posting now for about 4 months and it has become a favorite part of my week. I really enjoy WORDS. I love the process of conveying my thoughts, experiences and how they all fit together with my many life roles. I value authenticity and how that plays out in my professional, spiritual and sometimes, personal life. And I am so enjoying the connection, hearing how others identify, validate and share their own connections to these words. Mostly, I am amazed seeing how God is using words to bring joy, comfort and healing.

Thank you for reading, sharing and most of all, encouraging, it means so much to me. My greatest hope in all of my roles, but especially this new one (aspiring writer?) is to create space to normalize our collective, complex experiences, share how Jesus loves, some stories and professional connections. My hope is always, to be real, human, healthy in my words, awareness and sharing.

To be honest, I am choosing the authentic truth of not having every post be
positive, cheerful or even, inspiring. Sometimes, in all honesty, it
takes immense energy to keep a put-together mask in place, but I continue to trust that
Jesus will intervene.

To that end, these last two weeks… I am tired. From the time between my last “badass post” and now, life has been full! August has ramped up, leading to sporting and school events, ongoing needs that I WANT and love being present with and some that my heart breaks for. When I sat down to write, my heart felt stretched thin in my own lament for a few loved ones in my life, their health concerns, mental health, relationship conflict and even interpersonal conflict has made this week feel particularly trying.

Maybe you’ve been there before or are currently sitting in your own both/and between outrageous hope AND intense lament as well. Or maybe… feeling hope is good, but the idea of lamenting makes you uncomfortable, sad or wanting to push the hardest of feelings anywhere but where someone may ask about them.

I get that. I am feeling some of that myself.

Lament, in my own understanding, is the dark night of the soul. It is the agony and ache that are too deep for words; the one that nearly levels us with it’s weight, where all we can do is wail, howl and cry out with perhaps a sound only God himself can understand and soothe.

The Oxford Dictionary defines it as “a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.” It may sound weird, but as you read that definition, notice your reaction, deep in your body. Does something stir when you see and hear lament? Just take a second…and a deep breath.

Do you feel anything related to emotional misery that you can still recall
it? Perhaps it is stored IN your body somewhere, a twinge, or a sharp, deep breath,
even as I suggest going back to the memory? Usually when I ask this in
counseling, I can physically see something, a pain so deep that non-verbal
communication gives away when someone is trying so hard to convince me
“they are fine,” in the midst of devastating pain.

Do you feel a time with emotional misery that you can still recall it? Perhaps it is stored IN your body somewhere, a twinge, or possibly a sharp, deep breath, even as I suggest going back to the memory. Usually when I ask this in counseling, I can physically see something, a pain so deep that non-verbal communication gives us away.

I get that too…

If you had a chance to read the last few blogs, I have shared a bit of my own story related to the loss of a dear friend whose life and death deeply impacted mine. It was through the tragedy of drunk-driving accident, his death and others, that I began to avoid, fear, learn, understand and finally allow myself the truth of what it means to lament. What was surprising to me is that I eventually came to cherish the lament. Cherish? Yes, I did, I said cherish. If you will, please keep reading.

Over my 26 year career, the normalcy, my level of ability, and comfort in talking about feelings is vastly different for me now than I was able to do back in my 20’s. In learning to allow for lament, I simply did not know the depth of my capacity to feel sorrow. I did not understand the ache inside me that often did not even have words. When I finally gave myself permission to feel, slogging through the holy work of sitting with anguish, I learned the importance of sifting in the ashes. I learned first-hand the only way THROUGH the hardest of emotions, the deepest losses and insecurities IS THROUGH. (Remember this line in Going on a Bear Hunt?) I began learning then that we will lament much over the course of a lifetime and we will also come through.

Often, it is not the big tragic, unreal events that teach us about lament. I believe we ALL lament in different ways, most of the time not even knowing that we are indeed, passionately expressing a deep sorrow.

Perhaps we begin around toddler-hood – the lament of sharing toys, sharing parents when a new sibling is brought into the mix, moving to new homes, cities, or enduring other changes. At this age, most of the lament is because we can’t always have what we want.

When my daughter was three, I took a brave (or crazy) trip to Target with she and her one year old brother. My sweet E was passionate, strong and already aware of her own desires. She was trying out “wandering,” so I told her we could pick out one thing from the dollar section; if she stayed with me the whole trip through Target, (without running off,) she could bring her thing home with us at the end of our shopping extravaganza. An extravaganza it was, just not in the way you might expect…

Two aisles before the check-outs, she darted down the dog treat aisle, then proceeded to giggle and run away from me. I was terrified of this very scenario as a mom with cerebral palsy, but on the good advice of a friend, I did not chase. I called, “Uh oh…” and slowly began walking up the main aisle with my son staring up at me from his seat in the cart, with big blue eyes.

My spirited girl came running and then raced ahead of me to put her princess markers on the belt. I was already coursing with adrenaline from her solo trip down the aisle, fear of not catching up with her and then her return. She began to climb on the side of the cart, fingers barely touching her coveted markers and my adrenaline spiked again. I felt the heat creep up my neck. Was I going to stay true to my stated boundary and NOT get the markers, risking a tantrum in a very busy Target or was I just going to give in to keep peace with her?

I KNEW that I had to follow-through otherwise I was giving the green light to run from me every single outing. I told her in my best empathetic voice, “I am so sad, we can’t get your markers. Do you remember our deal? You were going to walk with me the whole time and NOT run away and THEN we could get your markers. But if you run, then we CAN’T buy them.”

Her body went rigid, her eyes widened, then narrowed, then she shrieked her displeasure for the entire store to hear. I instantly began sweating as my items were already on the belt. Customers heads turned and her screams got louder. As I held the boundary and did not buy the markers, she laid down, pulled the cart and screamed, “I WANT MY PRINCESS MARKERS!” Her lament (and mine) were very real.

(Though not a huge, prevalent part of the story, I wanted to let you know that this was the only tantrum we had with our now almost 18 year old. The one tantrum, one boundary was enough to curtail her ideas of running away from me in the aisles. )

As we grow our laments morph and change: pet loss, divorce in the family; the lament when we are not chosen for a team, asked to prom or not accepted at the “dream college.” The agony of single-ness when we long to share our life with another, the guttural moan when we don’t see, understand or want to be on this path. Job competition, rejection, complicated fertility, health challenges, terminal diagnosis, even aging, can elicit a deep expression of anguish as perhaps memories, abilities, energy and relationships are changing without our permission.

I’ve had the privilege of speaking with little ones who deeply lament the loss of a pet, a favorite stuffed animal left on vacation or the friend who has moved away. I have sat with many who lament identity, starting over after divorce, loss, long illness or sending children to college. There are those who lament and battle with themselves to remain alive here on Earth. I have held space with many brave hearts who hour by hour lament the loss of one or many they love, deeply sobbing, “I wish it had been me, instead.” And some of the saints among us, who lament they cannot yet “go home to Jesus.” Lamenting is probably, in most our minds, connected with death.

“Lament, meaning a crying out of the soul, creates a pathway between the Already and the Not Yet.” -Aubrey Sampson

We are called to learn the anguished cry of lament. Lament is the cry of Martin Luther King Jr. from his kitchen table in Montgomery after hearing yet another death threat: “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right. . . . But Lord, I must confess that I’m weak now, I’m faltering. I’m losing my courage. Now, I am afraid. . . . I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.” Taken from Reconciling All Things: A Christian Vision for Justice, Peace and Healing by Emmanuel Katongole and Chris Rice.

For many, the hope for the Not Yet, is the rock to cling to, while in the center of crippling lament. For me, learning to cherish all I learned, came only after the losses that shook me to my foundation. (At the same time, sometimes having a hard time knowing I was actually still clinging to the rock that held me.) As the defenses I relied on in order to pretend I was be fine fell away, I could only surrender to the mess, or as Brene Brown says, (learned in her discussions with Navy Seals – EMBRACE THE SUCK.) Learning that the only way through, was through, gave me permission to examine every part, with curiosity and kindness instead of judging myself: anger, shock, change, agony, injustice and so many other feelings.

I often tell people that allowing for feelings is a bit like examining and manipulating a Rubik’s Cube. I can never solve them, but my son can, in mere minutes. I watch him get one color complete, then mess it up to get another color correct. He turns the cube, looks, changes something and looks again. He doesn’t however, get mad at the cube for being what it is. In the same way, getting mad at ourselves, whether in the lament, in the happiness, or any feeling in between is counter-productive. We can so much sooner help the hard feelings by caring for and crying out that anguish, keep the “Not Yet,” in view, while also allowing for and honoring all that has been lost.

If only it were that easy…

“Grief, after all, is part of love. Not to grieve, not to lament, is to slam the door on the same place in the innermost heart from which love itself comes.” – NT Wright.

Isn’t it so scary, sometimes, to feel the hardest feelings? But isn’t it harder to keep pushing the feelings and anguish down? Is the fear of feeling our own lament stronger than the lament itself? What if we could honor the feelings of lament themselves as part of our love story, the one about God, his love and the many we turn to heal when we become heartbroken this side of heaven? The love in that very story is how Jesus redeems and will keep redeeming every. single. lament.

You see, though I had known Jesus because of my parents faith since before I could remember, my own relationship with him had it’s own path; a cherished part of that path that was ultimately in the days, months and years following my friend’s death, because it was exactly there, that I met Jesus. He was exactly where I felt like I had nothing to offer except my shock, anger, resentment, authentic belief, even when I could not understand: in the heart of my lament.

Time after time in that year, God himself allowed for all those emotions, sustaining me in a rigorous MSW program, an internship at our local Hospice organization, blessing me with a support system in my parents, friends and colleagues that showed me the beauty in authentic lament. God graciously brought my husband and I together, almost exactly one year from my friend’s accident, and he offered a calling into counseling, specifically grief and trauma counseling.

In Nicholas Wolterstorff’s book “Lament For A Son,” he says that every lament is [ultimately] a love song. Lamenting is the other side of loving deeply and I’ve come to believe that you truly cannot have one without the other. It is a difficult and holy both/and.

The Psalmist gives the best example of both the lament, the love story and both/and in Psalm 13.

(for the director of music, a psalm of David).

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

If David, a man after God’s own heart, is allowed to lament (and had so many things to lament, many his own choices) and TRUST, then can we? There is also Jesus, lamenting in the Garden of Eden allowed to lament….AND trust. Can we?

There is hope, even in the lament. There is space for great anguish and trust, even in the fear that so often accompanies pain. And perhaps in time, there is room to see the love story in both.

I pray that you who are struggling to catch your breath because your lament is so heavy, are able to cry AND be comforted; that those who are experiencing joy can share it with grace and that we all can love one another like Jesus.

