Shattered Darkness

Here I am standing in a hallway staring at a door. It is shut tight. Locked. It has been that way for as long as I can remember. My whole life it has been haunting me. Taunting me. It has held my curiosity. It has held my shame. It has held me in chains.

I have just been handed a key to unseal the room. Trembling, I put the cold key into the aperture. But before I am even sure if I want to see what is hidden behind the door, it swings open. Wide. Exposing the inside. For the first time ever, I have been granted permission to see into the forbidden walls.

I feel a draft behind me. A rip of current pulling me inside to discover what I have been missing. Maybe this room will provide comfort. Answers to unsearchable things.

Pushed to the wall, I step across the threshold. There is no turning back. Once again, I am not in control of my own destination. Like a marionette satisfying the selfish desires of its master, I enter.

At first glance everything looks polished. Spotless. Innocent. Just a small table displays a simple wooden box. It teases me. As I reach for it, the room starts to spin around me. Out of control. Faster and faster until there in the corner appears another small door. A closet. It opens, a crack at a time, exposing more and more of the disaster hidden away. 

Inside there are boxes. So many boxes. They contain answers but each one a thousand more questions. Each one uncovering greater fear, anger, confusion, deception, sadness, selfishness, despair, hurt, heartache, anguish, betrayal, disappointment. 

In a desperate attempt to get to the bottom of them all, I start tearing into them. Ripping them apart. But there is no bottom. There were just more questions and the answers were not adding up. They did not satisfy my longing soul. How could they? They ripped open scars. They tore open my heart to the true depth of my existence. They challenged my identity.

I turn to go back but there was no way out now. I was in it. Stuck to the floorboards. Shackled. Trying to find a new reality amidst the shrapnel of impair laying around me. Scattered all over the floor. Should I crawl into the closet and shut the door? Like it is my tomb. A place to escape and avoid the ruins.

The room suddenly seems darker. I lie down. Curled like a ball. Tears flowing down threatening to drown out my existence if I cannot somehow manage to stop. Is there anything that will help put it all back together again? Anything at all?

Lying amongst all these pages full of strange but familiar images and words, and none of them can save me. Not one. All these words teaching me I was never enough. I did not need this door open to learn that. My entire existence was built on that narrative.

What a fool I have been to think this room was in anyway about me. To think the key was a gift and the open door was for me. I sit up assessing the damage. How can I escape these harsh realities?

A window. I see one across the room. Stained glass. A mosaic. Blacked-out. Painted shut. Perhaps to conceal the shame. The intentions. The denial. The regret.

Sometimes being in the dark is nice. It feels safe. It feels like protection. A place to hide. A place to pretend. A place to indulge our fables. A place for excuses. To stay put. To not move forward. To continue the illusion of perfection.

But light, it can hurt. It unveils secrets. It exposes things. Pain. Injustice. Insecurities. Motives. Guilt. It cuts through the excuses. It makes us face reality over our fairy tales. It reveals the lies that prevent us from moving ahead. But what if it is the only thing that can bring peace? Healing. Revelation. Truth. Life. 

I reach over and pick up the small wooden box holding the remaining misgivings. Cocking my arm, I launch it through my fears. Hurtling it through the darkness. Crushing it straight through the window. Shattering it. The light breaks through. It hurts my eyes. Exposing what I now see is a dirty floor. Tainted. Painfully scarred, but honest. Messy, but sincere. Tarnished, but genuine. Blemished, but beautiful.

Suddenly the room shakes and unshackles my chains. I can now navigate through the filth and recognize the beauty in the stains. I can see the true narrative. How the sacrifice of my blood gave a better life to the unprepared. The dismal. The desperate. 

Hearing a knock, I turn back towards the threshold. And there it appears. Set before me, the door. It is open. Unable to be shut. In the light I cannot deny that I am loved. I am enough. Having little power remaining, I leave the room surrendering everything. Counting it all as loss for the surpassing worth of knowing the light. The light I choose to follow. To imitate.

