I have one of those Biggest Loser-type scales. No, not the oversized, declare your weight to the world type; just the kind that likes to dance around a number before finally settling on something. And while that's all good and suspenseful on television, naked in my own bathroom is neither the time nor place for suspense.
Now, I'm not the type of girl to really subscribe to numbers. We are all-too-obsessed with them in our culture. Are you a size 10 or a 14? Maybe a 2? It's just a number. So why are we so concerned with what one scale says? And they're all different. Let's not fool ourselves - the scale at the doctor's office says something different than the one at home, which is different than the one at the hotel or the friend's house you're visiting, which is very different than the mandatory truck scale on the interstate. (I don't recommend this one; the attendant usually frowns.) And a size 6 at one store is another brand's size 10. So who is to know what a number says?
As someone who has, in her life, been both scarily underweight and clinically 'obese,' I can tell you this: What really matters is how you're rockin' it in those jeans, sister. What really matters is how you feel when you look in the mirror. What really matters is everything immeasurable - your confidence, your love, your beauty. These can't be quantified in numbers.
Yet there's something about the numbers, which is why I come back to this: when I'm standing on my Biggest Loser-wannabe scale and it's searching for a number, is it wrong that I jump off when it decides to start climbing by ones? I mean, there's no telling how much higher it will go. If we're just adding on pounds by the second, I'd rather not see where that train stops. I'll just take the ballpark average, subtract a few for good measure, and slap it on my driver's license.
Then rock it in these bootcut jeans with curves in all the right places and the size tag ripped out. Hey, it's just a number.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Strong Women
Growing up, I fit firmly into what you might call the ‘tomboy’ category. I had two older brothers, no sisters, and a dad who only wanted to do those outdoorsy, blow-em-up, get your hands dirty kind of activities. I played sports, built forts, shot guns, went fishing (as long as I didn’t have to touch the bait), spent days down on my hands and knees scrubbing rust off the chassis of a 1960 Chevy Bel-Air my dad, brother, and I were restoring. And I loved every minute of it. Cuts, scrapes, bruises, grime, dirt – they were part of the package, and I never complained.
In all that time, I *might* have owned a dress. Maybe.
Things didn’t improve as I grew up, and I felt very much outcasted by my peers. The girls didn’t want anything to do with me because I didn’t wear makeup, dresses, skank jeans, or low-cut tops. Or a bra. There, I said it. It wasn’t in my style niche; these things would prohibit me from getting dirty. There wasn’t a way, as I saw it, to embrace my love of getting into things and keep that feminine appearance the other girls seemed to want. I was more comfortable in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. And besides, I didn’t want to let all the substance out of my brain to fit in with the popular girls. They weren’t that important to me. (Still aren’t, not that it matters.)
The boys were interested in hanging out, which was fantastic. I sat in their booth at lunch, played role-playing card games, talked about Legos and video games, etc. But I was still a girl and couldn’t be one of the guys. They’d take trips, but their moms didn’t want a girl tagging along. They’d hang out in the basement of one guy’s house for pizza and games, but it was awkward to be a girl there. It’s like they understood that on a practical level, I was more like them than a girl, but I was still…a girl.
And everyone thought I was a lesbian. It must have been the boots.
But as I entered adulthood and got some independence under my wings, I was fortunate to meet what I considered strong women. To be honest, I had always looked up to similar women in my youth – my elementary librarian, my fifth grade teacher, my middle school science teacher. They were strong, and feminine, but they weren’t overly airheaded. They were both grounded and confident, but with that finesse that made them definite role models for a young girl looking to be something more than a “tomwoman.” I really wanted to settle down one day with a husband who would cherish and love me, tell me I’m beautiful, hold me in his arms, and be the father of my children. (I still want that, so if you’ve seen my future husband, let me know.) But I also very much wanted to not lose that part of me that shoves her hands down the tank of a toilet in the bathroom at church because the flapper is offset and the thing won’t stop running. I LOVE that.
Then something strange happened. I embraced my body, my curves, and my budding femininity. I tapped into the longings in my heart for the same things every woman wants – those tender, beautiful things that make you feel like a princess. I started looking in the mirror, picking a wardrobe that emphasized the way I rock this body, and walking with greater confidence. Pinks and browns and greens and soft colors and letting my hair grow out just to make myself feel beautiful. To be that woman that I knew I was designed to be. To look in the mirror and see raging femininity and beauty…and then to kneel down in the mud and change a friend’s flat tire. To not worry about getting grime on my pretty clothes because hey, they are just clothes.
