By the time the season of glad tidings rolls around, I am often depleted of comfort and joy. I don’t hate the holidays. I don’t even dislike them. It’s just that the holidays happen to fall during a time when the skies have cast every possible shade of gray, and the sun has taken to retiring earlier in the day. By the time December rolls around, I am longing for the brilliance of a bright blue sky, and I feel the need for a hit of color, preferably one that does not fall into the earth tone category.

I’m fairly certain I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, since I am pretty good at diagnosing myself. Some friends are laughing right now and murmuring something about hypochondria. Let them laugh. It’s true. Look at my blog posts. If you were to chart the number of serious or somewhat depressing blogs, they would fall in the months of November, December, January and February – months that are shorter and darker than the others. Look at the posts that I have written in the summertime and they are as carefree as a barefoot girl on a boat can be.

When my kids were smaller, I could jet to Florida for a little renewal, but once they were in school full-time that wasn’t an easy option. I had to figure out a way to accept that life in the Midwest would always mean enduring the pallid days of winter.

Last year as the final leaves fell from the trees, I felt that tinge of sadness start to sweep over me, knowing that soon everything would look lifeless and bland. I was walking down one of my favorite stretches of Delaware Street, a stretch framed by trees which, most likely, have stood for a hundred years. I stopped long enough to notice the branches on one particular Oak. I studied their form, the way they bend seemingly without reason, the pathways they create and the many hues of black, brown and gray limbs that branch out from a single trunk.

Suddenly I was struck with gratitude that I could see the nakedness of this tree. That I had a different view. That the leaves that had so beautifully adorned this tree just days before had been shed to reveal splendor in its rawest form. It made me think of all the other spaces around me that were now stripped of their blatant beauty. The large blooms covering the lilac bushes were long gone, as were the impressive flower gardens no longer camouflaged the brown earth. Instead of seeing death, I saw life. Life at rest, perhaps, but life at its purest. Life with no pretensions. Life submitted. Life exposed.

I wondered how often I ignore the beauty of this season of life in myself and in the people around me. How often I turn away from the lackluster to gaze upon the dazzling. It’s no surprise that this lesson came to me at a time when our family moved into the city with its toothless, ragged transient men and women roaming the streets rather than the trendy, attractive teenagers I used to watch driving their Jeeps to the high school football games.

Reframing my view has allowed me to see that which I had ignored, or even disliked, as things of beauty and worth. With this view, I now choose not only to turn my attention to that which simply pleases the eye, but to that which is raw, exposed and vulnerable – whether its a bare tree or a stranger passing on the sidewalk.

There are days I still want to crawl under the covers and wait for the blue sky to show itself, but thankfully, these have become fewer.  And hopefully, they will become fewer still as I allow God to transform my way of thinking and seeing. When I allow him to shift my paradigm, I find the most contentment and discover that to everything there is a season and to every season there is a purpose.

About three this morning I heard something that sounded like people fighting outside. I looked out the front window and witnessed a man standing on the sidewalk, screaming to someone down the street. He would walk a few steps and then turn around to face his accuser. His voice spooked me. It had a sort of demon-like tone to it. Like he was playing a part in some horror film. As I waited and watched, it occurred to me that there was no accuser. At least not one that I could see.

My stomach turned as I watched the man, so obviously tormented by something that only he could hear. After about ten minutes, he moved far enough down the street where I could no longer see or hear him. I couldn’t shake the sound of his voice or the thought of the kind of mental hell he lives with each day.

I saw him again this morning, sitting at the corner two blocks down the street. As my car turned the corner, I looked over and saw him yelling in my direction. I have no idea what he said but he appeared as he had last night – racked by the voices that the rest of us cannot hear.

I’ve carried him with me today. Felt a sadness for this cross he has to bear. Wondered what he may have been like as a child. Tried to forget the demonesque voice and remember that in some ways we are alike… this man and me.

For I have voices in my head, too. Fortunately these voices are not auditory hallucinations like the ones of the man I saw last night. But they are real in another sense. They come from people I have known throughout my life, people who have loved me, as well as people who have hated me. Lately, the voices I hear are words spoken from friends who are trying to offer counsel for my current life situation. While these voices are not meant to be harmful, they can get confusing. They often become so jumbled in my head that I end up paralyzed. The friends who carry these messages, who dump them into my head, have good intentions. I know they love me and want to stop the hurt I feel. Even so, I must sift through the content to find the truth for my life. For instance, the other day I sat at the dining room table of my friends who have walked with me through many of the hardships of this past year. The couple has been nothing but encouraging to me. I have literally spent hours at their house. In our recent conversation, the husband shared part of his childhood story with me. While I know he wants me to do what is best for my life, he acknowledged that what he was presenting was much easier said than done. That’s the problem with the voices I often carry. They may sound good in theory, yet each message has implications.

If I’m not careful, I can play the tapes of these voices over and over in my head until I shut out my own voice completely. Worse, I shut out the voice of God. If I am spiritually healthy, I can scrutinize the voices within the context of a connection with a loving God and  find my way out of the maze of messages with my true self intact. If I am spiritually sick I tend to obsess about the messages, especially the ones which pierce my heart, and inevitably I find myself swimming through a pool of insecurity and depression.

When someone tells me, for example, that they do not want to talk to me, no matter the reason, I assign a message to this that says something is wrong with me. I am not worthy to be known or to be pursued. There might be a perfectly good reason for someone wanting to push me away, but when I am feeling vulnerable or weak, I can act as crazy as the man on the sidewalk outside my house last night. I do not like feeling this way. I don’t like losing myself in these voices that tell me I’m not good enough or, the contrary, that I’m too much to handle.

Today I’ve had to examine the voices I have heard the past few days. Instead of standing on the sidewalk shouting, I chose to take my journal to the local park and separate the good messages from the bad. I didn’t draw any conclusions, and I still feel hurt over some of them. I’m confused over others. But most importantly I have started the process of dealing with them. I have tools to work through them, tools like prayer, writing and solitude.

My heart continues to ache over the man who walks Alabama Street and other nearby thoroughfares late at night. His psychosis seems hopeless, but I hold out hope that somehow he can find a way to cope with the voices that plague him.

I left my house to the sound of bongos. My son, Asher, sat on the couch beating to the rhythm of his own making. Not a care in the world, it seemed. Just freedom to express himself, and joy spread across his face.