I can see the fragrant offering of my emptied self. Taking the form of a servant. Being poured out. For I have suffered the loss of all things but count them as rubbish. That I may gain my true identity. That I may be found. Called out of the darkness. Into the light.

Identity in the Face of Trauma

Sometimes it is easy to forget who I am. It is easy to lose my voice and let other people define my worth. Sometimes it is easier to believe lies than to remind myself of the truth. This past year my life became a hurricane of emotions. Everything seemed to change in the blink of an eye. The overwhelming joy of discovery quickly turned into unforeseen sadness marked by the pain of facing my trauma.

There were so many days that I didn't even want to get out of bed. Tears would flood my pillow at night desperately wishing the pain and brokenness would subside. Words of life were hard to form against my lips as time and time again I would hear nothing but deceit ringing in my ears. I was overcome with lies that declared that I wasn't worth fighting for. That I was an unwanted problem and had caused nothing but trouble. That I brought nothing but heartache to people that had done nothing but "selflessly" try to love me and give me the best life they could. I felt responsible to somehow heal all of the grief my life induced.

Each day was a constant fight and it often felt easier to just succumb to these beliefs in order to find rest. Like somehow lying in my own misery would in some way help bring peace. Allowing my identity to be defined by the ramblings of slanderous words twisting my story became easier than clinging to the truth of who I am. Days marked by suffocating panic attacks and overwhelming grief had stricken me to the point I felt paralyzed. A constant lump plagued my throat fighting against hard swallows to stifle my sobs. My heart constantly aching, crushed by the weight of loss and an incredible burden that I have carried for so long. And yet for all of this I am grateful. 

I am grateful for the increase in compassion for others because of my imperfect story. I am grateful for the increase in grace towards my brothers and sisters who have struggled far greater than I. I am grateful for the increase of sight to what God has overcome on my behalf. I am grateful for the increase sound of his voice in my ear reminding me that He gives me my identity and NO ONE else. I am not a mistake or a life that never should have been. I am not a taint on someone's record or a "problem" that would magically go away. I am not Plan B or a second choice option. I am a human life who was chosen before the foundation of the world by the maker of heaven and earth. And HE calls me His daughter. I was Plan A by the creator of the universe who knit me together, numbered each of my days and knows every strand of hair on my head. No one can mess with that identity. No lie will ever make that untrue. He fought for me when no one else did. And He is fighting for you.

You are wanted even when you don't feel it. You are worth it even when you look in the mirror and your reflection appears distorted by brokenness. You are loved even when you lose your voice and forget who you are.  You are adopted because you are His child and He will not let you go no matter how many lies you try to believe. Face your trauma. Cry if you need to for as long as it takes. But always remember the truth of who you are. You are His and you are loved. And no one can mess with that identity.

No Greater Reward

This die to serve thing is hard. Ten years ago I was wrestling with what it means to truly die to myself to serve. I started writing to really capture some things God was showing me along the way. Today I am looking back. I am wondering if I have learned anything? Will I ever start living like there is no greater reward? Living like it’s not just for me? Oh sure, I've blogged about it and I really try not to post a blog until I am willing to put my own flesh to it. But, it is easy to talk about stuff and much harder to be disciplined enough to actually die to serve.

If I am really honest I constantly have to filter my life through the fact that I am entitled to nothing. I own nothing and I am nothing apart from Him. We live in a world that increasingly tells us we are entitled. We are entitled to a good job if we go to college, we are entitled to health insurance if we hold down that job, and we are entitled to a bonus if we go above and beyond. And I am sure most of us are just fine with a world that says, “Thank you for accomplishing all you did this year. You deserve this great reward for producing such amazing results!”

But what happens when the rules change? What happens when I am challenged to actually remember that I am entitled to nothing and am owed nothing? What happens when I am told, “Thank you for doing such a great job? You exceeded our expectations and the results of your blood, sweat and tears led to us making our goals this year. So do you know what we are going to do? We are going to give you and all of your co-workers the same reward. No matter who they are. Isn't that great?”

