Author Archive
I was walking in the misting rain today, the dogs pulling eagerly at their leashes to sniff out delights tucked into the roadside weeds, and I was thinking about my long journey back to myself. At the age of 40 I realized I’d been fast-marching down the wrong road, chasing my false self–the self I thought I should be and could be with a little more effort. It was not a journey of discovering myself and blossoming into that person God created me to be, but a suppression of my true self and imposition of duty-bound goals. And as I grew ever farther from my true self, I had only a fabricated self to share with others.
So many of us are like bumper cars trying to connect, but instead deflecting. “Hi, how are you?” bump, bump. “Fine, thanks.” bump, bump. “I had a rough night, but I won’t bother you with that!” smile, bump, bump. It’s a dangerous place to be without a bumper, so we cushion ourselves well and keep at a safe distance. As protection, I used tight self-discipline to outshine others, to prove my worth, to earn their respect, and to safely pad the vulnerable parts of my soul from access to others. If you hide long enough, you lose your orientation and eventually lose yourself.
Who am I really? Am I a naturally disciplined, organized person, or am I a naturally spontaneous, creative person who has wrapped himself tightly in this cloak of spiritual conformity? Am I essentially easy-going and relational, or am I hard-driving and goal oriented? Would I make a better therapist or lawyer? I worked so long and tirelessly to become the person I thought God demanded, suppressing my true inclinations, desires, and gifts, that I struggle now to recognize the real me. For the last 14 years I’ve been finding my way back, sloughing off layer upon layer of spiritual accretions that suffocated my spirit and that carefully buffered my friendships. I still have a long way to go, but at least I’m on the road back to my true self shared in genuine relationships.
I often wonder where I would be now if my true self had been embraced and celebrated and my path had been the natural opening of my heart to a God full of grace and welcome.
Perhaps that’s only possible in an unscarred world.
Early this summer I dragged out a cardboard box from my closet, blew off years of dust, and opening it, pulled out a stack of notecards. Each card held a quotation, insights that inspired and challenged me, scribbled down from a decade of reading, and I planned to transcribe them to my computer. For two months I couldn’t muster the energy, but last week I finally plunked them down in my lap and started flipping through for some encouragement to share on Facebook. I read through ten cards… and then ten more, pulling them randomly from the pile, and discovered that what I meticulously recorded and saved was toxic. They were snippets of a mindset that dragged me into darkness and despair, a spirituality that was intense and genuine… and deeply flawed.
One of those treasured nuggets read, “A really humble man would rather let another say that he is contemptible and worth nothing than say so himself…. He believes it himself and is glad that others should share his opinion.” Another famous divine wrote, “Strive always to choose not that which is easiest, but that which is most difficult; not that which is most delectable, but that which is most unpleasing; not that which gives most pleasure, but that which gives least; not that which is restful, but that which is wearisome; not that which gives consolation, but rather that which makes disconsolate.”
“HUMILITY CONSISTS IN THE CONTEMPT OF OUR EXCELLENCE”
Even when the quotations were “positive,” they crushed me with their impossible standard, like this prayer: “Grant that every word I speak may be fit for you to hear; that every plan I make be fit for you to bless; that every deed I do may be fit for you to share” –flawless speech and thought and action daily. I was a very committed young man. If this was the measure of true spirituality, then I was determined to reach it. With all my heart I drove myself to meet this standard, redoubling my efforts when I fell short, and finally I despaired.
In my brokenness, the grace of God found me. In my years of striving I would have looked on such a free gift as “cheap grace,” as taking advantage of God’s goodness, as spiritual lukewarmness like the church of Laodicea. But once I despaired of myself, grace was the only hope left to me. We cripples cannot earn our keep. It must be given to us.
For years after stumbling into the light of grace, I blamed myself for that twilight of wandering, of waste, of wounds to myself and others, but that murky stretch of my journey may have been inevitable, even necessary, since only the destitute embrace grace. Moses spent four decades in the backside of the desert herding sheep. David spent years running from Saul, sleeping in caves, being tagged a traitor. Demolition sets the groundwork for re-creation, so that the very strength and success of the unbroken stunts their souls. So let me, like Paul, brag about my weaknesses and magnify the grace of God.