An hour later, I heard bongos again. But these were not from the hands of my 8-year-old son. These came from the speakers at the front of a church sanctuary, which provided the audio portion of a video I was watching about the child sex trade. I couldn’t help thinking about the contrast in scenes. The picture of my happy son, safe in his house, playing for the pure joy of it – because he can. And the beating of these drums set to the photos of children who are bought and sold into brothels and sweatshops, traumatized and ashamed.

It was a Saturday night and I was alone as I entered the church to attend “Purchased,” a concert and informative night to raise awareness for Love146, an organization dedicated to protecting, defending, restoring and empowering children rescued from the sex trade. http://www.love146.org

As I listened and watched, I found myself rummaging through my purse for scrap pieces of paper. I wanted to capture my thoughts and feelings as the information came at me, so I madly scrawled over old receipts and grocery lists.

One of the thoughts I recorded was this: “How do you ever accept a safe touch after sex slavery?” My mind turned toward my last blog entry about the desire for touch. How could I assume that everyone wants touch, when children all over the world are touched only for the pleasure of the people who own them or “buy” them for their perversity? I pictured the faces of children who are rescued and brought to safe houses. I wonder, how, how exactly does a little girl of 8 ever trust again? Will she ever be able to stop flinching at the moment someone first touches her arm? What will it take for her to know that she is not to blame? That she belongs to no man or woman? That she is free? That she is loved for who she is, not what she does with her body?

There were moments when I held my hand to my mouth for fear I might vomit. No one, especially a child, should ever have to live through the horrors of beating and rapes day in and day out for weeks, months or years. But all over this world, and even in our own towns, there are boys and girls who live this way. They. Live. This. Way.

The information was hard enough to absorb. Now that I had it, though, what was I to do with it? I had no idea. I still don’t know. But, for some reason I was compelled to go to the event. And not to cop out, but I have to rely on God to show me what’s next.

I may not be able to change the world or eradicate such things, but I do know that God can work miracles. I do know that the only way these children ever smile again, let alone play and develop relationships and laugh is because of Jesus, the ultimate healer and the ultimate lover. As I trust that he will do his job, I continue to discover my role starting here, in this humble, little blog to raise awareness.

That’s What Joy Did

I met Joy on Friday night at the Harrison Center for the Arts.  I was promoting a program I started called The WriteHers Club, during First Friday, a downtown art tour. I had left the WriteHers table to visit with some friends in one of the galleries and put my two boys in charge. They must have worked their charm because several people signed up for mentoring and took part in a writing exercise I had developed based on artist Kyle Ragsdale’s show that night, titled, “Historical Fiction.” Several minutes after leaving the table, one of my sons found me and said someone was waiting at the table to talk to me.

That’s when I met Joy. Like the folks at Love146, Joy could not ignore the atrocities taking place in her country: namely,  female genital mutilation. As a result of her advocacy, she has developed an art exhibit to raise awareness for this issue among other women’s issues around the globe. Joy, as her name indicates, lit up as she explained her work as a consultant to governments and non-govermental organizations who are dedicated to empowering victims to get the help they need and deserve.  http://www.wicsaorg.com

I’m pretty sure my mouth was close to the floor as I listened to the stories Joy told. Who am I that I should connect with a woman who has spoken to the British parliament? Who am I that she should want to mentor in my little writing program here in the inner-city of the United States? Why did she seek me out to share her stories and her passion? And then I remembered, it’s not because of who I am. This has no more to do with me than it would if I was Michelle Obama. This is about what God orchestrates, and in this instance it’s two women connecting over what is right and what is good and the love God wants to pour out of us.

Which is exactly what I tried to do on Saturday afternoon.

Meet Virginia

It seems the woman with the long trench coat and missing teeth always approaches me at the Saturday soccer games. People tell me not to look her way. But I can’t help it.  I see her coming and I know what she’s going to say: “Excuse me, do you have any money so I can buy some formula?”

I want to ask her what kind of formula she’s talking about because I am pretty sure she doesn’t have a baby. Instead I tell her no, I don’t have money, which is always the truth because I rarely bring my purse to the games.

This Saturday was no different. Except for the part when I left the game. I had already gone through the “no, I don’t have any money for your formula” routine so when I saw the missing teeth lady approaching my car as I waited to turn, I thought I would simply tell her no AGAIN. But as she tapped on my window, she didn’t ask for money. She wanted a ride. She didn’t want to go far. Two blocks, to be exact. Loaded with children in the back of my Suburban I surprised myself by saying, “Sure, get in.”

As she sat in the passenger seat, she started rifling through the bag I had tossed in between the seats. “What’s this?” she asked. “Oh, you don’t want that. It’s an old apple core and some trash,” I responded.

“But I’m soooooo hungry,” she said.

“Okay, but I have some doughnuts in the back that I will give you when we stop.”

“Can I have this water?”

“No, you don’t need to drink that water. It’s been opened,” I answered. “I have bottles in the back that I’ll give you, too.” Then I pushed  a little more. “Do you want some help? I can take you someplace where you can get some help.”

“No, the missions are closed today,” she said. I knew she was lying, not only because not every mission in Indianapolis would be closed on Saturday, but also because she had told me earlier that she dropped her babies off at the mission so she could get formula. So I’m thinking the mission didn’t take her babies and then close for the day.

Concluding that she didn’t really want to receive help, and knowing it was not my job to rescue her, I pulled onto the street where she had asked to go. I took the keys with me as I got out of the car to retrieve the doughnuts and water bottles I had promised. The neighborhood looked bleak and I didn’t want to chance someone car jacking my Suburban full of children. AS I peeked around the back of the car to where the woman stood, and I asked her where she slept at night.

“In the car,” she answered. So I grabbed a large beach blanket out of the back to offer her, hoping it might provide some extra warmth at night.

As I handed it all to her, I asked her if I could pray with her. She said, yes, and then lifted the Bible she had been carrying with her. I asked her name and she told me it was Virginia. I began to pray for Virginia, but soon realized I had no idea what to pray for. What can you pray for a homeless woman who smells like a brewery, is probably schizophrenic, has most likely lived on the streets for far too long, and doesn’t want help? I just started talking and I simply asked God to somehow let Virginia know that she was precious to him, that she was loved, soooo loved and … as I was just getting into a groove, I heard Virginia mumble. Then she started to laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you have freckles,” she asked as she dragged out each word in a sort of song.