Both/And

Psalm 13

PS I couldn’t not add this from my friend, Brene, from Her 2010 TEDxHouston talk on The Power of Vulnerability  “The problem is–and I learned this from the research–that you cannot selectively numb emotion. You can’t say, here’s the bad stuff. Here’s vulnerability, here’s grief, here’s shame, here’s fear, here’s disappointment. I don’t want to feel these. I’m going to have a couple of beers and a banana nut muffin. (Laughter) I don’t want to feel these… You can’t numb those hard feelings without numbing the other affects, our emotions. You cannot selectively numb. So when we numb those, we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness. And then we are miserable, and we are looking for purpose and meaning, and then we feel vulnerable, so then we have a couple of beers and a banana nut muffin. And it becomes this dangerous cycle.”

Both the hard, difficult, vulnerable and gratitude, joy and happy. And banana nut muffins. 🙂

Redefining what it means to be Badass.

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I wonder if you’ve ever watched an event, a TV show, or a person when something about a particular feat that resonates within you. Somewhere deep inside you find yourself thinking, “that is simply, __________.”

You can fill in your own blank. I realize that for some, the word badass may not be the first word to come to mind. For me, 1) I live with teens, so the “normal” around here could be different than yours and 2) sometimes, there is a bit of streak inside me that loves to find the perfect word, the one that fits as an exclamation point, shout of joy or pain or just to emphasize a point that is a bit edgier; never names of God, just to clarify. Those hurt, a lot. But the ones to get my point across with a bit more hutzpah? Yes, sometimes I really like those.

Badass has become one of my very favorite descriptions because it fits so many situations. I’m not sure when I adopted it…it has come to bring a sparkle to my eye, a bit bigger smile, an earnest desire to share how I see a person or situation – with strength and fortitude that moves me.

One of my earliest memories was about 16 years ago…a dear friend’s daughter told me when she was 14 or 15 that she wanted to be a policewoman. My friend was cutting my hair as her daughter came in to say hi and told me her future plans. I motioned her to come closer to me and stated, “That is so badass.” Her eyes lit up and it fit her, that statement. For the next few years and probably still now, when I see this beautiful, spirited woman who DID INDEED become a policewoman and so much more, we smile and both recall the “badass” day fondly.

My nieces, who’ve both moved, braved hard things, have found their own identities, created adventures and show me a level of badassery from far away. They both continue to branch out with both their career, geographical pursuits, hobbies and beliefs while also advocating for mental health – INCREDIBLY badass.

Clients who show me hourly how they choose to brave by showing up, engage in care and compassion for self while processing past events, pain and the desire to change sometimes against insurmountable odds, are badass. The one this week, disclosing a long history of eating challenges, self-harm and difficult relationship dynamics, still pushing toward healthier? BADASS.

My husband and son, rebuilding a 1998 Jeep Wrangler, together learning endless new skills AND bonding for a lifetime? Badass.

My daughters, badass in many ways, but currently resonating with the new Barbie movie, pushing boundaries for girls and woman, self – love and empowerment, most definitely. Also, dads who show up, put egos aside, communicate and empower? This is an entirely different kind of badass!

Moms, in the postpartum fog of childbirth, then learning the intense pace of having a child in the NICU while healing? Badass.

Single parents, teen parents, all parents. ALL kids, especially those who hold on to self-worth when the odds are stacked against you. Grandparents who love unconditionally, chose to evolve and continue praying, always.

Those with chronic, life altering disease, cancer and so much more – the nuances are so layered and so are the levels of badassery…

Those choosing life, family and themselves day by day over the battles of addiction and their loved ones who choose, walk and forgive right beside them…do you see how many people and situations in which “badass” could just be the most encompassing description for the most resilient among us?

I could give you so many more examples that come to mind. For me this, is yet another truth, when I really sit back and ponder Jesus’s life, ministry and relentless perseverance of intimate relationship with each and every person. I certainly do not mean any offense, but when I think of Jesus, teaching, being, loving and pushing every single boundary, even death? Even more than Badass. SO MUCH MORE.

I know I could filter, use different language and “clean this up,” but that defeats the goal of being authentic for me. Badass is truly one of those perfect words for me, at least right now. It has taken me a long time to get here for myself. A lot of reframing, redefining, wrestling and finally acknowledging the badass parts inside myself. Maybe you will relate, cringe or see your own inner badass as well.

I began seeing Dr. Hotchkiss in 3rd grade to address some of my particular musculoskeletal nuances of cerebral palsy. I did not know the half. But I was the kid undergoing the appointments, bearing his watchful eyes as I walked, the distant, cold demeanor he had and the pain involved with surgery after surgery. I wasn’t SUPPOSED to understand it all, but certainly DID IT ALL – healing, wheelchairs, re-learning how to walk multiple times, even into adulthood.

My parents would not ever have called me “badass,” because that is just not who they are or the time I grew up in. Support, yes! Love, undoubtedly! But seeing that endurance as badass then? I don’t think the world knew that word as we know it now. I think (and maybe they will say I am wrong,) that life really was more about “doing” and getting through, rather than dwelling on or labeling. At least then. I think that has been part of the American way for a very long time. I’m not sure when it began to change, but I am certain that many kids (and adults) with CP who share their struggles and many victories on social media can surely called badass in so many ways. Though I grew up in an age where we didn’t know or use the word, doesn’t mean people were not badass. Quite the contrary….what joy it is to share my journey here, even the hard parts.

During the pandemic, my mom was sorting and gave me an huge plastic bin of old photos. I love photos and began to look through them with care, a slow pace that the pandemic taught me well. I didn’t have many photos of my youth around the times of those surgeries, instead, vivid memories that I could tell in great detail. When I came across a few pictures of me in the hospital, post-surgery or my early teen years recovering in a wheelchair, I did not know how to feel. Again, meaning no offense to my dear parents, we “got through” a lot of that, have some sweet and funny memories along with the pain, but they were not ever people who would dwell on the most difficult. My mom is so skilled with pivoting into happy when people are struggling, especially grandkids! My dad is not someone to dwell on emotions either. But as I looked at those few faded photos, I felt something new…I couldn’t even name it, YET.

My mom, with such good intent, wanted to get rid of those pictures, probably so difficult as a parent to see, let alone remember. But I couldn’t let her throw them out. I held them, looked, put them away, looked again and then could not look away.

I have no problem telling you that I, as a therapist, see a therapist. I believe every person walking this earth COULD benefit from a therapist. When you’re a therapist, in my opinion, it is imperative to do your own work. It was to her that I brought one of those pictures. I couldn’t put it away, but my heart was still raw by looking at it, for there were parts of me that were transported back to that wheelchair. A both/and that said, “talk with your trusted person about this one, something is stirring.”

She looked at the picture I handed her, after my conflicted feelings tumbled out of my mouth and maybe my eyes in the form of a few tears.

“What do you see?” She asked as a good therapist is known to do… (I answer questions with questions ALL the time too.) I described the pain I had been in, some of the trauma, then waited for her thoughts.

She smiled the gentle smile I’d become accustomed to and asked, “yes, those are about you in this picture, but what do you see?” She asked so gently. I simultaneously was frustrated and wanted to hug her for the care she exuded. (See the new T-shirts in the both/ and T-shirt store regarding the both/and we may feel with our therapists.) I know this on both sides, as a client AND a client therapist.

“I don’t know….” I stammered, hemming and hawing. I did not have the ability yet to be with that seventh-grade girl. I just know I couldn’t stop looking at her in those pictures.

“I see strength and courage,” she said softly; “how she persevered…” instantly, the tears filled my eyes and I could feel a cry rolling up from the depths of my body. Never had I EVER considered that those days were anything more than awful, terrifying and that I had not been brave enough….

Here in this sacred room where I had shared some of my deepest fears, shame, changes and hope, things were changing in this instant, as they had a many times before during my hour with my therapist. With the soft, caring tone she intentionally used and that achingly poignant question, she altered the view I had of that photo (in reality, that time in my life) and began to help me permanently change it.

I have become so proud of her.

A few weeks later, I sent her an email, telling her how badass that little girl was and “I just never knew it.” She applauded this perspective, agreed with me and asked me to think about other times “I was a badass.” Some big seeds, planted and watered.

I have played with the word, smiled about it, shamed myself for “being arrogant,” adamantly disagreed in my own mind and then tried to be kinder to myself. It took a lot of time, emotional tug-of-war and intentional self-compassion to begin caring about myself, seeing my own resiliency. But it wasn’t until I began riding a new recumbent around that same time, that I began to embrace and LOVE the idea of being a badass. Another perspective shift, this time from my husband and kids.

When I got my new bike, I was and felt much slower than my much younger kids. Still, the freedom and movement were new and beautiful gifts. I felt a bit sassy on that bike and battled through my negative self-talk to give permission for joy.

My husband began riding with me and as I gained strength, he started upgrading my bike. He turned my 7-speed cruising recumbent into a 21 speed as I got stronger. He surprised me that summer with a hidden, beautiful moniker. “Badass.” With every ride, his belief was right in front of me, on repeat. I smiled, grit my teeth, cried some days, but I could not NOT see his reminder to me. Every ride. Every single rotation of my left, then right leg. And with every ride, the reminder began to wash away any other belief I had about myself. I finally owned, “I AM BADASS.” My kids felt a little rebellious, excited and nervous, when we told them it was ok to say, (at least in this context, not at school!)

My husband is ridiculously smart, talented and knew this reminder was important.

I’ve been building that belief since. Some days, it is easier than others to hold on to that semi-new belief, while also believing the fire (and honestly the FUN) of those words. I LOVE, love, love the idea of being so able and strong, resilient and capable, not fragile. The truth of 2 COR 12:9 that says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” It is a complex thing, to find your worth…

To believe in yourself, means overcoming the multitude of reasons we range from self-loathing to mean (rarely kind in our own minds, remember that 80% kinder to others than we are to ourselves statistic?). It requires a level of badassery all of its’ own. But the journey to both healthy self-esteem and the knowledge that we aren’t worthy and NEED Jesus Christ is a beautiful one. I believe with my whole self that we are worthy of both, freedom from the bondage of low self-esteem AND the delight of feeling badass.

My former pastor often shared this quote: “The gospel is this: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.” –  Rev. Tim Keller from The Meaning of Marriage: Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God

 Every day, I get to watch the transformation from shame, low self-esteem and self-loathing to redemption, belief, self-compassion and “loving yourself just like you love others.” (a paraphrase of Mark 12:31). I began to process that verse quite a while ago as I saw a trend of “putting others first ALWAYS (the emphasis from MANY clients over the span of this career.) My hope is that the perspective of this verse including caring for ourselves AS WELL, allows us to love and care about each other and ourselves in the best manner.  Most of the time it is hard for any of us to argue when we flip it, but all too often, I think we focus on others and let the as yourselves slip by the way side.