Even the ones who don’t try? Even the ones who don’t care? Even the ones who don’t bother showing up on time? Even the ones who do their own thing? Who stand around while others get it done?

Even them.

At that moment do I not look back at all of my hard work and effort and start fighting an inward battle that proclaims, “That’s not fair?” Do I not start comparing myself to the people around me trying to measure their performance against mine? How is it that a person that has contributed at 5% is entitled to the same reward as one that has quadrupled those results? And suddenly there is an “I” in team. Suddenly I did something on my own to get there. Suddenly I am entitled.

And it is the strangest thing. I could care less about a reward while I am working. It isn't what motivates or drives me to serve. I don’t even mind working harder or smarter for those who are not there yet. But the minute payment is being rendered do I not expect it to be fair?

When will I start living like there is no greater reward? When will I stop worrying about who gets the reward as if there is something better out there? When will I remember that it isn't about who gets the payment but about my life being the payment? What am I willing to do? How far am I willing to go? No matter what! No matter who!

This is who Jesus is. He didn't stop and say, “This isn't fair. I shouldn't have to lay down my life for all these no good sinners not wanting to follow the law.” He was willing to endure the cost as a payment for all. Not just for me.

Mother's Day Unspoken

For so many years Mother's Day was a hard day. A day of wonder. A day of sorrow. A day of pain. A day of longing. A day of questioning. A day of conflict. For so many years this was a day a little girl wrote a card to her mom who held her tight and kissed her goodnight and then went to be alone in her room to cry.

Through quiet tears she asked herself, "Who am I? How did I come to be? Why was I even born? What's wrong with me? Does she love me? Does she think about me? What does she look like? Does she look like me?"

This little girl loved her mom who held her tight and kissed her goodnight but there were so many unanswered questions flooding her aching heart. She wondered why her first mom let her go. She longed to know her too. Longed to be with her. Longed to hear her voice. Longed to tell her Happy Mother's Day.

For so many years this was a day of silent heartache, shame, conflict and even guilt. But this year it is a day to celebrate all of the Mother's Days unspoken. No longer having to wonder. No longer having to question. No longer having to be silent. This year, through tears, I am full of joy for the chance to get to know her, too. To have had the chance to be with her and to hear her voice telling me, I am loved. I am grateful for the privilege of telling both of my mom's Happy Mother's Day and thank you for my life. I am honored to be loved by two beautiful women. I wouldn't be who I am without both of you, and I love you dearly.

If you are someone that was separated from your birth mom and Mother's Day is a hard day I want you to know that it is ok to wonder. To experience pain even in the midst of being loved greatly by others in your life. It is a loss in your life that cannot be made up for by someone else loving you enough. Allow yourself to grieve, but know this: there is nothing "wrong" with you. Never think for one minute that you weren't planned. You were fearfully and wonderfully made. You are loved and you are thought of every day!!!

The Incredible Gift of Authentic Wealth

Several years ago my family had the opportunity to talk with a young man at a skate park in Fullerton, California. If you don’t know anything about Fullerton let me first start by saying that it isn’t your typical showboat community of Orange County. The skate park was covered in graffiti and gang activity is definitely present throughout the community. As we approached the skate park this young man befriended us and took to enjoying my son Brady “shredding it” on the ramps.

It was easy to notice he wasn’t your “model citizen” (whatever that means). However, this guy was authentic and had an ability to be real and share like no one I have ever met. As he began to share where his life was at, it was very clear that drugs were in his system. He began to share of his dreams to be clean and sober and how he had been using for quite some time. He was able to kick his two year heroin addiction by skating all day long to keep himself busy. He still, however, struggled to stay away from pot that so frequents the skate parks and places he hangs out.

We learned that he had lost his job because he had to go to jail for a misdemeanor and was now living in a cold weather shelter. He was hoping to get into a 6 month program soon and had applied to several. He had been in and out of the hospital 6 or 7 times in the past year because he struggles with bipolar manic depression.