“I do,” I answered, knowing prayer time was over.

“I luuuuve you,” Virginia said as she put her head on my shoulder.

“I love you, too,” I said. And I meant it because it was not me who was offering this woman anything. It was that love thing that God does through people, in the really weird ways he chooses to do it.

As I climbed back in my car, Virginia stopped a few feet down the street and shouted, “What’s your name?” I told her it was Lynn, and she spelled it, “L-Y-N-N?” I replied with a yes and then she said in her sing-songy way,  “I love you, Lynn.”

I look for Virginia when I pass that street. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Just like I have no idea how I’m supposed to use the information I have about the child sex trade and the work that Joy does for the women who deal with female genital mutilation. It’s frustrating to me to make these connections and then feel like they are moments slipping through my fingers. I want to hold on to them. To do something with them. To take all the passion I have for the hurting and lost and really DO something.

And then I remember that I did do something. I let God use me. If only for a moment, I let him use me as I cried for the children in brothels. As I learned about Joy’s desire to empower women. As I gave Virginia fresh water and a measly little prayer. I did something. It wasn’t big and no one will shout it from the rooftops, nor will it ever make front page news. But I did something. I listened and I loved. And I showed up. I simply showed up. God did the rest. He always does.

One of my friends started an organization called World Next Door (www.WorldNextDoor.org) as a way to awaken ordinary people to global issues such as poverty, social injustice and AIDS. He and his team travel across the globe and recently stayed in Haiti. While there, he posted this as his Facebook status:

Slept at the orphanage last night. Those kids are PRECIOUS! But they broke my heart too. They didn’t even know how to hug!

I stared at that last sentence. How? How could a child not know how to hug? What kind of life must you live to lack the knowledge of something that seems so intuitive? Someone comes toward you with open arms and you wrap your arms around them in return.

Unless no one has ever come toward you with open arms.

I have struggled to envision when and how my friend first understood that these children did not know what it meant to give or receive a hug. Did he teach them how to wrap their arms around his body? Did their bodies melt into his at this new sensation? Did it feel foreign or did they welcome the warmth that comes from such contact?

Studies show, and have shown for literally centuries, that the lack of touch is fatal. Babies die if they are not touched. I could cite source after source of the benefits to touch and even more to the bonding that all humans need to become healthy and secure. But my intent is not to spout off statistics or facts pertaining to human contact. I simply need to wrestle with the notion that there are people – children, no less – that do not experience what we all so desperately need. And what many of us so desperately want.

I’m one of those people who needs and wants to be touched. I am what some deem touchy-feelly. When I go through long seasons without significant touch, I literally feel like I may wither up and die. It’s as if part of my soul dries up because that part of me, the part that longs to touch and be touched, has no place to go, to be watered and nurtured. But how ridiculous I must sound in light of orphans who don’t have a frame of reference for the act of hugging in their young lives.

Since we moved into the city, I have noticed a shopping cart that sits in a parking lot a few blocks from our home. It may move from one day to another, but I see it somewhere within the same block each time I pass. If you’ve seen The Soloist, maybe you can picture the overflowing contents of this “borrowed” grocery cart, and how important it is to the homeless man who has gathered these seemingly random items. Today, my friend and I walked by two such carts and I stopped to take a picture. We laughed at the “Do Not Enter” sign that stuck out the top of the cart and wondered why the person needed a hubcap or the oil tiki torch we saw in the pile.

When we stopped in Walgreens, I asked the clerk if she knew the story behind the cart. She told us about the little man who pushes it here and there, and sometimes comes into Walgreens to chat. I found myself wondering when he had last been hugged.

Tonight as I held my son, I thought of the little man finding a place to park his cart for the night before laying down next to a dumpster or under a tree to get some sleep. I wondered if he was sleeping today as we passed and instead wanders the streets at night, searching for more treasures to fill his cart. I find myself wanting to find him. Wanting to look into his face. To reach out my hand to touch his. I’m not trying to save him or rescue him but if touch is so vital to our well-being, how tragic that this man has most likely gone without healthy touch perhaps for days, months, years. Sure that’s an assumption, but one I believe may not be far-fetched.

I recently had a massage. When I walked out of the spa, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. It was sheer pleasure to have every muscle in my body worked out under skilled and therapeutic hands. I consider that massage a total luxury. I said I “needed” it – for my mental, physical and emotional health. Really? I’ll admit, it was a great way to take care of myself in a stressful time in my life. But I cringe when I think of the money I spent on a 90 minute massage – to be pampered and indulged, when there are children who are never even held in the arms of a gentle caretaker.

I’m challenged by my friend’s experience in Haiti. I wish I could hop on a plane tonight and get to those orphans. I would not sleep until every last one had been held. But I’m not going to Haiti tonight. I’m staying right here. And here is a good place to be. Because here has a lot of broken and needy people. They may look different from those orphans but their desire is one I believe to be planted at the center of all our souls. The desire to be seen, wanted, and loved. What better way to do that than through my hand or my arms reaching out to another human being?

So thank you, Barry, for doing what you set out to do. To awaken people like me to the brokenness and need for God’s love and grace in all corners of the world. You have inspired me to go tenaciously about this city with my eyes, ears, mind and most importantly, my heart open to give the most basic need that I can give: touch.

In preparation for our trip to Florida for Fall Break, I bought a new swimsuit. When I donned the suit in Florida, I thought I would wow my husband. I took my dress off, revealing the new black, sassy suit, and I waited. Nothing. On the second day, still nothing. The third time I put it on, I thought I would go fishing for the compliment. I walked out of the bathroom and went for it.

“You haven’t mentioned anything about my new swimsuit. Do you like it?” I asked.

“No,” he said, flatly.

“Wow. That was rude,” I shot back.

“Why?  Because I told you I didn’t like your swimsuit?” He asked. “Do you want me to lie?”

My hot head tried to sort out whether I really wanted honesty or lies in this matter. “Yes,” I said. “I want you to lie.” And with that, I grabbed the rest of my things and stormed out the bedroom door.

When I reached the entry way, my boys were waiting for me to grab the keys and head out the door to the beach. I told them I would be right down and ducked into the guest bathroom to let the tears the flow.