In my minds eye, I imagine The Father, Son and Holy Spirit each and all, enjoying how we are created, loving our dependence on God and the fulfillment that knows WITHOUT GOD, we are lost. Once again, please forgive me if it offends, but the very act of loving and trusting, trying to hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” (Hebrews 10:23,) is not without some brave hutzpah of its own!

To witness the sheer weight, agony and chains of self-doubt lift, replaced with a spark, a firework and incredible strength of seeing ourselves with even a small bit of how God himself made in us is life-changing and beautiful for me as a therapist, even if someone does not know or ascribe to who God is.

The very small comparison for me personally, is the joy I feel when I watch my kids feeling so strong and ready when they compete in various sports or perform, prepare for a test or follow the call of Jesus. When they flash me a “Mom, I am ready and I am badass,” smile, I know, that no matter any outcome, they are feeling exactly right in how God made them and HE is WITH them.

Badass indeed!

A few weeks ago, two dear friends took me out for dinner. It was pure joy, the laughter, the support and the pizza pinwheels. They shared a smile and as I was trying to figure out why, one handed me a colorful little box. “Just because we love you.” I opened the box and found the perfect gift: A cursive, dainty, badass necklace! It is full of beautiful reminders, to the care of sisters and the grace of God that says, “we see you and will remind you even if you forget.” They are WITH me….

A perfect gift. 💗

So, here’s the question…

Is badass a word that means something to you? If it is that particular word or maybe another, who or what makes you feel strong, capable and ready to take on the world? That is what badass is to me. It is feeling both strong, brave and capable and if you believe in Jesus, holding the truth that you are lost without him.

I believe with all my heart, mind and strength that God is within us, before us and behind, always for us. What amazing reasons to embrace our strength and if it feels right to you, your own inner badass. There is infinite room for growth, humility and pointing back to God and his goodness. Remembering where true strength comes from and holding our own worth and strength, that to me, is absolutely breathtaking.

I am thankful for it all – parents who are badass in their own way, who love and give and care tremendously; medical professionals who are skilled beyond what I can comprehend, possess the badassery of holding change in their very hands; each and every person who inspires me, (far too many to name), the journey and those who walk it with us, everything learned and gained even on the hardest days. Most of all, I am thankful to my Savior who models fearless, unwavering passion and pursuit without EVER giving up on any of us.

Whatever words embody your strength, capability and tenacity, I pray you see and feel his love, always. I pray that you are surrounded by those who make you feel badass and remind you when you can’t see it for yourself.

Both/And

II Cor 12:9

PS: On my ankle is my first tattoo, a small Jesus fish with II Cor 12:9 arched around it. I deliberately placed the reminder of God’s sufficient grace in my weakness about ½ inch away from a surgery scar. I think even before I knew it, I was working out what it means to be badass. It is one of my most beautiful reminders. I hope you look for and find your reminders as well, as often as you can.

“You have solid steel I-Beams, Stace.”

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“Mom, they are going to demolish that building soon.” My son told me as we drove through town.

“Yeah?” We were talking about the former municipal power plant building, much of which was already demolished.

“Yes, they are getting the explosives set on the beams. The I-beams are the only thing left.”

My brain raced back to the sweetest of memories as I glanced at the big building.

“You have solid steel I-beams, Stace.”

Do I? Is he talking about me?

I held the phone, tears in my eyes and a hopeful breath caught in my throat. My friend and mentor, Jim, had offered a defining word of encouragement that would shape my journey from age 29 on…

I suppose to really explain the importance and beauty in those words, I have to go backwards before I go forward. This is often something I explain to clients in the beginning of counseling (and remind often during counseling).

It was the first day of my sophomore second semester at Hope College. The pressure to declare my major was looming larger each day and it was nerve-wracking to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I had moved back into Gilmore Hall a few days before; it was snowy and cold, which matched my feelings of overwhelmed and lost. Initially, I wanted to be an English major, writing was always my favorite part of classes. I kept getting asked what kind of career that would give me and I honestly did not know….

 I had explored so many different career and major options but for a multitude of reasons, none seemed to fit. I could not settle on any of them.  My dad always encouraged, “have a job that you love going to, you will spend a lot of time there.” Both he and my mom had careers they loved and it set a strong example for me. They both worked so hard, lots of long hours as a physical therapist and a nurse (and her side hustle as an antique dealer.) At dinner, they always had good antidotes about their days, from his inspiring patients and the bartering and re-selling antiques to also the sweet (or funny) parts of her day as a nurse in a pediatrician’s office.

They have both lived what it means to love the career you choose and are given as a calling.

That pressure, to find my path, was mounting and the more worried I got, the more confused I became as well.

That January morning, I trudged through the snow on campus, cursing Michigan for this snow. It seemed to match the feeling in my body (what I would later learn is fight, flight or freeze). I was panicking about my future; it was cold and my anxiety was spiking. Trying to pay in class was going to AWESOME. I’m not even sure I remembered which class I was trudging to…

It didn’t help that my class that morning was located in Graves Hall, a building on campus that was old and original to when and how it was built. In other words, outdated, dark and seemed to have a musty, dusty smell to match. (Kind of similar to the fabricated smell of the Haunted Mansion, just not near as fun to be in.) No offense to my Alma Mater, by the way. Simply the way I experienced it, 30 years ago. Graves has since been renovated!

There was a bigger room in Graves, where student life usually showed semi-new releases for students on weekends. It had old fold-down seats with velvet cushions, once decadent and now aged.

I settled in, pushing down the adrenaline that came from walking in the snow and fear of icy sidewalks on the way to class and pushed my ever-present, “what am I doing with my life?” fear even further down.

“Hi there, so glad you are all here.”

I looked up and saw a warm, familiar smile. Jim (Dr. P on campus), was both a neighbor of my family AND a former fraternity brother of my dad. Even when I ran into him near home, he was always kind, happy and genuine in his “good to see you.” I could feel my heart, body and anxiety settle a bit, just in his greeting. I had also forgotten that he taught this “Intro to Social Work” class.

He began describing both the goals of the class and the history of social work. For the life of me, I wish I could remember the next few sentences, but I cannot. All I know is that it was in those few sentences, God made himself and my path abundantly clear. I think it was something like, “If you have a heart for caring for people, listening and helping problem solve, this is the path for you.”

I sat riveted on Jim’s passion for this field, the joy and humor in his voice, suddenly feeling the pressure dissipate.

I often ask friends and clients how they KNOW when God is guiding them. “When have you known without a SINGLE doubt, this is the path God has for you?”

Usually the answer is, “I don’t know, I just know.” For some who might not know Jesus, perhaps this is your conscience or a gut feeling. For others, this could be related to having an intimate relationship with Jesus, being guided by the Holy Spirt.

For me, this moment was without doubt, one of the places I did and still return to if I am struggling to make a decision or have difficulty deciphering “next steps.” I cannot tell you how or why, but I know with absolute certainty that I heard Jesus gently whispering next to me, “THIS is the path for you. THIS is exactly where I want you.” That fear that had been mounting since my junior year in high school, quickly began exciting my body, like a balloon that suddenly begins to leak and lose air. It was replaced just that quickly with a sort of scary excitement as Jim described the many areas in which a social work degree could be used in a career.

I realize that this paragraph might sounds like a nice story or argument to trust Jesus but it is all my truth. I know that deciphering God’s will is not that easy all the time, but for me, even when it is not entirely clear, it is more than enough….

I declared my social work major a few weeks later and the path since has been not always easy, but always completely RIGHT. I often tell clients, “The right thing is rarely the easy thing.”

About 3 weeks later, on Saturday, January 23, 1993, I awoke to a knock on our dorm room door. A family friend stood there and I was so confused. I loved her, but could not for the life of me, figure out what she was doing in my dorm hallway, knocking on the door, on a snowy Saturday morning.

“Stacy, I am so sorry, your grandma died this morning.”

My Gram’s death and all it taught me is certainly a post for the future. But
I’ll leave it here for today just knowing that I was one person before I answered that door and another entirely after dear Ardys uttered those words.

The following days and weeks were some of the most confusing, life-changing and difficult I had up to that point in my life. And God absolutely began shaping me in those very days to become a therapist specializing in grief and loss.

I moved in a fog, feeling so heartbroken and disorientated that I did not know which end was up. I sat in my writing class and my professor asked if I was alright. I was anything but…I couldn’t stop crying, aching or simply feeling shocked.

One day, not even really knowing how or why, I found myself wandering toward Jim’s office. He welcomed me into the sunny space that was filled floor to ceiling with books. Heavenly. There was a path to his chair and one other comfy chair that I gratefully sunk into, then noticed being surrounded by piles of papers; I spied a notorious “blue exam booklet” (Did other colleges besides Hope use those?) on top of a pile here, manila folders there. I instantly felt welcomed and safe, even though I truthfully felt like a complete wreck.

I don’t know what I said (again), or what he said, other than the fact that he reassured me that I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t going to flunk out of college, and that I would, indeed, someday stop crying. It was all going to be ok, somehow. I could believe him a tiny bit, a miniscule beam of light in that dark season of my soul.

Jim was an absolute anchor in the storm and I experienced the care of Jesus many, many times over in the course of our friendship. I visited him many times that semester, as well as many the following two years. I did indeed graduate with my BSW. We stayed in touch during my first job. 5 years later I applied and got accepted into grad school and as God led me closer and closer to becoming a therapist. He was affirming in my professional skills, as well as becoming a trusted role model for my own internal struggles. Which was why, when the bottom fell out of my life again, the week after I started graduate school, he was amongst the first phone calls I made.

Someone dear to me was killed violently and tragically as he drove home from his job as an EMT in the middle of the night. The driver, her passenger (her sister) and my friend were all killed instantly as the girls were both many times over the legal drinking limit.

In this, another, life-changing moment, my foundation shook and crumbled. I had family support, friends who did their very best to understand and yet, I was floundering, triggered once again. I often tell clients,  Grief brings up grief.

 One of my favorite analogies comes from Disney’s original animated version of The Little Mermaid (1989). Do you remember how Ursula grows gigantic quickly and begins stirring up the sea with King Triton’s glowing Trident? The old shipwrecks begin to resurface from the ocean’s floor. I often tell people that “Big Ursula “can feel like our present grief and all the “shipwrecks” can be past grief experiences that resurface in connection with the new, present grief. While the analogy is my own, if it weren’t for Jim, I would not have been able to move through both of those searing losses and have an understanding to draw on when counseling in the future. He spent many hours listening, normalizing and teaching me about grief, it’s affects, the need for self-care and affirming my ability to work through it, WHILE going to graduate school.