I’ve been staying with dad for 10 days, keeping an eye on him while his wife is in Australia. Dad is a man of habit, finding comfort in a daily routine. I think he would call it discipline. Each morning he gets up, makes a cup of coffee, and takes it into his office where he has a long-established pattern of devotions: singing old hymns, reading the Bible, and praying through his list of requests. I expect he would feel discombobulated all day if that pattern was knocked loose.
Each morning here I go for a walk along the Broad River Walkway. At first I was taking along Barney, their border collie mix with long, thick, uncontrollable hair, but he kept falling behind, so I started walking alone. The solitude crowded my head with thoughts, mostly reflections on childhood and its repercussions.
Broad River Walk
This morning, prompted by the choruses I sang with dad last night, I headed out to walk with the old hymnbook tucked under my arm. The red cover was warn smooth and dark from years of family devotions, the ancient supportive tape on the corners blending seamlessly. As I stood and watched the water cascade over the spillway that stretches between the banks, I flipped the book open and the pages divided at “Nearer My God to Thee.” Those words dusted off cob-webbed memories of my deeply religious youth when I was “sold out to God” as we called it. I spent hours in prayer and Bible reading, I listened to sermons and worship on the radio, on tape, and at church. I read Christian authors and talked with Christian friends.
All this effort was to reach an oasis, relief for my parched soul, but the God I sought was a mirage. The farther into the desert I pushed myself, year after year, the more lost I became, until I was crawling through the sand towards water that wasn’t there, and I finally collapsed. Every step in the direction of a misconceived God is a step away from the true God.
I worshiped a God who was harsh and judgmental, and based on these assumptions, all my Bible reading and prayer and devotion simply drove me deeper into this skewed faith. I read verses about God’s wrath and judgment that negated for me any verses about His gentleness and love. Sermons about God’s kindness came across to me as soft and insubstantial, as merely a carrot to get me to work harder at being good so God would accept me. The more I sang “Holy, Holy, Holy” the more unworthy and rejected I felt–who could ever measure up to absolute perfection? I worked to strengthen my faith, but it was faith in God’s power and omniscience and righteousness that were scrubbed of any scent of His patience and mercy and grace. That is, his power and omniscience and righteousness were frightening, not encouraging, the basis for his condemning me, not his rescuing me.
Love was there, but it was not foundational as these other attributes were. Fundamentally, God was pissed off at me and could only be mollified by the death of his son. Jesus kind of forced God into accepting me against his better judgment, bought God off so to speak. The harder I worked to be the person God wanted me to be, the more I realized how far short I fell. I heard Amy Grant’s song “My Father’s Eyes” and knew the look in those eyes: eternal disappointment.
This was not the kind of error that I could tweak my way out of. It was fundamental, all encompassing. It was not until my worldview, my belief system, crushed me beyond recovery that I was able to let go and discover the God in whom I now believe, a God of infinite grace. It has taken many years to unlearn, discard, loosen my fearful grip from my long held false securities and to cling stubbornly to my new faith, my new God, my new life and relationships… and even a new Bible and hymnbook. Nearer my God to thee.
Humans of New York is a wonderful website produced by Brandon, a photographer who is brilliant at drawing out the personal journeys of his random subjects in the city, recording their answers to his sensitive questions. I am linked to his page through Facebook and receive a post or two each day. They are very touching and heart-warming and the encouraging comments from others are worth reading as well. Here is today’s post:
“Are you lonely?”
“It’s been a lifetime of loneliness. I decided early on that I better get used to it. I go to movies by myself. If the movie theater is completely empty, I’m even happier. I learned early on that if I wanted to go to restaurants, I better learn to go by myself. One benefit to being big is that people don’t bother you. I’m shocked that you came up to me. Nobody’s ever done that. When I started to go to therapy, it took me several sessions before I even spoke a word. I’d just sit there and cry. And honestly, you caught me on a tough day. I was sitting here feeling really bad about myself. Because I went to the doctor today, and I was sure that I’d lost weight. But I’d gained some.”