Yet, there among all that he had faced, was hope. There was faith and there was love in this young man more than I have ever seen.  By the world’s standards he had nothing. By the world’s view he was nothing. But he was richer than most would ever dare to be.

He began to show Brady some moves on the skate park, and his face lit up as Brady successfully tried the things he was teaching him. He was giving Brady free skate lessons wanting nothing in return. He was happy to share his passion with Brady just to see the joy on Brady's face. As we talked with him more, my husband asked him about his dreams and what he wants to do with his life. He had an overwhelming desire to teach kids not to do what he did and to stay away from drugs. He missed out on the birth of his sister’s first child and his grandfather’s death because he was in jail. We had the opportunity to listen to his plan to go into the Marines after he is done with a 6 month program.

Before we left he said “I have something for you, be stoked!” All this time we were talking to him I kept asking God to show me what we could do for him. I wanted to help him, but every way I thought to tangibly help I knew would only cause him more temptation. He walked away and a few minutes later came back with his own skate deck he had set up with larger wheels. It was his way of getting around town. He insisted we take it for Brady and we assured him that Brady had decks and didn’t need it. He was so excited to give it to Brady because he loved watching Brady on the park, and he believed that if he gave of what he had that something good would come back to him. He was giving all he had, trusting that he wouldn’t be without something better if he did. After much pushing by him and refusing by us we finally relented. We decided we couldn’t refuse this young man’s joy of wanting to bless Brady.

We then asked him if there was a place to get food close by thinking the least we could do would be to buy him lunch or something. His response was eye opening and honestly it rocked my world. He began offering to take us to the store and buy us groceries and stuff for sandwiches. This young man, who had “nothing” was richer than anyone I have ever met. He was ready to spend what little money he had in order to feed us. What an incredible gift to give yourself away in this manner. I pray that our friend does find sobriety and manages to fulfill his dreams. I would say he is a lot closer than most of us who appear to have it all together. Most of us won’t think about helping those who really need it, let alone those who don’t. Our closest friends often don’t get the treatment that this young man gave to us.

As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy. They are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, thus storing up treasure for themselves as a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is truly life.

1 Timothy 6:17-19

Becoming a Mosaic

I had no idea that I could love this deeply. I had no idea that I could feel so full. I had no idea that I could look into the mirror and ever be proud of what I saw. As I opened it up I had no idea my life was about to change. That a figment of my imagination was going to all of a sudden have skin. Have a heart beat. Have a story. Have so much love for me all of these years.

It is not what I imagined. I was familiar with a different voice. A voice that spoke: unlovable, rejected, unwanted, abandoned. But as I began reading, each word unraveled the thoughts that had entangled me all of these years. Each sentence lifting the weight of the feelings that had once crushed me. Each paragraph bringing light to why. Each page healing my broken identity. A selfless love that had to let me go. A relentless love that would not stop searching for me. A desperate need to know that I was alright. The journey was long and painful but there would be no giving up until I was found. Until the shattered pieces of a broken relationship were restored.

In the blink of an eye years of wonder were gone. My life giver had found me and wanted a relationship with me. I never thought I could feel so deeply for someone. Someone I had never met. But I couldn't deny it. I couldn't deny the lengths gone to find me. I couldn't refuse the proof as I stared at the script. It was there in black and white. I was wanted. I was searched for. I was loved. And I had been found.

I sat there shocked. I was afraid. Elated. Fearful. Happy. Nervous. And I was desperate for more. I once thought that I just needed to know how. I thought I just needed to know why. I thought information would be enough. I thought it would fulfill the missing pieces but I was wrong. The very core of my being desired a relationship that went way beyond knowledge and facts. I wanted intimacy. To meet face to face. To be embraced. To look into eyes that resembled mine. To hear the strength of character and to see the ways I reflected that image.

Shock gave birth to guilt. How can I feel this way? I am a traitor to the source of my life long love and provision. Like a two-timer in a love affair gone horribly wrong. I felt trapped in a triangle forcing me to choose. Like a hypocrite to a life once held. How can I admit a part of my heart was always reserved? I longed for it to be unlocked. To feel whole. To feel free to return this deep love that was now inviting me.