It was Jim, who with the wisdom of a dad, said to me one night on the phone, “You have solid steel I-beams, Stace. You are so strong in your desire to understand, work through and be healthy.”

That is how I felt about myself, that I wanted to understand, to find my way through this scary forest (many forests for all of us) and come out with better understanding, peace and the ability to help others because I had people who helped me.

In his kind affirmation, he praised WHO I was, HOW I was and gave me much-needed belief in myself.

I remember vividly, sitting on the floor, tears streaming as he uttered that life-changing-truth to me. I can feel how I wanted to rise to that, to see it for myself. I can feel the gift of being known by this mentor and friend and I am ever thankful.

I wonder who it is for you, that speaks absolute acceptance and life into you. Who is your person, who sees you as you want to be, who accepts who you are now, but cheers you on to who you will become?

I know we don’t have just one….there are many who add to our lives, each has their place. But don’t we all have a couple who come into our lives, help us see our own strength and change us for the good?

Mr. Rogers, in his acceptance of a Lifetime Achievement award, said (in part) to an audience of Hollywood elite:

Oh, it’s a beautiful night in this neighborhood.

So many people have helped me to come to this night. Some of you are here. Some are far away. Some are even in heaven.

All of us have special ones who have loved us into being.

Would you just take along with me 10 seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are — those who have cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life?

Ten seconds of silence.

I’ll watch the time.

[silence observed]

Whomever you’ve been thinking about — how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they’ve made.

Jim is still the dearest of friends and mentors. We don’t talk often, but when we do, we pick up just where we left off. We share photos and details of life in the present and he without fail, he encourages me. The blessing of being known is without compare.

He is but one who has shaped me and been an important part of the tapestry of this life, both personal and professional. He is an important one for me in this 28-year career, one who I still draw from today in my work and value.

I pray that you too, have many, who come to mind who have believed in and loved you. It is one of my biggest hopes and prayers, that we can feel and give that care and love to ourselves and others. If you have a “Jim,” or Neen, Tom, Jill, Rick or Susan, whoever it is that speaks love and affirmation in your life, today is good day to tell them. You never know if today is the day that your encouragement will bless your person in return.

I pray we can all claim our own “I beams,” or the truth others help us to see about ourselves. That is so much of the journey. Be proud and even a little excited at what it has taken for you to keep going on your journey. It is nothing short of miraculous.

To that end, if you look in the shirt shop, you will find an option to support kidney disease awareness. I have a dear acquaintance who shows me daily what it means to be born with a steel I beam. I made the “I would go anywhere as long as its not dialysis” in her honor. All proceeds from the sale of this shirt will be donated at the end of December.

 God is good, all the time. Thank you, Jesus, for each and every one of the people you place on our journey to show us how you love. I am profoundly grateful.

Both/And

Phil 1:3-5

For the love of mountains and Jesus; or pink slippers, 10% and unexpected grace.

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(An entirely different post than what I planned be writing this week…)

I have been chewing on a post for the last week and half and it is not this one….

Typically, an idea forms and the words come relatively quick. I reword and rework, sometimes erase and rewrite, but the words and ideas seem to just come. Writing for me has always been a joy, a place to release my thoughts, hopes, fears and prayers into the wide open. I can’t begin to express how important writing has become to me – and your comments, encouragement and ideas make it so much better.

Last week was not the easiest week and I am not even sure why….

I had a post started about some family conflict, how it is NOT always easy or pretty or even kind around here. And yet, it has not felt quite right to publish here, YET. Maybe in time, maybe not.

The reality is, I work really hard to be authentic, to not buy into only sharing the positive, “picture perfect” moments; normalizing both the struggle, the hard feelings AND the beautiful ones. And this past week, the beautiful seemed harder to find. Until yesterday…

A couple days before my big kids left to go on a church youth group trip to Colorado, we all seemed to be having issues with each other. Tension seemed sky high, all of us ruminating our own struggle. Suddenly, the kids were packed, leaving our house and off on a trip to Colorado for the first time.

My husband, youngest daughter and I remained home in a much quieter house. We visited dear friends for the weekend they left, but when we returned Sunday afternoon, the quiet within our walls was both needed and a bit unsettling. My mind kept thinking, “is this how it will feel a year from now, when E goes to college?”

Funny thing though… THIS post is not yet about my daughter marching toward senior year at an ever-quickening pace or my own both/and/and/and moments about that. My heart skips as I write that sentence, both excited for my girl and grieving already the future changes to our family as she makes decisions. But this post, this one that is jumping from my heart and fingers so quickly I can hardly keep up as I type, is about mountains, love and being seen.

Life for me growing up and navigating teen years was just full of unique to me challenges. EVERYONE can speak to their own challenges, none better or worse, simply our own. When my high school youth group was going to Colorado Challenge, I was not ready. I am sure that I missed an amazing experience and yet, I was not physically or emotionally aware enough at that point in my life, to face the difficulties of hiking, rappelling and advocating for my physical needs. I didn’t have the confidence. I believe it was absolutely part of God’s divine plan for me that I didn’t go THEN.

When I began working for a grassroots teen ministry just out of my undergraduate degree, I was invited to go with the church who had started and most supported this ministry. Though I was still anxious about the landscape and being out of my comfort zone, I was also beginning to understand my needs and voice. I know without a doubt that God wanted and made the way for me to go, AT THAT TIME in my life.

Before I gush poetically about the natural beauty and awe-inspiring scenery of Colorado itself for many paragraphs, (If you’ve been there, you know right?), this about sums it up, at least for me.

 “There were those green, undulating hills and this very beautiful river, the Colorado. The place is inspired and inspiring.”

– Terrence Malick.

I was in awe of Colorado, from the scenery as we drove through the state, to Colorado Challenge and every experience from the first to last time I was blessed enough to travel to Colorado, 5 trips in all. The last, was the one I had only dreamed of, worked for and raised money for so a group of teen moms could attend camp like their peers.

Each time I went has it’s own beauty and sacred space. I have memories I will forever cherish, tears that led to lifetime changes and awareness, places marked on my journey with Jesus Christ that allowed me to meet and love him personally. Moments where worship was ALL of who we are, you can’t get near enough to God’s own heart and call and YES to him is the most right, easiest answer.

I also had breathtaking moments of love, acceptance and grace that until that point, was new to me. From sitting behind students throughout evening chapel events and literally watching and praying with them as they said YES to Jesus and relationship to him to the grand view of Pikes Peak from camp. Whitewater rafting at Noah’s Ark, horseback rides through stunning trails, conversations late into the night, even helping the girls navigate conflict. Memories with my sister-friend and the students who bravely allowed me into their hearts and fears.

The first year I went, I struggled with many of the physical aspects of getting around the rustic camp grounds, roots, jutting up from the dirt in odd ever-changing directions, loose stones and steep inclines, not to mention that climbing was involved in nearly anything that you wanted to do for activities.

When we arrived at Rainbow Falls where groups were given the opportunity to rappel, I instantly knew  I could NOT climb to the top of the cliff we were supposed to rappel down without some serious back-up. I didn’t know the kids or leaders well, because I was asked to be an adult leader last minute when one of the others was sick. But I fell prey to believing that I, as an adult, “should not, could not,” ask those kids or other leaders for help climbing because “I am supposed to be an adult and help them!” Thank goodness for therapy that helps us see our own faulty beliefs and some of their roots.

By the next summer, I had built strong relationships with a number of the same high school kids who refused to let me “wait at the bottom,” this time around, walked with me carefully and safely up cliff and then helped me rappel! It is still an exhilarating badass, capable memory that means so much to me because it felt so impossible and I yearned to try.

One night, after worship had blown the roof off the chapel, I sat down next to a student named Ryan who just had a magnetism to kids around him. He had a smile that was both mischievous and kind, a signature baseball hat always worn backwards. He was wrestling in a way that I could feel as I sat next to him, listening and partly, just being present in whatever was the internal fight. “Why do you even want to listen?” He finally asked and his battle with something was palpable. I just prayed as tears filled his eyes. It was a holy, heart-wrenching space and yet, a memory I hold dear from an evening in that chapel in the mountains, overlooking Pikes Peak.

 In camp was Soldier’s Mountain, again something I had only heard about. I wrestled with longing and grief, the limitations of this body, when the kids begged me to come with them. A group of teen boys moved me to literal tears when they nearly plowed me over in the snack shack on our next to last night in camp.  They were organizing a sunrise hike up Soldier’s and “were bringing me with them!” They refused to take my no for an answer, (thankfully) and literally walked-step-by-slow-step up a steep incline to the top of Soldier’s Mountain. Reaching the top was an absolutely surreal moment, a picture of trust, care and acceptance that showed me Jesus himself in those teenage faces. Those boys are still “little brothers” to me, many years later.

There are so many more moments, the beautiful, brave teen moms that showed me as a single 25 year old what motherhood and sacrifice mean, how God can use everything to bring us closer. Jaw-dropping scenery, over and over, devotion from youth leaders and the very definition of brave, so many times I lost count.

Safe to say, Colorado has an important place in my heart. I even had dreams, hopes and prayers about moving there in my 20’s, but that too, was NOT God’s plan for me. My best friend played “Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks about that time and it was as if they had written it for me… (Perhaps my version of how Taylor Swift “just gets it!!” in 2023?)

Life continues, I got accepted into graduate school in Michigan, met my love and the dream changed. God knew…and yet, I have for a long time told my kids about my love for Colorado, the incredible beauty and how God moves, especially during camp experiences…

I think in our relationships, there are always “mountain top and valley events,” and for me, relationship with Jesus is included. The mountains, whether physical and emotional, change us. Tremind us of the passion, the love and the goodness that ARE mountain-top experiences in relationships, especially when the greater amount of time in relationships takes place on the flat ground or the valleys (not always the most exciting parts of being in relationship.)

I have been doing clinical work for 22 years now, so my days of youth leading and traveling with students are a past chapter. So much so, that it caught me off guard when the church we’ve been attending since December began talking about a youth group trip to Rocky Mountain High in July in Estes Park.

I realized that my teens would get to experience Colorado in their own way; so. good.

I knew that the scenery would move them. I was even somewhat prepared for their personal “mountain-top experiences” and “the impending post-camp blues,” both familiar to me from my days as a camp counselor at Camp Geneva and Colorado Challenge.

What I really hadn’t considered for them was how this experience, uniquely their own, would truly translate, change them and shape them. How this week would give them lifelong memories with friends, leaders and Jesus Christ.