Could I really be crying over a swimsuit? A stupid swimsuit? No, it wasn’t the swimsuit, I reasoned. It was the message that his careless answer sent me. I had ventured out for the compliment like a little girl who puts on her new party dress and bounces down the stairs to ask her daddy if he likes her new dress. And of course, Daddy says, “You look beautiful.” Even if he thinks the dress is hideous, he tells his daughter she is beautiful. I think that’s what I was truly fishing for.

I wanted him to tell me I was beautiful. I wanted to see his eyes light up at the sight of me, not the dumb swimsuit. But he was more concerned with being honest, as he has been on this journey of finding his own voice, without being such a people pleaser.

Since things have been in flux with our marriage, we step carefully  to give one another the room we each need. It’s not exactly like walking on eggshells; it’s more like taking space to process, think, pray and work on ourselves so that we can come back together stronger and more confident in what our marriage is supposed to look like, what God wants it to be and what we both hope it can be.

So while I understand why he is being brutally honest, I still wish he had phrased it differently. I wish he would have said something more like, “Well, I’m not a fan of the suit, but I like you.” Or even, “I like your other suit better.” But he didn’t, and because I haven’t been getting the affirmation I used to get from him, I am more sensitive. After journaling and praying about it, I told him today it wasn’t about the swimsuit. I explained that while others may tell me I look pretty, he is the one I want to hear it from the most. He is the one that matters. He looked at me with gentleness, and I wondered if he was thinking, “All this because I didn’t like her swimsuit?” But he didn’t say that. He listened to my reasoning and he told me he understood and could see how I would have taken his answer.

All of this angst over such a small matter really boils down to what we all want to hear, what every woman wants to hear… that we look beautiful. Some may argue. Some may say they don’t care if anyone tells them they are beautiful. They are lying. Every little girl, no matter how much of a tomboy she may be, wants someone, especially someone who really matters, to say those words.

After I told my husband that his statement was painful because of the meaning I had attached to it,  he told me that not only did he think I was pretty, but that he thought I had a beautiful heart. I know that I should be more concerned with the latter, to relish in how he sees the condition of my heart. But truth be told, sometimes it’s about the appearance. The outward appearance of our selves. And when your spouse or boyfriend or significant other doesn’t tell you he thinks you’re pretty often enough, it start to hurt.

If you are one of those women who hears that you are beautiful every day,  you may not be as hungry for it. Maybe you want to hear more about how someone sees your heart. You may be dying for people to stop calling you pretty, and focus on your insides, the parts that really matter – your spirit and your heart.

Right now, as I write this, all the Christian messages I have learned over the years are screaming in my head. It’s not the outward beauty that matters. It IS the heart that matters. It doesn’t matter what any man or woman thinks about you, it only matters what God thinks about you. I believe these things. I think. In my head, anyway. I want to swallow them wholly, but in my humanness, I am not quite there. I still want to be seen as beautiful. I want to be both worthwhile and wanted.

The bottom line is this, all of us want to be chosen. You want that person you love to scan the crowd, and upon seeing you, you want his eyes to stop and gaze into your eyes as you whisper, “Pick me. Pick me.” And he does. Over and over. He picks you.

There are days when I am satisfied that God will always pick me. I can honestly say that it does not matter what my husband says because my Creator thinks I am perfect. But more often than not, while living in this world, with all its carnage of broken relationships, I continue to strive to be seen and chosen and wanted by others so I can feel okay about myself. Wave your finger at me. Tell me this is wrong. But this is just the truth of who I am in my wounded and needy self as I try to navigate through this world.

I love this quote by C.S. Lewis because it reminds me that all of these things I long for, the things that may never satisfy or be fulfilled are for a reason.

“If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy,

the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

– C.S. Lewis –

Amen, Mr. Lewis. Amen.

I used to have a problem with people who were inconsistent. It doesn’t matter if were are a family member or a colleague. I often felt insecure when you’d appear happy one moment and anger the next. Here’s what used to happens in my head . (Okay, I admit, it still happens more often than I care to admit.) Let’s pretend you are a co-worker.

I have you and your family over for dinner. You are more than cordial. You are downright warm. You hug me when you enter my home. You bring a bottle of wine and offer to serve everyone a glass. When we gather around the fireplace after dinner, you ask questions about what my life was like as a child. You tell me about yours. You stay later than I expected, but I’m enjoying your company so much that I barely even notice. You pay attention to my children and ask my husband about his work, and you seem genuinely interested.

The next day I see you at work. I get out of my car and walk toward you so we can walk into the building together but you simply wave at me from the distance, and walk inside. When I see you later that morning, you say hello in a most formal tone. Here’s where the mind starts to go a little haywire. I think to myself, “My, she seems a little aloof today. I thought we had opened up to one another and it took our friendship to a deeper level. Maybe she doesn’t like me now that she’s been to our home. Maybe our kids got on her nerves. Or perhaps she disapproves of the way I was raised. What if she thinks we’re snobs. Or worse, that we’re not good enough for her.”

I go about my work without much more thought, although the questions re-appear in my mind whenever my co-worker seems even a little stand-offish. The rational side of me says that she is maintaining a professional distance and that her behavior is not a refection of me, but sometimes my rational side goes AWOL and I’m left with crazy brain. When crazy brain strikes, I do the crazy dance. The crazy dance is set to the song, “Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who?” because I do not know who the other person is going to be that day – cold, professional woman or warm, gracious woman. And if I don’t know who I’m getting, how do I know how to react.

There’s the key word: react. Why is it necessary for me to REACT? It took me a long time to even notice that I was reacting to people rather than simply acting myself. For instance, I have a friend who can not fake her disappointment very well. When I see this certain look on her face, I know something is not right. But when I ask her what’s wrong, she often denies that anything is wrong. I know this friend well enough to know that she is lying. She says “nothing,” with a little smile that indicates that her heart is aching but she is not yet comfortable, for whatever reason, to open up about it.

I used to do the crazy brain, crazy dance with her. My mind would swirl with all the possibilities of why she might be upset with me. I wondered how on earth she could have gone from happy friend to sad friend in a day. And since crazy brain is irrational brain, I couldn’t respect her need to be silent for a while. So I would pry and pry until she would cave. Usually it was before she was ready to talk, which made her explanation come across harsher than she meant it. I often felt attacked, which caused me to dig my heels in to her arguments rather than listening with an open heart. And when I don’t listen with an open heart, the issue is misconstrued as I make it all about me rather than all about the true issue.