It was the last straw. Pastor Rick had already cancelled the men’s group, just because, and it was the only reason I was attending his church, the one touch of real grace. Without that solace, I found myself struggling to survive the Sunday service, trying to keep my soul intact under a less than gentle preacher. Then last month he cried out, “I can’t STAND negative people! I won’t have anything to do with them!” That flash of accidental irony pushed me out the door. I can’t listen to a preacher who hates others, publicly, in a sermon… especially when his contempt may be directed at depressives like me. That was not a slip of his tongue, like dropping an F-bomb, but a slip of his mindset spilling out in the open, a thought so comfortable that he didn’t flinch to hear himself say it, out loud, in the pulpit. Perhaps I’m too sensitive… but if so, I need to stand up for that vulnerable part of myself.
This morning I sat in a different worship service and felt the singing stir my emotions, but I ducked tightly inside myself like a threatened turtle. In the stadium or theater, my emotions splash out with abandon, so why does it feel unsafe in church? Because my feelings about basketball are incidental, but my feelings about God are deep and core and private. In the genteel South of my upbringing, only real friends were invited from the living room into the kitchen, but God alone got into the bedroom. Shared intimacy requires safety, because the deeper in you go, the more power you wield for good or harm.
I realize that many folks have a public persona to protect their true hearts from danger: polite banter, chumminess, faux cheerfulness and interest. They invite you so warmly into the yard in order to divert you from the house. But I was born with a glass facade–you can see everything from the yard. If I don’t feel safe with you, I will give you a tight smile and a polite nod before averting my eyes because I’m no good at using politeness as a shield. I can go for about three sentences before tripping into a genuine heart issue.
However, the real vulnerability for me comes not from reporting about my feelings, but actually showing my feelings. I can emotionally keep folks at arms length while talking all about my feelings, but to express my feelings directly is the real risk, allowing them to react to my heart rather than my words and thoughts, which are my own protective layer against the harshness of others. For me intellectual validity has always been an escape, but emotional validity a pitfall. If you invalidate my ideas, I made a mistake, but if you invalidate my emotions, I AM a mistake. Showing my feelings invites you into my heart, and once you’re inside, I’m no longer safe. A new church is a new challenge emotionally, especially for those of us who aren’t good at shallow connections.
This morning a cool breeze was blowing through the windows and the sun was bright and inviting. I decided I’d like to walk the dogs on my favorite country road. Kimberly asked if I wanted to use the new dog harness she bought for Mazie, and I declined, but while getting the leashes, I felt a sudden shadow settle over my soul from somewhere vague and indistinct. As I loaded the dogs into the car, I tried to sort out the feeling. Something about the new harness was upsetting me. We recently got a second dog Mitts, and last week we bought him a harness that would inhibit his tugging on the leash. They have clever designs that force a dog into a turn when they pull, and I told Kimberly that I could add the feature to Mazie’s harness so we would not need to buy her another one. Two days ago Kimberly mentioned that I needed to do it soon because she was not able to control Mazie on walks, then yesterday she phoned to tell me that she had bought Mazie a new harness. I kept quiet, but I was exasperated.
Neither of us spends much money (we don’t have much to spend), but I am more austere than she is, so minor conflicts like this come up on occasion, especially when I feel I can solve the problem for free. Of course, that means she has to wait, especially if my emotions are dragging their feet. She is pretty patient, but eventually she asks me to either finish the project or agree to spend the money. This time there was little waiting, no discussion, and a unilateral decision. Naturally, she had every right since by agreement only large purchases require joint decisions. In fact, if we hadn’t discussed it at all, I would have been only slightly and briefly irritated because the bottom line was loss of money, not loss of self worth as it now felt.
As a child, I was highly sensitive, believing that others did not care about my feelings and latching onto anything that might be construed as evidence. As kids do, I blamed myself, sure that I was unloved because I did not deserve to be loved. I assumed my own inadequacy until it shaped my heart into a subconscious outlook, easily flaring up into depression as it bypasses any conscious thought process. I don’t stop to make a rational conclusion: “He was impatient with me because I’m too slow… I shouldn’t be this slow… it proves that I am a failure as a human being.” I just feel bad without knowing why. Sometimes even my emotions take time to settle in–my initial reaction may be a self-defensive anger covering over the sense of shame that gradually seeps in unrecognized to color my days.