We picked them up yesterday in the church parking lot…rolling off the bus sweaty, exhausted, hoarse and beaming. Tight hugs, high-fives and inside jokes that I am sure, I will never here the beginning or the end of. The swath of parents hung back, both debating about embarrassing kids with big hugs (perhaps just me??) and trying to respect the vibes they were sending off. It was evident how this group of leaders and kids had bonded.

On one hand, I felt so old; and…so very thankful that after the pandemic changed so many things about so many churches, we are finding our way into a church community again, with our beautiful kids leading the way, fearlessly. A couple leaders came and introduced themselves, blessing us with kind words about the kids’ behavior and character. They may never know what that meant to us…

For the next few hours back home, the kids talked over and around each other, a unique shared experience of going on youth group trip as siblings and friends and all the dynamics in between. They showed us pictures of stunning mountains, sunrise views, elk roaming downtown, “right by the jerky store” and one of their leaders, dressed in a bear hug nightgown, pink slippers, shamelessly directing traffic in downtown Estes Park. They described “worship with so many kids, all raising our hands and holding nothing back.” They described messages from Megan Marshman, who presented them with opportunity after opportunity to know Jesus’s love, desire for relationship and sacrifice in such personal ways.

They told us about how as a group, they would nightly share their last 10%, allowing their friends and other leaders into the parts of ourselves that we all hold back, because, “if someone knows ________ about me, they will__________ (leave, tell others, think I’m a _____}”, or many other reasons.

Our kids shared some hard stuff about their own struggles. We are so very proud of them and shared with them our experience and belief that God will draw us in, rather than shame us out. They told us how their leaders discussed some of their own struggles, encouraged each other, then asked the group to pray over our kids and family.

I’m not sure if that moves you, but I get goose bumps (again) as I write those words.

It has been said, “It takes a village to raise kids.” The older I get, the more our village blesses us. The more our village draws us closer to Jesus, just by being WITH, authentically. The more the village ebbs and flows. The more the needs change within in the village, within ourselves.

I was once on the front lines with teens, staying up late, running on fumes, holding their stories firsthand. I was surrounded by a different village as I was a part of students and oh my goodness, those were the days….

Now…my kids are traveling; their village will change and I may not even know all their members. They are being challenged, sharpened, changing, softened and from what I know today, going all in with Jesus.

I am profoundly grateful for those who walk with me, who have shown me the heart of Jesus in Colorado and beyond. For the relationships I still have because of heart connections on the mountains and deep in the desolate valleys. I am thankful for those who see us not as we are but as we can be and have the courage to say so. I am thankful for health and strength. May we all be surrounded by those who build up when we need it, sit quietly and those who hype us into believing in ourselves at exactly the right moments.

“Colorado has always been a good place to find what you’re made of.”

– John Hickenlooper.

To Jesus, E & E,  Colorado and everywhere in between.

Both/And

Philippians 1-3-4

“Mama, Jesus is smiling!”

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(For SHM)

The sun was shining, I had the day off work. After I was blessed with a good workout and some quality time with my hubby, my youngest daughter (in her last year before turning 13,) asked if I would take her to 3 stores: a local consignment shop, 5 below (undoubtedly to spend her hard-earned dollars on a Squishmallow) and Ulta where she can cover the back of her hand in colors of eyeshadow, lip gloss and everything in between.

I learned a long time ago that when spending time with teens or even younger kids, being able to talk is one thing, but usually, having an activity at the same time is the very best case scenario. Before the pandemic, I spent many counseling hours playing Uno, “garbage” coloring or shooting hoops with a nerf basketball hoop while listening to some of the hardest stories and emotions. It is a lot easier for most of us, I think, if we are not in the spotlight, face to face or even asked direct questions.

With my own teens, sitting in the car driving, watching movies, building Legos, coloring and drawing or even sitting on their beds while they clean has provided some of the richest conversations we’ve ever had. Earning the right to be heard also consists of providing the safest opportunities and trust to be vulnerable.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to shop today. It has been a busy week, a headache was edging around my head from the moment I woke up and I truly wanted to spend some time researching how to self publish my writing! But…because of this career I have and the deep value instilled inside me about relationships, especially, with our beautiful kids, it was truly a very easy yes.

Our youngest daughter is the “icing on the cake,” of completing our family. She is, by many people’s description, “sunshine in human form.’ She loves with every fiber of her being, she cares deeper than most can even begin to imagine, is kind to a fault, has incredible wit and comedic timing (at 12!) and so truthfully, has a heart so much like how I know Jesus to be.

Lest you think she is the favorite of my 3 (or perfect), that is not the case. We ALL have our own brokenness. And we all know it…if we don’t, someone in this house will certainly let you know! She is a bundle of energy, lets her bodily noises fly at the most inopportune times and is at a really moody, emotional rollar coaster of a spot currently. We practice both/and ALOT in this season with (nearly) 3 teens in the house.

All that being said, I am feeling the race of time and KNOW without a single doubt that the days of her wanting or being able to amble around Ulta and laugh at funny outfits we put together on the fly or even spoil her with yet ANOTHER stuffed animal, are fleeting at BEST.

Before we left the driveway, she was cuing up Taylor Swift on her phone, creating our shopping play list in Apple Music and directing our route. Though I instantly became concerned about how long this shopping extravaganza was legitimately going to last, I played along because honestly, she’s my youngest. I’ve learned some things since the first daughter and our second kid, our son. She DOES have the more laid back versions of us, sometimes. Sometimes, I think we’ve kept her little for too long because “the last,” is hard to fathom. Whichever way it is, on any given day, we adore them all. So we listen to Taylor, LOUD, know we are enabling with ANOTHER stuffed animal and don’t get too uptight about it…at least today.

She directed me first to the consignment shop. On our way, we stopped at a busy intersection near a Burger King and the highway. On our right, a woman was walking, waving to each car. I looked and what appeared to be her husband and two small children sat in the grass, a sign explaining their need for food and shelter due to homelessness was propped up beside them. I am utterly ashamed to admit it, but my very first thought was, “shoot, I don’t want to make eye contact.”

These situations wreck havoc in my social-work-trained mind, my heart and the many pieces of advice and experience in our culture.

I have vivid memories of growing up in the Midwest and NOT experiencing the ravages and complexities of homelessness until I was on a family weekend in Chicago. As we walked our privileged selves to see Phantom of the Opera after eating at Gino’s East, we were asked many times for money, help or “a place to sleep.” My parents had tried their best to prepare their sheltered Caucasian kids, “don’t make eye contact,” tried to explain some difficulties with “giving money,” while also trying to honor helping others in the the name of Jesus. But nothing prepared me for the man propped up in a doorway, wearing clothes covered with dirt and holes, struggling to speak and holding a battered sign as we walked past. I am not sure if my parents whispered or if I realized on my own that the man also had cerebral palsy. I am certain I stopped and stared. I am certain seeds of fear were planted, “is this what happens as your grow up with this?” I was both terrified, horrified that this was indeed a real situation and sickened at injustice; this, awful, awful reality this side of Eden.

“Dad!” I tugged my dad’s arm as the crowd of people in Chicagoland kept moving past. “Dad, he has CP. And I think he peed on himself!” I cried, begging my dad to help him. It wouldn’t be the last time. My dad called my sister’s name, who was a bit ahead of us, but still near. She was carrying the coveted left-over pizza, had claimed it for her snack after the musical finished. He took the pizza, brought it to the man, set it in his lap and motioned for us to keep going.

Another time, we had driven to see my grandparents who lived an hour away for a pre-Christmas visit. The lights were bright and blinking, I was in the warm and lovely space of just seeing my grandma and suddenly, at a traffic light, a man yelled to people in the cars around us, for help. Tears streamed down my face as I heard my parents talking about calling the police, “he would at least be safe and have a warm place to sleep if they pick him up.” “Jail??” I thought, not understanding how that could possibly help him

. My dad, after trying to explain to me, poured hot coffee from the packed thermos into the mug he’d brought along, got out onto the busy, snowy street and as the man yelled, handed him one of our very familiar mugs. I watched, clutching a stuffed animal I had along and wondered how my dad would get his mug back. I think I started praying…that’s all I remember.

On yet another family trip, this time to San Diego there were countless experiences that I will not forget, both beautiful and life changing including one at Seaport Village that left a permanent mark on this heart God has given me.

We sat as a family eating dinner overlooking the ocean, the lights of the nearby carousel beckoning me in the dusky sunlight. It was dreamy and I felt like whole world was wide open to my teenage hopes and dreams. Suddenly, I looked out the windows in front of us and saw a man, bundled up in the California heat. He walked slowly, dreadlocks hanging in his worn face. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as suddenly he began digging in the garbage can in front of the windows where we sat. Tears instantly sprang to my eyes as he pulled an entire order of fries from the garbage and gobbled them like he had not eaten in a long time. I wept without control, pummeled instantly with a level of sadness and reality that I had no idea existed. I cried with a heart that was simultaneously terrified that people lived this way and the overwhelming desire to fix this man’s plight. It was a moment forever imprinted on my heart.

This was the feeling, now with years of life experience, but the same conflictedness, that came rushing back as my sweet daughter turned to me yesterday….

“Mama, we have to help them.” Her big eyes and heart were like looking in a mirror. My humanity thought, “I don’t know how…” The two of us in the car, safety, not sure about the situation and the realities crashing together with my daughter’s innocence, the innocence of the babies sitting on the grass with their parents and the overwhelming guilt that we were going to ULTA while they were in huge need….

I took a few deep breaths, drove slowly and prayed for God’s presence and wisdom.

It took a minute. My heart rate slowed. I explained to my love that I needed to think about it and she so patiently waited for my response….

I wanted to honor her, her desire and I needed to sit the wrestle I felt, trying to decipher the truth. I parked outside 5 Below, another deep breath…

“Trust me.” I almost audibly heard my Jesus whisper and wrap around me. Breathe…. “Trust…”

“Babe, let’s go get some things for them.” I said quietly to her and her face was so sure and beaming. “Oh mama, let’s!” She held my hand tight, helping me navigate the curb and entrance into the overstimulating store. We were five steps in when she knew EXACTLY what to do.

We filled a backpack with some basic supplies, her leading the way as I listened to her clarity and wisdom. Who was I to witness how God was using her?

She went to the stuffed animals. “This will be good for the baby! And the little kid will really like this!” She held up a zebra and a monkey. We lastly grabbed a few snack items, I handed her all the cash I had in my wallet and let her pay herself. Our items were nearly the exact amount I handed her. “Trust me…” Jesus seemed to whisper again to me, perhaps her and maybe even this family. We walked out and my sweet girl slipped her hand in mine again. “Mama, Jesus is SMILING right now!”