I am learning to give her space and tell her that I care about what’s going on with her. I tell her that I want to know but I won’t pry any longer. I tell her that when SHE is ready to talk, then she can call me, and until then I want her to know that I love her no matter what.

I feel so much healthier this way. So much healthier since I acknowledged the harm that crazy brain was capable of. When I see myself starting to do the dance, the crazy dance, I use several tools to deal with the inconsistencies in other people’s behavior. Here are just a few of the truths I hold onto:

1. I have no power over other people’s behavior. Imagine that! And all this time I thought I could control the moods of others.

2. Other people’s attitudes and moods are not a reflection of me. I have learned to see where the other person ends and where I begin. This helps me to detach from someone’s sadness with love, meaning… I still care about the person’s feelings, but I do not need to live as if they are my own.

3. It’s none of my business what other people think of me. Seriously! This one is so hard for me. Every time I think someone is mad or disappointed with me, I don’t need to know why. The only thing I need to be concerned with is whether or not I am loving that person the best I can. If I feel like I have wronged someone, then it’s appropriate to ask. But if I have a clear conscience that I didn’t purposely hurt or offend someone, then I think it is their responsibility to come to me with their issues.

4. If someone calls me a witch, it does not make me a witch anymore than someone calling me a car makes me a car. As long as I am connected to God and asking him to guide my actions and words, I am only one thing – and that is a Child of God, created to do whatever he wants me to do, not what the people I want to please want me to do.

These are only some of the tools I use to avoid the codependent, people-pleasing little girl that likes to pop out of my otherwise, mature and loving woman body. I wish I could say I have become totally healthy in this arena of my life, but inconsistencies in other people’s behavior still affects me now and then. The closer the relationship I have with someone, the harder it is not to take it personally. But every morning I get a chance to start living as God wants me to live. And living in his will has provided me with more security than any person on earth could ever give.

I’ve been thinking a lot about community lately. There are many notions about community. We may define our various communities by our neighborhoods, school communities, churches. Within the church, there are often small groups, which we often call our community groups. My friend Heidi is  a part of the rowing community, just as our family is part of the local soccer community. What does it mean to be a part of community?

Belonging. Shared interest. Unity.

I love belonging to the Oaks Academy community. The school has the unique mission of reconciliation between people of various cultural, racial and economic statuses. Not everyone at this inner city school cares about reconciliation, but when they enroll their children, they certainly understand that this is an important element to the school’s foundation.

I do care about reconciliation and that is one of the reasons why I love the Oaks community. It is a place filled with people I love and who love me back. I am cared for and I care for the people there. It’s a place where teachers and other families support my children and help them to grow intellectually and spiritually. If I screw up or my children make mistakes, we still belong. No one shuns or shames us. It is truly a beautiful place of acceptance. Not perfect, by any means, but beautiful nonetheless.

I feel secure at the Oaks. I feel at home there, too. Not just inside the building walls, but with the many friends I have made over the years. The teachers and other parents know me. They know our family. Being known provides a sense of security.

What hurts my heart is when I see or hear of communities that for one reason or another wound the people within their circle. When people no longer feel safe or secure in their community, it can break down the unity as quickly as a tornado tears a house apart on its way through town.

This is particularly troubling for me when I hear it happening in churches. Of all places, you would think the church would be the safest. Often it is the least secure place for people. Unfortunately, I have seen people who share their brokenness in the hopes of support and acceptance, only to be brought under fire and in some cases even expelled from the church. I know there are circumstances where a person may be asked to leave a community because they may be harming the overall purpose or unity of a group. Those are not the people I am talking about.

For instance, let’s say I was a drug addict. I come to my church group and admit I had a drug problem and that I want help. My community group has a few options here. They can embrace me and tell me that they love me anyway. They can help find a place to send me to rehab. They can call me periodically and tell me they love me even if they don’t agree with what I am doing. Or they can stay silent, paralyzed by what I have told them because they do not know how to handle it. Or worse yet, they can tell me to leave the group until I clean up my act.

Now let’s say they find out I’m a drug addict but I don’t want help. My group has all the same options as the above, and perhaps setting some boundaries for me to follow to force my hand at getting help. That may be helpful. I suppose it depends how it’s handled. But my point is that so often, what happens in the church is that we don’t know how to act in the midst of the battles in other people’s lives. So we stay silent. Or we turn to our religious rules and kick the sinner out of the community, citing whatever legalistic principle fits the situation.

How is this helpful? How does this perpetuate love and acceptance. I’m not talking about accepting behaviors. I’m talking about accepting people. Using our communities as places to love someone so much that they are motivated to seek help perhaps, or feel safe in sharing their pain and heartaches with one another. When this happens, when we are truly in a community, faith-based or not, and we can open our lives to one another, imperfections and all, we are like a light in the darkness.

Today I heard of two men who had committed suicide. I have felt the type of darkness where I have not wanted to live before. The type that is so oppressive that I do not want to go another minute with the pain of my circumstances. But because I have a community that I can trust, I was able to share this burden with a few friends. I cannot express the enormity of blessings I experienced when one friend came to my home to take care of the household chores that I simply couldn’t do. I literally laid in my bed while she sat down the hall, doing my laundry. And the other friend, who came over and crawled into bed with me and stroked my head while I cried. And the other friends who came to gather my children and take care of them when I was unable to do the simplest things. I have felt the deep, black darkness. But I believe that because I was willing to tell them about my pain, I was able to receive the love they poured into my life and my family’s life.

These people couldn’t fix my problem, but they could carry me and hold me in the midst of it. They didn’t try to snap me out of my moods or force me to heal any faster than I had to. They were there. They were just there doing what they do. Loving me in all the various ways they knew how. And it was beautiful. And eventually, I got out of bed and I grew stronger and I am now able to love others in the way God has created me to love.

So I suppose I’m on a soapbox today because I’m so sad by the way we fall short of caring for those with whom we are in community. I just returned home from the U2 concert in Atlanta. It was an incredible night. I was able to share it with two of the moms from the Oaks Academy. I never would have known these two beautiful women if it weren’t for the school bringing us together. For 12 hours we sat in the car traveling from Indiana to Georgia (hours of which were searching for a parking space!) and although there were three of us, we were a small community within a community. We shared a lot about our lives in those twelve hours and I am extremely blessed to have heard about their lives. What makes them excited. What pisses them off. What makes them laugh. And what makes their hearts break. Unfortunately, a lot of the heartaches came from the wounds they have experienced with broken community.