Powerfully overwhelmed yet haunted by familiar voices. What will happen if I turn around and welcome it all? Will I be a disappointment? Will I cause pain? Will I be enough? Will I be rejected? Will I be found to be who I was desired to be? A paralyzing feeling washed over me. Swimming in fear of not living up to an expectation, or worse, driving it all away.  Did someone really find me worth losing a part of themselves for? Did someone really find me worth longing for? Worth searching for? Worth loving without condition?

Dare I risk confessing my inner thoughts of doubt? Should I keep hiding them in the secret places of my heart to protect myself? From the fear of not measuring up? From the fear of losing what I finally regained? The answer was unmistakable as I read the words I needed to hear. "I love you. You are my child. You could never disappoint me."

I must choose to believe it. I must choose to be unraveled. I must choose to let go in order to be set free. I must be patient as the voices overlap. I need to hear those words again. I need to be reminded of them over and over until they become my new familiar voice. I need them to heal me and bring me a new identity. The one I was meant to bear.

My story is beautiful. My past is not erased. I wouldn't want it to be. It is all a part of who I am. Even the broken pieces and painful scars serve as a reminder. They have made me stronger. They have made me wiser. They have made me brave. They have brought me to this place. Ready to receive my portion. Ready to receive peace. Ready to receive healing for the ache in my heart that will not go away despite being loved greatly by so many.

And so it begins. My life is being changed. My story now becoming a mosaic of a once fractured fairy tale. The figment of my imagination now has skin. Has a heartbeat. Has a story. Has so much love for me. It is more than I could have imagined. A selfless love that had to let me go. A relentless love that would not stop searching for me. A desperate need to know that I was alright. A journey long and painful that wouldn't give up until I was found. Until the shattered pieces of a broken relationship are restored.

Passionate Fire

I often hate that I am passionate. It causes me to wrestle and my soul burns like a fire that is trying to escape a fireplace. It often feels like the glass doors are shut tight just trying to keep me contained and I desperately want to be let out so I can spread and grow. I find that I have to apologize at times because my passion overwhelms me and I forget not everyone feels the way that I do.

It is impossible to fully comprehend what drives another person because we all have different backgrounds and experiences that have brought us to where we are. We unsuccessfully try to put ourselves in the other person’s shoes after filtering it through our own boxes of values, morals and reasoning based on what motivates us. We try to understand another person’s motives, but if ours are skewed then we assume the same about someone else’s.

We must consider another’s point of view from a place we have never been and that is impossible. I learned this a few years ago when I tried over an over to explain my passion to someone and they failed to understand where I was coming from. I was crushed by it because I thought people knew what drove me. But every time I tried to express how I was feeling it went through the filter of their scope and intentions. Each conversation left me feeling worse because I was completely misunderstood.

My passions and desires were not my own. I was more than my performance and more than the opinions of my peers. I was not interested in making a name for myself but making a difference. I wanted my life to bring value and encouragement to someone else and be given a chance to do more of that. I learned that it is hard to express outward focused passions and desires to an inward focused humanity. I desperately wanted my dedication and service to simply encourage these same values in others, but these conversations were filtered through pride and fear.

So how do you respond when someone tells you that maybe your mission means too much to you? What happens when someone sees your act of service as an act of self-promotion? What happens when you sacrifice yourself to protect and serve someone else and you are accused of self-protection? What happens when your motives are misinterpreted through someone else’s filter?

You must remember who you are and whose you are. You must continue to sacrifice even when accused. You must remember to forgive and reconcile even when people don’t deserve it. You must continue to protect people even when they don’t fight for you. You must remember to die to serve even when people hurt you. You must continue to fulfill the mission that God has for you, even when no understands your motivation is deeper than yourself. You must remember to consider another’s point of view from a place you have never been, even when it feels impossible. And you must never lose your passion and desire, even when someone tries to shut the doors to your fire so they can keep you contained. You must remember to spread and grow because the mission means “too much to you” for a reason.