She filled the backpack while I drove back. The traffic swirled at that intersection and I prayed, “Jesus, use this moment, bless my girl and this family…” I couldn’t see the family for all the cars, but I carefully navigated to what I hoped would be a safe spot for us to give the backpack. I drove around the Burger King and there sat the family, all crowded under umbrellas, almost it seemed, to be waiting for us.

“I want to go, Mama.” I looked and my girl, so far beyond her years, was mouthing a prayer of her own. She took a deep breath as I put the car in park just feet from this dear family. She opened her door, stepped up to the mom who smiled and greeted her like a long lost friend.

“My mom and I bought this for you and your family. There’s toys for your kids. I hope everything in here helps you guys.” The parents both smiled, thanked us profusely, repeated, “may God bless your family.” As I sat there, the mom began to unpack the backpack, pulling out first the zebra and handing it to her smiling toddler. The small child broke into the biggest smile, hugging the zebra tight. My daughter climbed back in, waved and I could not control the tears that feel from my eyes, overwhelming my whole body. We backed out as they continued waving, eyes full of thanks. I sobbed, at my daughter’s faith, joy and leading. I cried for this family’s plight, wishing I could do so much more. I cried, out of my own shame and ignorance and God’s unending love and forgiveness.

“Mama, I have never felt this good. I think this is why we were supposed to come shopping today.” My little said in utter joy.

I have so much to learn. I learn so much from her and so many others around me.

Thank you for being such a picture of my Jesus, my daughter. You, change the world. You change me….

Thank you my Jesus for being patient in my ugly moments and for teaching me to trust you. Hold this family close, us all close and please keep making us each, more like you. I pray you are indeed, smiling.

Both/And

Psalm 13

Some thoughts on imposters, cheating and battle hymns.

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“Mom, your calves are popping!” My daughter exclaimed last night. I was walking in front of her as we left our dear friend’s house after an evening of feeling more blessed when we left than when we’d arrived. “What does that even mean????” My inner voice whispered. At the same moment, my body startled (involuntarily) as she verbalized something about these, MY legs, now the center of attention. Even after years of processing my own reactions, connections to emotions and everything in between, I found myself reacting just like I typically do to positive comments, especially about my body: with a passive tone of voice, “well, thanks, I am not sure why you are saying that,” or “thanks, but…” Besides the fact that “popping” is a new one to me and I can only assume that is positive, I still, at 50 do not know how to consistently appreciate this body.

As I was stretching and working on these muscles this morning, my mind drifted back to my daughter’s exclamation last night. Like a picture that slowly comes into focus, I realized that as I thought about her positivity about my muscle tone, the feeling I have most, is shame….

I wonder if you relate? In my office, I so often see eyes drop, hear tones of voice become softer, garbled, drift off or even a little disgruntled when the idea of appreciation of self is brought up. I’ve said it in other posts (and probably will again), that our society is 80% kinder to others than ourselves. (Check out the work of Dr. Kristin Neff at The Center for Mindful Self Compassion if you want to read more.) While I experience this number as higher in my work with clients, I too struggle to be equally kind to myself as I am to others. Why is it so hard to just say, “heck yes, my calves are popping?”

I began, with intentional curiosity to think about the shame I felt as my daughter complimented my calves last night. Much like the moment when we realize the correct answer when taking a test, I realized that when she complimented my calves, I felt like a complete imposter.

Cerebral Palsy causes my muscles to misfire, the part of my brain that regulates the “firing” is technically damaged. The vulnerability in me winces writing that and yet, it is the truth. My muscles fire beyond my control all the time, resulting in a lot of tone. The deep down thought for me regarding all my tone is that “it’s not real, athletes work for that and therefore earn the compliment. I don’t.” It is also hard to appreciate tone that can also make moving become much more difficult.

The very next thought was a memory of moving to another city just before high school, meeting new friends (that summer) and having my new friends remark about my “ripped biceps.” My only context for such a phrase was watching weight lifting in the Olympics. I began to wear longer sleeve t-shirts because in my mind, I didn’t want to look like a body builder. I didn’t know it was a compliment, and I felt fake. I hadn’t done any athletic hard work to earn their confusing to me compliments about my body. The fact was, people were complimenting a body that I didn’t like, understand and truly, wanted DESPERATELY to change. There weren’t enough positives for me about this body at that point to counteract my insecurity and imposter syndrome.

I wonder if I am not alone, that imposter syndrome is alive and well inside all of us to one degree or another, this side of heaven. Defined as the condition of feeling anxious and not experiencing success internally, despite being high-performing in external, objective ways, this condition often results in people feeling like “a fraud” or “a phony” and doubting their abilities. It is most often born from insecurity that has taken root and grown a tree of shame inside us. Once that tree is there, it is hard to see around it, becomes a part of every picture we have of ourselves. And for me, it has become siblings with the idea of “cheating.” Please let me explain.

One example…when I upgraded this spring to a recumbent pedal assist bike, I really had to work through the idea of cheating with that extra assistance. The perception with e-bikes, at least how I heard them, was that “people are just joy-riding.” The first time I rode that bike, 30 minutes after we purchased it, a neighbor commented, “that’s such a cool bike,” then looking closer stated, “oh, it’s got a motor, you are cheating!” Shame, imposter and “cheating” hopped on my bike and rode along. I can go faster than my husband on our rides now, but feel like I have to qualify it with, “yea, but only because of the motor.”

How many of us have those same passengers, riding around permanently? You may or may not be shocked to hear how many times I hear about imposter syndrome in the midst of sessions. Mine is occasionally cerebral palsy related, but it is many reasons for many people. It is like an old soundtrack that is ominous, “what if they find out this is the real part of me, not what they might think or believe…”

As I sit quietly, truth descends quickly, much quicker than it did when I was younger. I can kindly let the difficult feelings and memories (even shame) come forth, sit with them and then also engage in the truth. I know that (even when my perceptions and insecurities want to lie and make me believe otherwise) we are NOT imposters. God is the God of truth and gift-giving. He is perfect in his making and perfecting who he is within us. I am so very grateful….

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” “Psalm 139:14

Both/And in being human, right? We KNOW this verse perhaps, but applying and believing it? Much more difficult. One of the ways I help clients is to imagine how we would speak to our dearest friend and try to counteract that loud imposter with the “kindest thing you can say to yourself.” I encourage them to slow down and find a positive truth to counteract the loud lies…one truth at a time.

I pray for overwhelming kindness and compassion for ourselves and others. I pray for appreciation of the bodies God has created and given. And I pray for overwhelming truth and care, this side of heaven.

I was having a conversation with friends yesterday about “what our walkout song might be?” For me, there has been an anthem shared from a dear friend years ago. It embodies hope and crying out in the beautiful and the moments I brought to my knees.

https://youtu.be/BqgW727a-RU

“Hallelujah, hallelujah, every broken heart, be brave. Hallelujah, hallelujah, the Lord will make a way.” A prayer and anthem for us all. It is my deepest, truest prayer.

May we give the lies to Jesus, rest in his love and truth and keep doing all he has called us to. May we always keep trying to be kind, as much to ourselves as we are to everybody else. May we let our own imposter know that they are no longer needed and that our true self is worth trusting. May we learn to accept others appreciation of us with the same love and care it was given.

Both/And

Psalm 139

143

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It was a snowy afternoon, one of those where we as a family had a clear Sunday on the calendar, a truly miraculous thing. Even more shocking to me, as a mom of teens, was the fact that after lunch had been cleaned up, I wandered into the main area of our house and found it empty. This wasn’t new, especially as clean-up began. The family tale has always been that my grandpa’s sister, Aunt Betty, would always “need to go the bathroom” just as clean-up began. In reality, I think we all want to disappear at these points in post-meal chores, but our kids do a fantastic job helping, all over the house. Still, on the this particular day, I had gone to change clothes and found myself in a seemingly empty house.

I wasn’t sad – a fire started in our fireplace, courtesy of my husband who I could hear in the garage, already invested in something of his own. I curled up in our oversized sectional with a cozy blanket, trying to decide what I needed with this unexpected gift of quiet and being alone. I grabbed a journal, which didn’t feel quite right. Not my coloring, or napping. What did I need? 

I suddenly remembered the documentary on Mr. Rogers that had come out a few months prior. Yes! I could feel something align inside myself, but was not sure why…after searching the too many streaming services we pay for, I found “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” and could feel my soul settle just a bit further. With a cup of tea, fire crackling, my favorite fragrant candle giving me sweet memories of summer and my pup snoring on my lap, I hit PLAY on the remote and heard a familiar sound…. a few piano notes, a voice so kind, and THEN…. the familiar, ringing bells of Trolley. I couldn’t help but smile and instantly began to sing along with a seemingly forgotten song…”would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor…” (are you singing along too, just reading the words? I thought you might be…)

The first few minutes gave glimpses of Mr. Rogers history, beginning with a sepia toned video of a young Fred Rogers, tickling the keys of a baby grand piano, rehearsing how he would describe feelings to a child. Cut to a group of children clamoring for his attention and with laser focus, the gift of his attention and response to one after another. Cut to a description from his producer, describing the many reasons why “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood SHOULD NOT HAVE worked” and then, this: Mr. Rogers, saying earnestly into the camera, “Love is at the root of everything, all learning, all parenting. Love or the lack of it. What we see and hear is part of what we become.”

As strange as it is to say regarding a documentary, I was completely riveted in 4:41 minutes. I could feel a few different things at the exact same time: It felt like a warm sunbeam shining on my face, simply seeing images and hearing Mr. Rogers, Trolley, Daniel and the many other sounds of the neighborhood. I sat there, my adult self invested in the well-done documentary, and the delight of reconnecting with an old friend, the safety and understanding in his words, because these have become such a core beliefs for me as well. Up until those 4 minutes and 41 seconds, I hadn’t known that he was someone with whom I held such similar beliefs. 

A memory emerged, a fuzzy photo in my mind of watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when I was very young. I could see myself, legs in a W, munching on cheerios, enthralled with Mr. Rogers and his land of make believe. I recalled his puppets, their personalities, the big red, yellow and green light, his voice, calm, caring and completely free of judgement. 

What t started as a feeling throughout my body that day, became something much more over the next 90 minutes. I wanted to know more and more still about this neighbor who I hadn’t seen in far too long. I found the melodies, stories and words returning from a place stored deep in the recesses of my heart, not even knowing I could still feel and sing every word.

I sat there there, a grown up, both safe in my living room, protected from the frigid Michigan winter, comfortably full from a Sunday meal with family and an acute awareness as I watched Mr. Rogers, heard his voice and character eloquently described, that he was indeed a safe, lovely friend to both myself and countless others. The kid inside me remembered the lilt in his voice, the comfort and calm, even as he talked about extremely hard things. I had not been through a war or natural disaster, traumatic death at a young age or divorce. Yet, the child inside me who had grown up with CP has been grappling with differences that I had no idea how to voice, acknowledge or process.