There’s something wrong with that picture. As I think about ways that I have contributed to breaking unity within a community, I am filled with sorrow. I hope that I will continue to recognize when my motives are self-centered rather than global, and that I can live the words of this popular song by — of course, U2:

One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers

One life
But we’re not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other

I had every intention of going away for the weekend. I hadn’t decided where. Anywhere but home. The week had overwhelmed me. I was sinking into depression, fatigue and irrational thoughts.

A lot of the stress came from a medical treatment my husband had on Wednesday. It’s a type of chemotherapy that’s still experimental for multiple sclerosis and has some serious side effects.
When he finished it without any side effects, we were both grateful. The next day he felt the same. No changes, negative or positive. The anticipation of this potentially fatal drug had taken its toll. Not to mention daily life with four children. There were still soccer games to attend, meals to fix, homework assignments in need of assistance, a large 5th grade project to oversee, and all the other nightly responsibilities – making sure teeth are brushed, uniforms are clean, books are read, beds are occupied and lights are out by 9:30.

Even with my mom and dad’s gracious help, I felt completely overwhelmed. I told my husband that I had to get away. My patience had worn too thin with the boys and I was becoming more emotional about things which normally would not upset me. My thinking was clouded and I was beginning to feel numb (if you can feel numb).
Yet, I couldn’t land on a place to go. I tossed around several ideas, but by Friday night, I still had not made a reservation. When my husband got home from work, he asked me where I was going and I told him I hadn’t decided yet. He walked over to me and took my in his arms. It had been a long time since he had done that. He’s hugged me here and there, but as we’ve tried to work through some marriage issues, it’s been a while since I’ve been hugged like this.

This was the kind of hug that folds you into each other. The kind that feels like nothing will harm you. The kind that says, “I see you hurting,” even when no words are spoken. This was the kind of hug that no matter how hard you try not to cry, the tears come anyway. I stayed in his embrace for a long time.

After we put the kids to bed, he held me again and I could feel the tension in my body slowly fade away. I slept better than I had in weeks.

When I woke up, I told him I still wanted to go away for the day but I no longer felt the need to run. One of my favorite places to escape is the Indianapolis Museum of Art. The IMA had all the elements I was looking for in a retreat. Well, almost all. There’s no masseuse on sight but with the affection my husband was pouring on me, I didn’t seem to need a massage as much as I thought I would. What the IMA does have is inspiring art, fresh food at Nourish Cafe, and beautiful grounds where I could hike and then plant myself under a tree with my journal and pen.

I’ve been to the IMA enough to know which galleries I wanted to visit and even which paintings I wanted to see. I am awed no matter how often I look at Georgia O’Keefe’s “Pelvis with Distance,” or the stained glass “Angel of the Resurrection,” or study the way Monet portrays the light in “The Church of San Giorgio Maggiore.”

As I walked through the galleries, I could hardly keep up with my thoughts, let alone my emotions. Art does that to me. It’s beauty, it’s mystery, it’s messages cause my head and my heart to swirl. As I stopped to gaze at the landscapes, I was drawn into the paintings. I was no longer standing on a hardwood floor of a museum. I was a woman overlooking the coastline of Southern France.  I could feel the wind blowing my hair, the warmth of the sun shining down on me, and smell the salt water from the sea below.

When I looked at a still life, I could smell the fragrance of the flower blossoms. And when I stared at the photographs of African men and women, a lump formed in my throat. I wanted to reach in and touch their beautiful faces, trace their lips and run my fingers over their cheeks. Some of them looked joyful, while others had a deep sorrow in their eyes. To those men and women, I wanted speak to them about God’s great love.

As I thought about the emotions I felt within the hour, I knew no words could aptly describe them. Words can only express so much of the human psyche. Words can never capture what only our senses experience. After all, how do we truly describe the ecstasy of feeling our skin pressed against our lover’s skin? Or the exhilaration of skiing through the glades of a mountainside? Or the breathtaking views we witness from a hot air balloon? Or the smell wafting from the sauce our grandmother has been cooking all day? Or the way our taste buds explode when we bite into a perfectly ripe orange? We try our best to describe what our senses experience, but language alone seems to fall short when we have been touched in the deepest places of our souls.

When I was on the brink of numbness, I forced myself to feel all that came my way. And I was awakened. I headed outside to walk the gardens. Eventually, I planted myself under a walnut tree and watched and listened and wrote and prayed. The squirrels kept threatening me with the walnuts they dropped from the branches overhead. They seemed to laugh as they did it, which made me laugh too. I watched families getting photographed, along with two wedding parties. And I listened to the laughter of small children as they ran from one garden to the next.

I had no specific expectations as I sat there. I just wanted to be. I needed some space to think and pray. I love the way God entered that space with me. He didn’t shake me out of my numbness or demand that I turn off my crazy, swirling thoughts. He sat next to me and let me breathe. His was a quiet and beautiful presence.

I sat still under the tree for a few minutes before I prayed, before I journaled, before I laughed at the squirrels and took some pictures. I closed my eyes and thanked God. I thanked him for using beauty to awaken my soul. I found a quote that says it best, “To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts – such is the duty of the artist.  ~Robert Schumann
That is certainly what happened to my heart there at the IMA. After a couple hours, I felt like I could go home again. I knew that although I would enter into chaos and uncertainty for what lies ahead, my heart would be okay. God had shown up in ways for which I hadn’t even known how to ask. He knew what I needed before I knew. I’m not sure why I am surprised when this happens. He hold so much mystery that I forget that my mind cannot fully understand his ways. I do know, however, that he is the artist that drew me into life. Unlike Picasso or Van Gogh, who eventually put their brushes down and stood back gazing at their finished work, God keeps working on me. He never puts away his brushes or his palette. He only stands back to gaze at me for a moment, waiting for me to look back in his face so he can tell me he’s not finished with me yet. He has more beauty and more light to add to the masterpiece that is my life.

Sitting near the fountain, looking toward the IMA entrance

This used to hang in the window at what is now Redeemer Presbyterian Church at 16th and Delaware, just a hop, skip and jump from our house. The verse was appropriate for the day: Wake up O Sleeper.

explaining the artwork of a fabulous installation near the African art gallery

This is a close up of the recycled piece.

full view of the piece.

