confessions

I’ve been doing a lot of writing and soul searching and deadline meeting over the past few days.  I’ve also been doing very little sleeping.  Maybe you need this repost as much as I do.

“Your real, new self (which is Christ’s and also yours, and yours just because it is His) will not come as long as you are looking for it. It will come when you are looking for Him. Does that sound strange? The same principle holds, you know, for more everyday matters. Even in social life, you will never make a good impression on other people until you stop thinking about what sort of impression you are making. Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. The principle runs through all life from top to bottom. Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death, death of your ambitions and favourite wishes every day and death of your whole body in the end. Submit with every fibre of your being, and you will find eternal life. Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.”
― C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

C.S. Lewis’s words have been my company this weekend because I’ve read him so much that he’s like a father to me.  I leaned into him while I worked.  He has an unparalleled way of articulating his thoughts.  After reading him, it’s almost ridiculous to think I should keep on writing.  Why should I write anything when the world has Lewis’ words?  But perhaps my words could in some way be a bridge to him—the way he has been a bridge for me to so many authors I wouldn’t have read otherwise like George McDonald , G.K. Chesterton and John Milton.  What if Lewis had said, “Well, maybe I shouldn’t write because the world has Homer and Milton.”

So, I kept on tapping the keyboard.

And he’s so right, too.  We need not try so hard to be original.  We just need to tell the truth.

With our art and with our lives.

Tell the truth.

But truth-telling is dangerous because if you give it an inch, it’ll take you over.

You begin to know truth in one corner of your heart and it takes like wildfire.

Pretty soon, all the lies you’ve been harboring about yourself and your life will crumble right down, in a heap of ashes.

And at that very point, when you’re tempted to despair, remember Lewis’ words,

” Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead.”

The Father of all truth will take your ruins—your ash heap of pride, pretense, selfish ambition, greed, hatred and hopelessness—and He will make the great exchange.

He will give you life.  He will teach you humility.  He will make you generous.  He will make you selfless.  He will give you hope.

He will raise you up and make you blessed.

You will know the Truth and the Truth will make you free.

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If you haven’t read Mere Christianity , don’t delay—I can’t think of a better way to start the week.  Or the month.  Or the year.

Are you afraid to be who you really are?  Have you insulated yourself from truth to protect your house of cards?

Your courage to step into the light might be the nudge someone else needs.

What is one thing you can do today to inch closer to truth.

What’s holding you back from finding ‘your real, new self’?

(I’m asking myself all the same, difficult questions.  I’d love to talk about it in the comments.)

 

(photo via Life in Balance )

I started 2012 off with a bang.  And by that I mean, I had emergency surgery on my gallbladder.   I woke up on the morning of my birthday completely out of my head and asking for cookie cake.(So, in retrospect I guess I wasn’t completely out of my  head.)  My girls brought cookie cake to the hospital, we sang Happy Birthday, and I wore yoga pants tucked into my new birthday boots as I hobbled right out of the hospital.

Oh, and one little tidbit I left out:  I made Stevie call my pastor to see if he’d come pray with me before my surgery because it would be JUST LIKE ME to die on the operating table. I did not.  But I wasn’t taking any chances.

My mom and sister decided to stay with me for a few days to help with the kids and my recovery.  I love the women in my life.  They know what needs to be done and they do ten times more than that.  I can only imagine the relief Stevie felt, knowing that my women were here to care for me—to look after the kids, to make the food, the fold the laundry, to keep things running like a machine. I saw the relief in his eyes when he collapsed in to his man-cliner and tilted back to watch a few football games.  Now, don’t get me wrong, he made the obligatory trip to the bedroom every few hours to check on me, to see if I needed anything, to see how I was feeling.  He rested knowing that all my needs were cared for and those ballgames weren’t gonna watch themselves, so back to the man-cliner he’d go,  with a song in his heart and a spring in his step.

After 3 days of this routine, I came unglued.

You can blame it on anesthesia or the pain meds wearing off or my general tendency to come unglued every six months, but I was on the warpath and I had the man-cliner in my crosshairs.   Now, before you go envisioning an all out scream fest, you should know this about me.  I can get steaming mad.  For exactly 12 seconds.   Then, I collapse into a weepy mess and the words I’m wailing can barely be understood.

What I tried to say was, “I CAN’T LIVE ANOTHER DAY WITHOUT YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT!”

What it sounded like was the high pitched yelp of a coyote in the grips of a mountain lion.

Either way, I was ALL CAPS and Stevie’s worst nightmare was about to begin.

The words were so mutilated and mangled by my tears that he asked me to repeat them.  To say it again.

So, I yelped it out louder.

At which point, he took his iPhone out of his pocket and started surfing the internet.

Oh, yes he did.

Do you understand the gravity of this situation?  Did he?  I think not.

I briefly composed myself and did the angry snivel and then spit out the words, “What.  Are.   You.  DOING?”

He glanced at me above his readers and answered me like he was answering a question about Adrian Peterson,  “I just googled emotional support.  What does that even mean?”

Um.  Okay, if you need to google emotional support, mister, then we’ve got a problem.  And we’ve got a problem that could possibly be too big even for Google.