Bessel Vander Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, “For our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow we need a visceral feeling of safety. No doctor can write a prescription for friendship and love: These are complex and hard-earned capacities. You don’t need a history of trauma to feel self-conscious and even panicked at a party with strangers – but trauma can turn the whole world into a gathering of aliens.

I watched in tears as he normalized issues of both acceptance and pain related to racial atrocity, by inviting Officer Clemmons to cool off his feet in the same pool; as he sang with a young boy, “its you I like,” after sitting with Jeff Erlanger and hearing his story about life in a wheelchair; and as he normalized, simply, “being kind.” He had even left a life-changing impression on a gorilla. Unreal. I was thunderstruck with the ideas that were so important to him, are some of the same beliefs for me that as a therapist (and human) that are imperative in teaching clients about feelings, empathy, self-compassion and healthy coping. 

I began to take notes, noticing the connection and truth I felt internally as Won’t You Be My Neighbor finished.

“If you really want to communicate, the most important thing is to just listen.” – Mr. Rogers

From his character, work ethic, kindness, gentleness and admitted imperfections, I felt an odd camaraderie, almost as if I could understand and value myself better because I was seeing him through the documentary.

He had a tremendous way of just being with people, allowing people to talk and listen well in return. He answered as much of his fan mail as possible, thousands who over the course of time, and for millions, contributed to how they had felt as a kid and still as an adult, even though they only ever met in the neighborhood, ON TV. He showed me and so many others that we were seen. 

He was ahead of his time, tackling issues involving racial inequality, fear, divorce, conflict (even war and assassination) death, inclusivity and healthy coping in eras where most of these might have been avoided. He was also an ordained Presbyterian minister, though he seemed to let his life speak to that so much more than using the words, at least that is how it felt for most in his neighborhood. 

Tom Hanks, who played Mr. Rogers in the 2019 film, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” said this while promoting the film: “‘There’s an acronym that I’m using now in my own life – W.A.I.T., wait – which stands for “Why am I talking?”‘ Hanks said. ‘You should just sit and start listening to everybody who comes your way and you’ll be amazed at what you learn.” I’ve shared with many clients while also reminding myself. It is just one of many, gems that I hold dear from the life of Mr. Rogers. He emulated my Jesus is so many ways, though I doubt he would’ve seen that about himself. People matter, their thoughts and feelings, needs and struggles. Kindness MATTERS, to others and ourselves. Play, learning and joy, are imperative.

I found myself studying, reading books and videos about his life in the weeks following the snowy Sunday. Everything I read, watched or discovered about Fred Rogers led me back to Jesus, my own calling and gentleness. 

As I have read, watched re-runs, highlighted quotes and wished I could I have tea with Fred, (and honestly, purchased a few more cardigans and even a t-shirt with his image on it) I am left with these truths:

-We are all human so there is no pedestal necessary. Our lives WILL touch others, in either the beautiful or the broken ways. I can only hope and strive for the beautiful and apologize when my broken (or mean or misguided or thoughtlessness) takes over. Mr. Rogers, as well as Jesus, show me the wisdom in being slow to speak, quick to listen and even quicker to offer love. 

“The greatest thing we can do is help somebody know that they’re loved, and capable of loving.” – Mr. Rogers

-All the things MATTER! How crayons are made, how to manage the mad, sad or every other; consistency, presence and play; gorillas, clocks, relationships, honesty, music, humor, reading, artwork, dignity work ethic and I43. (I’ll let you look that one up.) 

“I think Mr. Rogers was one of those people who do their his work seriously and hope that someone would pick up on the seriousness of what they are about.” -Betty Seamans, producer and actress, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

Don’t we ALL hope that we will be understood, seen for what we are about? I think Mr. Rogers knew it wasn’t just kids that needed to hear how to love and be loved, feel and be strong enough to talk about it. I think he hoped that in teaching kids, it would be easier as adults. The the short version of my favorite quote is ‘whatever is mentionable is manageable.” (I’ll let you look up the long version, it’s also in the beginning of the bothandkeepitreal website.) This is an important belief in my work as a therapist, the seriousness of what I am about. I absolutely BELIEVE in the work of knowing and loving ourselves. My writing has become the joy and purpose in sharing my hope and beliefs. 

What are the important parts of you, the seriousness of what you are about? Don’t be afraid to share it in safe places, it is there you can be seen and cared for, exactly as you are. 

“I like you as you are, exactly and precisely, I think you turned out nicely, and I like you as you are. I children need to hear that, I don’t think anyone can grow unless they are accepted exactly as they are.” Mr. Rogers.

-“His theology (just like Jesus) was love your neighbor as yourself. It was deeply personal and wide open to all,” stated a cast member in the documentary. I think this is why Mr. Rogers still resonates with so many people, 20 years after his death. He was such a human example of the God he loved even if he never said it on the program. This past week, someone noticed the Mr. Rogers sticker on my cup that I always have with me. He commented, “I loved him. There are not people like him anymore.” I stopped myself from fangirling about my friend Fred, but I thought to myself, “I’m really trying to be!”

Still, I know that his unconditional, kind and gentle heart was not and is not the norm. The documentary also explored the nay-sayers and doubters, those who blamed Mr. Rogers for contributing to an entitled generation. Here is the last truth, at least for this post, right from the documentary itself.

“Mr. Rogers was not talking about entitlement. If you don’t believe everyone has inherent value, you might as well go against the fundamental notion of Christianity that you are the beloved son or daughter of God. ” Mr. Rogers explained what you are special means in one of his commencement speeches. “You are special ultimately means that you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you. You are loved just as you are. You are endowed by your creator with good.” Junlei Li, former co-executive director of the Fred Rogers institute.

“People were intolerant of his tolerance…” Tom Junod

Thank you Jesus and thank you Mr. Rogers for showing us how to live a different way. Thank you for your relentless pursuit of people, love and something so much greater than yourselves. 

May we follow in both Jesus’s and Mr. Rogers example: be tolerant, kind, loving neighbors, to ourselves and each other. May we find Jesus in each other, give grace and mercy extravagantly in many ways and may we love without ceasing….

Both/and

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PS If you are curious about some of the books or resources I’ve found about Mr. Rogers and his impact, please message or comment and I try to share!

Underdogs and tears, the One who perseveres (and redeems.)

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For much of my growing up, I heard I was too sensitive, that I needed to get tougher and that even though I cared, sometimes it seemed as if I cared too much. I had so many emotions, in my teenage years, I am sure my parents and siblings felt like they were pretty consistently on a roller coaster. It was much later that I realized that it wasn’t just me, but actually a normal developmental stage for pre-teen and teen girls. I felt my excitement big, my fear bigger, had anxiety that stopped me in my tracks and sadness when others struggled. I am fairly certain that God was, all the while, shaping my sense of empathy; I just needed to grow up a bit in order to understand it.

While I would not change a thing as I look back on my life, at the time I felt like a little kid who did not have a clue how to manage feelings and certainly did not know about both/and. My parents are AVID Olympic fans, something they’ve definitely passed on (ice skating for me, my mom and sister – we all screech like owls while we watch, holding our breath and hoping that the leading US skater would land their axels, spins and salchows.) I still watch the Olympics like it is my job, staying up way too late, cheering and following the inspiring back stories of the elite athletes who make it ALL look so easy.

But even though we watched as a family and talked about the Olympics all the time, I couldn’t make sense the overwhelming awe, often times, sadness and something else it took me years to understand or begin to explain, even to myself: jealousy. I learned in time that there was a tangled knot of emotions, the beautiful and the hard. That’s how all of our experiences are though, as far as I can tell…the both/and in all of life.

When our kids were young, showing interest in new things, I was simply amazed at the way their bodies functioned, with ease, strength and the “normal” that I longed for. Our oldest tried ballet, tumbling and Girl Scouts.

One day I arrived to pick her up and found her troupe playing duck, duck goose to finish the days meeting. I watched, observing the fun of the chase. My experiences had been so different than this, the fear of getting picked because I must be a slow, deliberate runner; fear of tripping, get extremely embarrassed. But I was even more fearful of being “the goose” until I was age 20 because I couldn’t catch “the duck.”

Suddenly a sweet little girl got picked, “Goose!” She let out a breathy giggle as she stood up and threw her head back with laughter as she started chasing. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders and her excitement at getting chosen simply stunned me.

I took a breath and felt my heart slam in my chest like a timpani drum, for just a few seconds. Along with her irrepressible smile, she ran while wearing medical equipment that was her lifeline, in a backpack. She had a somewhat familiar gait and a sense of wonder I had not encountered at that point in my life. Her mom helped but didn’t hover and little did I know then, the biggest cheerleaders in the duck and goose circle were her sisters, quadruplets.

Tears filled my eyes as the group cheered her on, yelling and encouraging, her giggle and joy nearly filling and bursting that whole room. I will never forget that first time seeing sweet Keyan and how she and her dear family teach me still about acceptance, sacrifice, family and joy. From what I know of her, she had no idea she was born an underdog in so many ways, but really, was anything but.

It’s happened many times over the course of our family life, tears filling my eyes as a teammate or another person “succeeds ” or a news story about someone hospitalized for an extended period, the staff clapping as they “graduate”; scrolling on my phone when a kid or adult who struggles in some way, only to reach the end of a race or goal and finish well, full of pride. My friend’s wheelchair rugby games or watching the elementary kid who participates in a running fundraiser while in a cast. If you have a minute, look up Rick and Dick Hoyt on YouTube…you will get the idea….

My family is not surprised to see me shed a few tears also as we watch different genres of tv, reality shows, athletics events or really, anything with a compelling story. But there are few shows that evoke tears quicker than I can wipe them away, my favorite being American Ninja Warrior.

Have you ever watched the discipline and athleticism with awe? Me too…. But I need to confess, I watch any and all sporting events that same way. Every single athlete who walks out on a field, braves getting across a wet pool deck, balances on starting blocks or diving boards, runs across a shiny gym floor or pole vaults in front of packed stands has in my mind, won a gold medal just for “doing.”

I unbashedly live vicariously through my kids events and events of their friends, not asking them to participate “for me,” but simply watching and soaking in every thing, as if I could somehow feel some tiny bit of team if I pay close enough attention. And the truth is, they ARE the definition of success to me, even before they start to play. For those who can’t even think about even the simplest part of being a part of a team for many different reasons, it is all a wonder, every single part. I really don’t have any frame of reference for how they accomplish so many different things…

Maybe that is why, in every story on ANW, I find inspiration. It is incredible to me, the dedication, strength and control. But it is also the the athletes who defy the odds, who fight their way through both literal and sometimes internal obstacles, who never fail to illicit the “good tears.” I love the achievements, especially when I know how much effort the little things take for so many people, not just as athletes. For some, dedication and strength is finding a way to get out of bed. The kid on the swim team, finishing the race after every other athlete, but does not give up and still finishes. The student who raises their hand in class as anxiety swirls and their stomach clenches because they just became the center of attention. Or the student who reports abuse at the hands of a family member, despite the waves of shock and conflict sure to ensue in the aftermath. Yes, the good and hard tears, most certainly….