As I walked, I started pulling loose the tangled threads of subconscious assumptions that triggered this current sense of worthlessness. Simply identifying the source released a good deal of its hidden power to subvert my heart. The next step was to validate my own worth independently of how Kimberly thought of me or treated me. My value cannot rest on another person, even on one so vital. My worth is anchored in the infinite and unconditional love with which God values me. Then having found some level of security, I took another look at what Kimberly’s behavior meant… and decided that objectively it had nothing to do with her opinion of me. She may have been acting from a sense of urgency or expedience or need for resolution. Buying a dog harness was not a telltale sign that she didn’t care about me. It was a sign that she wanted a dog harness.
MITTS
It’s our anniversary today. Last year I went “whole hog” as my mother would say: an 8 foot card of all Kimberly’s attributes. This year things have gone the other direction–pork rinds so to speak. We’re both tired, worn down, stumbling through our days clinging to linty scraps of hope that we keep misplacing. My offering in celebration of 7 years of marriage was a handful of dry, leftover brownies I brought home from work and a love note scribbled on a slip of paper from our refrigerator grocery list pad. I left that for her to discover this morning when she got up.
–
This is what real marriage is all about. If a couple’s relationship is threatened by what does or does not happen on their anniversary, they’re making that date carry far too much weight. You cannot make one day’s extravagance compensate for even a month of short-changing the relationship, and by the same token, a paltry celebration does not diminish a well-maintained heart connection. A marriage is built on daily choices–to listen, share, cry, laugh, trust, support–not on grand gestures. I’m very grateful for what Kimberly and I have.
This afternoon Kimberly and I were listening to an NPR Fresh Air interview of musician Sam Baker. He was the victim of a bombing in Peru by the communist group Shining Path, which prompted one of his striking lyrics: ‘Everyone is at the mercy of another one’s dream.’ Yes, we daydream of weddings and families, homes and careers, but our plans collide: mother and daughter over weddings, husband and wife over child-rearing, homeowner and banker over late mortgage payments. If we can’t agree over a music station driving to Walmart or where to hang wet towels, how can we compromise our deepest, longest held dreams. Must I abandon my dreams to fulfill yours or do we each halve our hopes? Does relationship shrivel potential?
Group goals differ from personal goals, and each has advantages and disadvantages over the other. Choosing relationship changes dreams, but if we are innately social beings, then purely individual plans are misguided and incomplete. We can only be our true, whole selves and fulfill our potential within the context of relationship. It is in togetherness that our richest dreams are shaped. With God’s help even difficult relationships can enhance our journey; we can turn the barricades thrown up by our enemies into stairsteps to the stars, just as Sam’s devastating injuries gave him a new and better purpose, to write songs on albums titled Mercy and Say Grace. I want to live in such a way that those who cross my path, even briefly, find help on their way rather than hindrance, encouragement rather than pain.
* * * * * *
After the interview I told Kimberly I like NPR anchors. They are nice people. Even when they disagree with their guests, they are polite and respectful. On his website, Sam reflected about his interaction with (NPR’s) Terry Gross, “I talked to her last week in Philadelphia at WHYY. I am a long time listener and a fan and was nervous (and a bit intimidated) to talk with her. She is gracious and charming and I am deeply grateful.” Kimberly replied to me, “Those gentle people are the only ones I want as friends.” I said, “That’s funny because you didn’t marry one!” Mind you, I try to be gentle. I’m just not very good at it, like a lumberjack with a bone china teacup, and I often feel deeply flawed as a human being for not being nicer. So why would Kimberly choose me?
We’ve had this discussion many times. In spite of warming up to nice, she keeps choosing real instead, because (as it turns out) you can’t really have both–no one can always be sweet and still genuine. When we let our insides out, the shadows appear. Kimberly was raised on nice, and didn’t discover her anger until she met me. She fearfully buried that part deep inside from everyone, even herself, and it was killing her. The folks who keep the ugly locked inside not only hurt themselves, but short-circuit their relationships. If I trust you only with what’s admirable, then you don’t know me and can’t love me for who I am. To truly connect at the heart level, we have to share more than happiness. As it turns out, I’m very good at real, both in being vulnerable and accepting others in their vulnerabilities, and that is what Kimberly needs most deeply. When she committed to our relationship, she gave up on her safe, carefully crafted dream and woke up to a reality far better.