THEN.  He proceeded to read aloud from a list on a random page on the internet the 10 Ways To Emotionally Support Your Spouse.  There were things like always acknowledge your spouse when she walks in the room, touch each other often, listen deeply to your partner, speak in a loving tone and remember to smile.

Halfway through the list, I started to sob BECAUSE, why has my life come to this?   I’m on the brink of an emotional break down here and all we’ve got are ten cheesy ideas from Google. Is that what we’ve  come to?  I’d even take Dr. Phil over Google on this one.  The drama in my head was at an all time fever pitch.

All I could do was sob uncontrollably.

And, he did what he always does when I come apart.   He held me close and told me how much he loved me and that he was sorry if he wasn’t giving me what I needed and that all I needed to do was tell him and he’d do it.  He said all he ever wanted was to make me happy.  He said, “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

All the anger and hurt melted away.  The sun streamed through the cold January air into the bedroom window and I remembered what is so easy to forget.  This man loves me. He walked through fire for us.  He is strong like an oak tree and faithful like the seasons.  The only thing that predictably makes him smile is babies and he tears up at EVERY baptism.  He would fight for me to the death.  And he lives his life for us in the most heroic and ordinary of ways.  Sometimes, I have to come apart in order to remember.

Over the next few days, he upped his emotional support game LIKE A BOSS.  Every time I passed through the living room— like, I don’t know, 750 times a day—he made eye contact and gave me a little two finger wave.  As in, I see you. No, really,  I SEE YOU.

Then, when we talked, I could tell he was trying hard to listen deeply and gaze into my eyes.  His efforts were valiant and flawless.

I think it was the pleasant tone of voice and frequent smiling that finally pushed me over the edge.

I cried UNCLE.  Okay, you’re off the hook.  No more emotional support.  It’s driving me crazy.  It’s not even you. You never smile like that.  Smiling is my job.  Why don’t you go back to stone face glancing over your readers with mischief brewing under the surface, because that’s the you I know and love.

Yeah, that you.

No, more like that one.

See how fake smiling could totally ruin that handsome face?

So, the moral of the story is this.  Life is hard and there are so many things to grieve over and cry for.  But, there are also SO very many reasons to laugh.  Sometimes, there’s even a reason to completely lose your stuff and howl like a coyote.

But, whatever you do, don’t take yourself too seriously.  Marriage is hard because we’re all so darn self-centered.  The key is confession, forgiveness, dying to self, giving the benefit of the doubt, and plenty of good old fashioned laughter.

I’m learning to let Stevie be who he is, even if Google searched emotional support is not his game.

He reminds me how much I am loved.

And for that, I am so grateful.

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FYI:  My spiritual memoir, All the Pretty Things, is now available for preorder.  Keep your receipt number to claim your preorder bonuses once they are released!

 

Yesterday morning I woke up to this.  Did I just wake up in Ireland or some such?

Everywhere I looked yesterday morning was a sight for sore eyes.

Have we been whisked away to Narnia?  Are we in heaven?  Is C.S. Lewis here somewhere smoking a pipe?

It’s the only day of the year that there’s a chance for the bed to go unmade.  I let it go like this for a few hours and then finally made it up around noon.  I have a bed making sickness.  I feel strangely exposed if my bed isn’t made—as in—I didn’t even want to show you this picture.  But, then it looks so relaxed,  like a snow day should!  So there’s your only ever glimpse of my bed unmade.

We might not be that experienced in snow, but we’re pros at snow days.  This ain’t our first rodeo, good people.

We know that this winter wonderland is liable to be gone in an hour.

So, we put on our snow boots.

We piece together enough clothing to stay cold and wet warm.

And then we head out with our high tech sleds Coors Light boxes for some winter fun. And we hurry, because the sun is out and Narnia is in jeopardy of turning to Spring.

We come back in and start the obligatory breakfast of biscuits and gravy. This is a snow day in the South, remember?

I’ve even converted the midwesterners that live here.  Biscuits and gravy in the right hands is manna from heaven.  I should post a tutorial.  You can’t overwork the dough and you gotta leave them pretty thick.

Also, you must start the gravy with bacon fat and my secret ingredients are a little nutmeg and a little sugar and evaporated milk.  All that and a good iron skillet.

I’ve always used shortening in my biscuits but I’ve discovered that butter works better for me.  These came out tall and flaky and DEElicious.

By late morning,  our Narnia dreams were melting to the ground.

But I won’t let a good snow day go to waste, so we plan an elaborate dinner of Indian food (Nick is a pro at Indian food!) and Stevie and I brave the roads and the elements for a run to the store.  We bought ginger root, garlic, jasmine rice, and a plethora of simple carbs.  Because SNOW DAY.

Nick cooked and I was his sous chef.  We made dahl, naan, and samosas and it was all kinds of wonderful.  To eat Indian food in Bean Station on a random week night is pretty special.

Let me summarize our snow day in one word for you:  CARBS.

Amen.  And amen.

There’s a famous saying around here that if you don’t like the weather, just wait an hour or two and it’ll change.

So true.  By the weekend, it’s supposed to be 60 and sunny.  Gotta love the South.

Tell me all about your snow days and the carbs that go with them!

(Also, if you haven’t filled out the blog survey, there’s still time.  I’ve been so blessed and motivated by all your comments and suggestions!)

Ode to January!