I read a story recently in one of the Disney groups I follow, that if I can paraphrase, went a bit like this: A single mom who battles extreme anxiety and claustrophobia, saved for about a year to take her kids to Disney World, even though the idea of close quarters on the rides was utterly terrifying to her. She “didn’t want them to miss out because of her.” She got on a ride and began to experience a severe panic attack before the ride even began. She hastily got off and a cast member quickly made her way to her side. The cast member let her sit in an unused ride vehicle, then went on the ride with her, pointing out exits and “Easter eggs.” (details hidden throughout the ride to broaden the story and sometimes pay homage to designers.) The mom couldn’t stop crying as she made it all the way through the ride. So much bravery and strength. (Yes, I cried a bit, reading that story.)

In 2019, Kodi Lee made his way across the audition stage on America’s Got Talent, his mom next to him. He walked with a cane and his mom was beaming and steadfast. She described his early diagnoses, blindness and autism. She described him as “an entertainer,” how music saved his life…but silence after the introductions was palpable. There was a long pause, then Kodi began to sing, “A Song for You.” The judges and crowd were mesmerized, and I cried for both the struggle and the victory as the young man born with “differences” sang his heart out to thunderous applause. The judges and audience were also crying as he was given the coveted Golden Buzzer. I kept thinking, so well deserved, and likely so rare he would be celebrated, like this. (Spoiler…he went on to WIN that season, changing the minds and hearts of millions related to ability and talent. Videos from his performances are reported to be the “most watched in AGT history.” He plays nightly in Vegas. For a boy who could “barely string together words,” this is the underdog story…)

I am drawn to the underdog/ success stories in everything from March Madness to movies to real life; the grit, perseverance and the beauty wrapped up together. As I have spent time writing this piece and thinking through what it is that I want to convey, a realization hit me: as much as I love the image of conquering big battles and hard-fought victories, there is something else that I am drawn to as well. One of my favorite words is redeemed. Dictionary.com defines it this way: an act of redeeming or atoning for a fault or mistake, or the state of being redeemed. deliverance; rescue.

Redemption and having audacious hope is what I love most about the God of Heaven, Jesus and this story – perseverance, passion, rescue and love for all, including all of us underdogs. It is a redemption story like none other, both victory and redemption we absolutely cannot wrap our minds around. And this is the truth that always brings me to tears. I am undone at the reality that Jesus died for me, (for all of us) when he did not have to, not for a second. God himself says that the last here on earth will be first in heaven. I can’t even fathom the beauty in that…or the fact that though I deserve, “underdog status,” God promises the biggest victory.

Until then, I don’t want to stop crying the happy tears, cheering with my whole heart and yearning for redemption of all things. I never want to lose the awe in all things. I want to celebrate movement, trying and trying again. I want to feel hope, wonder and take nothing for granted. And I always want to be thankful to the one whose heart, sacrifice and love is so much more than I could ever imagine. May we love well, those who feel unlovable, may we see those who feel invisible and may we love extravagantly like you do, Jesus, always.

Both/And

Psalm 13

Sometimes, it is good to howl….

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(Oh my heart…be brave my soul.)

“I can feel something welling up, deep in the pit of my stomach, a clenching I don’t have a name for. I have spent too many days, NOT caring for myself, AGAIN. Between family needs, schedules and even the joy, I have yet again, put my own needs on the back burner. As the days blur together, I can feel something building up inside me, something between anger, exhaustion and sheer overwhelming emptiness….”

“I don’t know the point in saying, “I am angry. Of course I am angry! It is endless. But it won’t change…I need to just get over it. Except, I can’t stop thinking about it, even when I say to myself, I am over it. I don’t understand it….”

“I will never be able to stop crying if I let myself start, it is too big, too painful. I will never stop. I just need to keep busy, keep going and keep working.”

“It was such a long time ago, it doesn’t matter anymore, right? I thought that if I just ignored the pain of what happened to me, I would forget. But I haven’t, I can’t. still, this many years later, when I close my eyes I can see and feel it all just like it is happening right now. I don’t know what to do anymore…..”

These sentiments are just a tiny glimpse into the daily life of brave clients…if these walls could speak, there is so much more.

Oh my heart….be brave my soul.

In this career I hold dear…(and maybe not just my career, but this very life), God has let me witness both so much tragedy and so much profound beauty. I don’t think I can truly describe it adequately.

Professionally, It came first in the form of children at my first internship when I supervised visitation between kids who had been removed from their parents care for a multitude of reasons. Even when the reasons for removal seemed the most legitimate, the kids AND the parents were doing their brave best in the most heart-wrenching situations.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

When I got my first job out of my undergrad, I began working with teens in a grassroots relational ministry. I was young, idealistic and introduced to the joy and heartache of life in ministry, earning the right to be heard while supporting teens and families in about every possible scenario over the course of 7 years. Standing with teens at a visitation of one of their beloved friends as they tearfully asked me, “what does she look like in that casket?” The gleaming dark wood casket was closed and raised up on the the opposite end of the funeral home. The kids moved slowly together, a dazed look, shock and pain raw, unable to wrap their minds around the sudden, tragic loss they were instantly thrust into.

Sometimes, you can’t do anything but howl…

I began my MSW program and came to understand the concept of family systems differently than ever before. I lost a dear friend one week after my program began and over the next year, learned what grief truly was. It was one of the hardest, growth years of my life. The the next year, after a lot of soul searching, prayer and the uncomfortable feeling of the right thing not always being the easiest thing, I began an internship at Hospice. I was changed in every single way, the holiness and tenderness of this calling – from my supervisor who taught me about peace and hope through her life, how to care for clients through her expertise and authenticity and boundaries through her intentional approach to nearly everything.

An unforgettable client taught us all about living while she was dying, gave us unique and needed perspective as we were stunned, huddling around TVs on my first day there, 9/11/2001. She sat on her small deck that morning, overlooking a pond, waiting for the temperature to rise enough to release the butterflies she had watched over from being caterpillars to beautiful, painted ladies. I will never forget her calm demeanor talking about war, global events and life experiences she’d lived through. She was sad, but not stunned as we watched the Twin Towers fall. She described “other, difficult things, saying, this too, shall pass.” Somehow, I believed her, even on this day.

Oh, my heart…be brave my soul.

I began my second internship at a counseling center, learning about resistance, court-mandated clients and how to let clients own their own problems and outcomes. My heart broke, while sitting face to face with a parent whose child had been removed after the child was hospitalized with a broken arm. The parent was “sure I haven’t done anything wrong.” I was distraught, faced with providing positive, unconditional regard and feeling this childs pain. I was also pregnant with my first child.

I sat across from many during those 6 years, learning as much in the pain as I did in the growth and change. I became a clinician, who has still, so much to learn. I learned to trust myself more, that many things will not be fixed or even made better. Sometimes, all I could do was witness a client’s painful truth and the difficulty it requires to exact lasting change. A boy who’d been in countless foster homes had such a difficult time coming, being vulnerable. Week after week, I asked my supervisor “how to help him.” She reminded me that often counseling takes a long time, which could mean years and most likely, I would not be the one to see it. She gave me the analogy of how one therapist might plant seeds, another watering the same seeds and another, seeing a flower bloom. At the time, I really wanted to be that person to reach my client (I wasn’t), but I have held that analogy close for many years.

I vacillated while becoming a mom of 3, between Hospice work and agency counseling. I met a widowed parent raising multiple teens who had “hoped it would all go away after the funeral.” Two years later, it still hadn’t and we needed to go back before going forward. We went through.

Another parent, in a moment, had to navigate shock, selflessness and courage while shifting very quickly into complex, traumatic grief and loss.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

In my life, outside of my career, I experience inspiration through everyone I meet…A young boy named Bill whose smile lit up a room; how he bravely fought a brutal, debilitating disease and his family showed me the meaning of grace in their care for him. Em, allowed me into some of her most vulnerable days and thoughts, taught me that CP was NOT all there was to me and the meaning of “rising above.” Les, who has for over 25 years inspired me by being the very definition of tenacity, fearlessness, loyalty and love. She and her spirited friend, Monica taught me sacrifice and the horror of gun violence in front of my eyes – so much worse than it seems in the movies. Mason and his beloved family, lesson after lesson in beauty, sacrifice and the love of Jesus. J and J, P and T who live out the redemption of dreams deferred and God’s sovereignty unfolding. My dear friend Shelly who teaches me more about the sacrifice of motherhood than I can comprehend. This list is not even the beginning…and there are so many, too many to list.

oh my heart…

In all the journeys, the pain, the beautiful and the in-between, I’ve learned this: the only way through, is through.

We used to read Going on a Bear Hunt to our kids, at least 55 times a day when they were little, until all 5 of us had it memorized.

“You can’t go over it…you can’t go under it, you have to go THROUGH it!” We would yell that refrain! It became a metaphor for both hard things in our family and in my clinical work. I even bought a small board book of Helen Oxenbury’s version and set it on the table for clients. It never failed to evoke an moment of understanding or even tears sometimes as the message became real.

Be brave my soul….

Psalm 13 (my very favorite and an amazing biblical both/and) says:

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

Both the heartache and the praise, fear and trust. Yes, Lord God, be in, both, with and for us. Loss and hope, agony and trying to find something akin to joy. This is real and true, the purpose in the calling, at least for me. As I teach it in my work, learn it for myself and pray for the grace and mercy we all need, I also know this: holding the both/and is the truest path to peace I have ever come to. Because I know God understands AND loves me in both.

May we take care of ourselves: take a walk, call mom (or dad,) attend a class and learn new skills. Seek counseling. Breathe deep, smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Pray or meditate. Walk slowly, speak only kind words to ourselves. Lean into our people, the ones who know and love the authentic versions of us. And may we allow ourselves to go through.

“Crying releases stress hormones, swearing increases pain tolerance. Anger motivates us to solve problems. Silence and smiles aren’t the only way to respond to pain. Sometimes its good to howl.” Anonymous

I often close sessions with “be kind to yourself” and full disclosure, how my own therapist closes with me. Sometimes, I add this – howl if you need to, cry, and rest. Most often, those are the very paths that lead to the best parts of healing.

Both/And

Psalm 13