My view from under the walnut trees. Hope no one can read my journal.

Just when I was about to smile for my candid-i-want-to-remember-this-moment-photo, a squirrel chucked a nut at me. Hence the funky look on my face.

The evil squirrel is up there somewhere.

One of the wedding parties that stopped for great photo ops.

Okay, I know this title is not the most creative or original. However, it is entirely fitting. I cannot begin to explain the ways I have received amazing grace in the past few days.

After writing about my secrets on a previous post, I have been overwhelmed with messages from friends near and far. I published the post before I picked up the boys from school. When I got home, a neighbor knocked on the door. She had read the blog and instead of sending an e-mail or making a comment online, she decided to walk over and chat in person. She is struggling and sad, but it was truly a sweet moment of connecting over painful circumstances in life, just knowing that there are similarities to our stories and acknowledging that we are not alone.

As I stood on my front porch talking to my neighbor, I was reminded of a line from the movie, Amazing Grace. My husband’s birthday was last Friday, and he wanted to watch the movie, his favorite. There’s so much about the film that moves him. While I’ve seen it before, I wanted to catch the things I may have missed before so I grabbed a pencil and paper to write down some of the quotes or thoughts that came to mind as I watched it. The one that popped into my head when I spoke with my neighbor was this: “When people stop being afraid, they rediscover their compassion.”

That is exactly what was happening to me. I had just poured out my fears, my secrets, and in doing so, the fears lost their power and I was able to focus on someone else instead of myself. Instead of being prisoner to my own pain, I could now empathize with my sweet neighbor. I was alive and aware of her presence and all that she was saying, instead of existing in a fog.

Today as I sat in the hospital with my husband, I noticed how he watched the clock carefully for the first two hours. If any sort of infusion issue or fatality were to occur, it would most likely happen in the first two hours. As his friends and I sat around him, we watched and asked if he felt anything strange. Nothing. No nausea. No chills. No labored breathing. Nothing. He felt totally normal. We joked how anti-climatic it was. Yet, I imagine I speak for all of us when I say it was a relief knowing he was fine.

I wish I could have seen what the angels looked like today as they went about their mission to watch over my husband. I wish I could have heard what God heard as His people prayed on my husband’s behalf. Words cannot express the gratitude in my heart for the number of people who have encouraged us, loved us and prayed for us. How incredibly humbling to receive the gift of grace. Philip Yancey, the author of What’s So Amazing About Grace said, “Unearned gifts and unexpected pleasures bring the most joy.”

These past few days have brought me incredible joy as I read my Facebook comments, e-mails and texts from others who have spent time thinking of me and my family and who have prayed, either on their own or with their small groups. The e-mail I sent a small group of friends a few days ago has made its way across the country and has multiplied the number of people who prayed for us.

So, thank you. All of you who have reached out and loved us from near and far. I am filled today.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

In Frederick Buechner’s book, Telling Secrets, he recounts experiences in his life he has hidden out of fear and shame. The take-away message for me, as I read the book, was that when I lay bare my secrets, a certain freedom comes with releasing them to the rest of humanity. When I reveal these secrets, I give God the chance to use them to redeem me and perhaps offer freedom and redemption to others as well.

I am fairly transparent, but there are some things I would rather not share. There are some things I would like to keep hidden, but as I have heard so often, “our secrets make us sick.”

What I am about to write has more to do with my fears than it has to do with hiding something out of shame, although I have my fair share of those secrets as well. The other issue with writing about this is that I am not the only player. I am trying to figure out how to tell the story with integrity because while I might feel led to share my part of the story, the other person may not feel so open to that. So I trust that God will use this, in whatever way it takes form, to touch the hearts of my readers.

Today when I opened my Facebook account, I received a note from a friend I hadn’t seen in  a while. Here is what she wrote:

Lynn,

I was listening to this Sara Groves song this morning and I thought of you. I so enjoy your facebook posts & blog. I love hearing your heart & your honest struggle for growth & beauty. You are beautiful!

What I want to do is share my story alongside the lyrics here. The lyrics are poignant and I do not mean to take away from them. I only mean to tell more of my particular story, my secret, in addition to them. Lyrics will be in italics, my story in plain text.

Lyrics to Add To The Beauty :
We come with beautiful secrets
We come with purposes written on our hearts, written on our souls
We come to every new morning
With possibilities only we can hold, that only we can hold

My beautiful secret is that I live in a marriage that is broken. I am a broken woman. My husband is a broken man. But in this brokenness, my heart has been transformed and my life is being redeemed. As I said in an earlier blog post, there are times when we have seriously considered calling it quits, but by God’s grace we continue to work on ourselves so that we can come back together healthier people. So like the song says, every morning we face a new possibility, a choice to let God use our pain to draw us closer to him and closer together, or turn away from him which always, always results in more pain. I also have a choice as to whether I will believe there is a purpose not just for our marriage but for me in all of the turmoil. The possibilities for our marriage and for my life are only mine to live because this is the story God has scripted for me and my husband. It may not be the life I would have chosen, but it is my life nonetheless and I can fight it or embrace it. Today I choose to embrace it.

Redemption comes in strange place, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

Redemption, or the freedom from being caught up in self-pity or victimization, comes from many places – my friends, family, a perfectly blue sky, my children’s laughter, a great book, a moving song- all those small things that touch my heart and remind me that I will be okay. I can keep taking steps toward a better me, a more whole me.
And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That’s burning up inside

I DO want to add to the beauty. I wan to tell a better story. I don’t want to give up. I want to do everything in my power, and especially everything in my weakness, when I fully rely on God, to have victory in my relationship with my husband and in all of my relationships. When people are shocked at the pain in my life, it’s often because I’m smiling a lot of the time. I am not one to walk around looking gloomy. I smile, not to cover up the hurt, but because when I am around others I am generally joyful. I see so much of God in others and it brings me such joy. My smile is an offering to the people I am around. It’s a simple gift I can give. A warmth I can share, even when my heart is breaking into pieces. This is one of the best lessons I have learned in life – that two contrary things CAN exist at the same time – pain and joy.

It comes in small inspirations
It brings redemption to life and work
To our lives and our work

If I look hard enough, I can find something to be grateful for, even when everything around me seems so bleak. When I am overcome with sadness, I often write a gratitude list and it reminds me of all that is good in my life. Inspiration comes in a variety of ways, too, such as great art, music, nature, touch and my senses in general. Noticing these small inspirations serve as a constant barometer that I am fully alive and engaged in the redemptive process.