Some dreams are in fatal conflict, and pursuing them tears everyone down. Surprisingly, fairytale endings often fit this mold because they are unrealistic, delusive, and usually selfish, and they depend on everyone involved having precisely the same unchanging vision. Trust me, after the credits roll, the sheen of Prince Charming dulls quickly as he wipes his mouth on the kitchen towel and forgets to replace the TP roll, and if Cinderella enforces her Hollywood dream, everyone else is going to be living a nightmare pasted over with smiles. May we all learn to dream together, to find the richest, fullest expression of ourselves in the symphony of relationship.
Go in peace, go in kindness,
go in love, go in faith.
Leave the day, the day behind us. Day is done.
Go in grace. Let us go into the dark, not afraid, not alone.
Let us hope by some good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
–Sam Baker–
I hit a deer yesterday morning as I drove home from work at 2:30 a.m. I often see deer the last half mile, sometimes just twin dots as their eyes reflect my highbeams while their bodies blend into the terrain. They are skittish, at times plunging into the road from the safety of the field, so I watch for them. But this one leaped out of the dark when I was going 50 mph, landing a few feet from my bumper. I’d have been heartsick to injure it, but it was killed instantly, so instead the slime of shame started gumming up my soul over the cost of fixing the car. Kimberly has often warned me to be careful, but I’d seen no deer in two weeks so my mind had drifted to other things. Would I have seen it, could I have avoided it, if I’d been alert?
In driving safety, Berly’s got me beat. She is more careful and aware in life, while I am more fearless and ruminative or if you prefer more reckless and scatter-brained. All personality traits have their benefits and detriments, and Berly’s make her better behind the wheel. They also make her more stressed and tired behind the wheel, so ironically I, the dangerous one, do most of the driving. There usually is a trade-off somewhere in the plus and minus categories of our personal characteristics. We often suppose there is some golden mean to seek–a perfect balance of caution and risk, of intensity and tranquility, of talking and listening–shave off the bumps to fill in the holes and end up with the perfect personality. Except those convexes and concaves are what make us each unique individuals with unique contributions. Our patterns of light and shadow shape our beauty, and our mix of strengths and weaknesses bond us in relationship.
Of course, I want to shore up my weaknesses as best I can; I want to become safer in traffic. But I must measure that against my own abilities and gifts, not my wife’s. She will always be better on the road, and that is okay… that has to be okay. Her safe driving must not be the basis for critiquing and shaming my erratic driving. In the first few years of our marriage, I was a strong defensive driver… meaning I was strongly defensive about my driving, a toxic mix of pride and shame towards any complaint. But I have slowly owned my faults and am now grateful for her backseat driving. She used to silently stomp invisible brakes on her passenger floor, but now she cries out, “That’s a stop sign!” or “That car is turning!” Team driving like team living brings out the best from both of us, but it requires mutual trust and respect built from honest interaction about our vulnerabilities and caches of shame.
I got my mom’s gerry-rigging gene. Kimberly sometimes laughs at the outlandish solutions I invent, but I can usually solve her problems. When we’re traveling and have very limited resources, I can fix it if it’s too hot or too cold, too high or too low, too dark or too light. I’ve been known to create furniture alternatives, substitute apparel, and make-shift appliances. And when we’re at home, the possibilities are endless, even when there’s no money.
Of course, my first tries are often flubs, sometimes disastrous or comical, like the soil bed I built on the outside of our second story deck to keep the deer from eating our tomato plants (and easier to tend). I didn’t think about how much heavier wet dirt is, till one night after three days of rain the whole thing crashed to the ground with a thump that brought us running. Or the time I didn’t notice the fatal flaw in my towing plan.
On the more comical side was my solution for Berly’s morning juggle out to the car for work, carrying her bagel and coffee and purse and bag. What could I invent to carry her bagel and coffee that she could hold with one finger, with a flat bottom so she could put it down as she opened and closed doors? I took a laundry bottle and cut holes in the side and tried to decorate it so it didn’t look so much like, well, a plastic jug with holes… using the contours of the container as a creative canvas. The results were… um….
Functional or not, that wasn’t going to leave the house for public viewing! The next iteration involved a shirt sleeve and hook, but Kimberly left her job before I could perfect the design. If you’ve got a problem, I’ve got a solution or three, and they usually work in the end, with minimal cost… as long as I don’t burn the house down in the process.
Janathan Grace Reflections 