It comes in loving community
It comes in helping a soul find it’s worth

This is the essence of why I am writing this blog post. I am passionate about helping others see their worth. I want others to be free from the shame and bondage they feel when they focus on their mistakes or their woundedness. I am passionate about loving community and being open to where God wants me to enter in and love someone in a particular moment, a season or a lifetime. My loving community has circled around me in ways that I never could have asked for, in ways that I do not deserve. My parents, my friends, other family members, teachers, friends of friends… all have been Jesus to me, loving me and cheering for me and for my marriage.

Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That’s burning up inside
People have asked me how long I will hang in there. How long and how much will I give of myself for the sake of my marriage. My answer is always the same – until God tells me otherwise. I am not the most patient person on the planet but if I keep the focus where it should be, which is on the hope of a better story, I feel strengthened. The strength and patience does not come from me. It comes from all the ways God cares for me and holds me in the pain.

This is grace, an invitation to be beautiful
This is grace, an invitation

I LOVE this. I have an invitation to be beautiful. I want to be beautiful. I want people to be drawn to me, not because of external things or looks, but because I have light that shines out of me that is from a deep love that God has poured into me and overflows to those around me. I want to be beautiful so I can love my friends and family and the random people I meet on the streets every day.

The rest of the song repeats itself… add to the beauty to tell a better story, shine with the light that’s burning up inside…. This is my prayer. But it’s not always easy. So I’m very grateful to my friend Lisa, who sent me these lyrics on a day like today. Which brings me to the second secret.

The actual event is not a secret. We have been sharing this news with several of our friends so that we can be covered with prayer. It’s the fear of the event that is the real secret. The paralyzing fear.

Tomorrow my husband will be on the oncology unit at a local hospital for a 5 hour administration of a chemo drug that has been shown to improve mobility for mulitple sclerosis patients. It is a serious drug and comes with a black box warning, which is the FDA’s highest warning label, stating that the drug can cause death. He will start at a certain dosage for a half hour and if he tolerates that well, they will increase it to the next level.

While this is mainly about him, it affects our entire familiy. So, here’s is the secret I am keeping:  In all the work we have done to heal our marriage, my fear is that just when we are getting to a place of reconciliation, he will die.

Whenever I have a fear like this, which can paralyze me, I usually push it away and try to think positively. But I can’t shake this one. I don’t want to dwell on the “what ifs” but I also don’t want to be blind to the possibilities and realities of what this drug can do to his body. I am also fearful that if it doesn’t work, that he will enter into a depression that will consume him and steal joy from our family as we face the continuance of his disability.

Dealing with this disease and all the dreams it has shattered is hard enough. We have dreamed new dreams and we have made adaptations and allowances for life with a chronic illness, and now we stand at a crossroads of hope and despair. I know that if it doesn’t prove successful, it’s not the end of the world. I know that. But he is so tired. And I am tired and we both want some relief. In different ways, of course. I am not the one who lives in a the body that is deteriorating day by day. My weariness is completely different. But our hope is the same, that this experimental use of this drug will bring about more mobility and feeling, and provide deliverance from the daily symptoms that plague his body.

So I tell my secrets in order that God’s work can be seen by others.  The troubles we face in our marriage and in this disease are way too much for us to handle. These are big issues. On top of these issues are the daily stresses of the kids’ needs, maintaining the house and activities and appointments, not to mention finding a little time for some self-care (like writing). Without God’s intervention, I could not function. My hope is that by sharing my fears and pain, others will see how I was held and cared for in the midst of the storm and know that they can survive as well.

Here’s one more quick story to illustrate how God cared for me yesterday. After a very difficult onversation with my husband, my heart ached and I felt incredibly alone. I went about the day in a complete fog. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t carry on a conversation without losing my train of thought.

Adding to that sadness was the news I received from a writer friend. One of my writing mentors had unexpectedly passed away two days prior. No matter what, I would have been sad. But because of the messages I have believed from our marriage difficulties, (that something is wrong with me, that I am not good enough, etc.)  the news came as quite a blow. This man had been one of my greatest cheerleaders, always wanting to know what I was working on and when he could read my latest chapter of a book in progress. He edited my manuscript and provided suggestions to each chapter. I saw him in July and when I walked into the room, his face lit up with a great, big smile as he headed my way to give me a hug. I will miss him greatly. At a time when I most needed a cheerleader, mine had died, and with him – the belief that I was good enough.

See, these are the lies we believe when we don’t get them out. We start to believe these messages and we put too much weight on what others think of us instead of what our Father, our Creator, thinks of us. So instead of adding to the beauty to tell a different story, we stay stuck in lies that keep us self-focused. So as if God was reminding me that I am beautiful just as I am, he sent my friend and her sister over with a batch of cookies and some bright, yellow gerber daisies.

Later that evening, I was looking at some pictures of my friend, Tony, and his kids on Facebook. He’s divorced from my childhood friend, and it made me sad to see the three of them without her. Literally, as I am looking at the photos, I hear my e-mail signal ding. I click over and there is a message from Tony! Incredible. I don’t even know how he got my e-mail address as we are not in regular contact. The only connection I had with him was his marriage to my friend. After the divorce, he sent us a sweet note, but we’re mainly Christmas card and Facebook friends, so an e-mail was a bit out of the blue. This is what he said:

Hi there Lynn:
Sometimes, the Lord just speaks.  And on that rare occasion, I actually listen……  So, as I was on fb tonight, saw your “face”, read some of your heart, and this came to mind….

(HERE WAS A POEM HE HAD FOUND CALLED THE CHERRY TREE, but since this post is so long already I won’t add it.)

Hope you are well in the midst of the horrible, wonderful storm!
Blessings, Tony

These are not coincidences. The love and support of my friends is a direct link to the love and support from my God. Had I not put out some of my secrets, even on Facebook, that I was hurting and broken, I would not have received these amazing, God-given gifts. So, tell your secrets. Let God use them to bring healing to you and to others who may be feeling alone in their struggles. It may feel too personal and some of them may be – especially to share in a venue like a social networking site. But maybe there’s a friend or a small group that would benefit from you sharing your heart and trusting that God will not ask you to throw yourself overboard just to watch you drown. Instead he will be able to show just how mighty he is to save.