I’m fairly certain that today, I am approaching all I wanted to be. That is, I am a strong woman. I am able to balance those things that make me feel beautiful, make me feel womanly, make me feel worthy, and make me walk standing tall, confident in my identity with those things that I just love to do. In the past few years, I have ditched all but one “workin’ girl” outfit from my wardrobe (an old pair of paint-covered torn sweatpants and a mission trip shirt with all kinds of work stains on it) and am overflowing with sweaters, blouses, bootcut jeans, belted-waist tops, khakis and slacks, and yes, even a skirt. A skirt! And an awesome dress with brown tights to wear underneath. And one pair of tennis shoes, aside a couple pairs of sandals, some conservative flats, and a pair of wedges. But in the past two years, I have also: laid a new floor in the whole downstairs, replaced the windshield wiper motor in my car, put in a new garbage disposal, hooked up the new gas oven, hung and mudded drywall, painted two houses, cleaned the gutters, replumbed the toilet, put in a new kitchen faucet, built my own headboard, and that’s just for starters.
I’m thrilled to have found a way to be who I am on both ends of the spectrum, both a strong AND beautiful woman. And I get excited when I put my hands to a new project and get a little grime on me.
The only thing that’s really different now, I guess, is that I cuss like a sailor when I break a nail like a girl.
In all that time, I *might* have owned a dress. Maybe.
Things didn’t improve as I grew up, and I felt very much outcasted by my peers. The girls didn’t want anything to do with me because I didn’t wear makeup, dresses, skank jeans, or low-cut tops. Or a bra. There, I said it. It wasn’t in my style niche; these things would prohibit me from getting dirty. There wasn’t a way, as I saw it, to embrace my love of getting into things and keep that feminine appearance the other girls seemed to want. I was more comfortable in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. And besides, I didn’t want to let all the substance out of my brain to fit in with the popular girls. They weren’t that important to me. (Still aren’t, not that it matters.)
The boys were interested in hanging out, which was fantastic. I sat in their booth at lunch, played role-playing card games, talked about Legos and video games, etc. But I was still a girl and couldn’t be one of the guys. They’d take trips, but their moms didn’t want a girl tagging along. They’d hang out in the basement of one guy’s house for pizza and games, but it was awkward to be a girl there. It’s like they understood that on a practical level, I was more like them than a girl, but I was still…a girl.
And everyone thought I was a lesbian. It must have been the boots.
But as I entered adulthood and got some independence under my wings, I was fortunate to meet what I considered strong women. To be honest, I had always looked up to similar women in my youth – my elementary librarian, my fifth grade teacher, my middle school science teacher. They were strong, and feminine, but they weren’t overly airheaded. They were both grounded and confident, but with that finesse that made them definite role models for a young girl looking to be something more than a “tomwoman.” I really wanted to settle down one day with a husband who would cherish and love me, tell me I’m beautiful, hold me in his arms, and be the father of my children. (I still want that, so if you’ve seen my future husband, let me know.) But I also very much wanted to not lose that part of me that shoves her hands down the tank of a toilet in the bathroom at church because the flapper is offset and the thing won’t stop running. I LOVE that.
Then something strange happened. I embraced my body, my curves, and my budding femininity. I tapped into the longings in my heart for the same things every woman wants – those tender, beautiful things that make you feel like a princess. I started looking in the mirror, picking a wardrobe that emphasized the way I rock this body, and walking with greater confidence. Pinks and browns and greens and soft colors and letting my hair grow out just to make myself feel beautiful. To be that woman that I knew I was designed to be. To look in the mirror and see raging femininity and beauty…and then to kneel down in the mud and change a friend’s flat tire. To not worry about getting grime on my pretty clothes because hey, they are just clothes.
I’m fairly certain that today, I am approaching all I wanted to be. That is, I am a strong woman. I am able to balance those things that make me feel beautiful, make me feel womanly, make me feel worthy, and make me walk standing tall, confident in my identity with those things that I just love to do. In the past few years, I have ditched all but one “workin’ girl” outfit from my wardrobe (an old pair of paint-covered torn sweatpants and a mission trip shirt with all kinds of work stains on it) and am overflowing with sweaters, blouses, bootcut jeans, belted-waist tops, khakis and slacks, and yes, even a skirt. A skirt! And an awesome dress with brown tights to wear underneath. And one pair of tennis shoes, aside a couple pairs of sandals, some conservative flats, and a pair of wedges. But in the past two years, I have also: laid a new floor in the whole downstairs, replaced the windshield wiper motor in my car, put in a new garbage disposal, hooked up the new gas oven, hung and mudded drywall, painted two houses, cleaned the gutters, replumbed the toilet, put in a new kitchen faucet, built my own headboard, and that’s just for starters.
I’m thrilled to have found a way to be who I am on both ends of the spectrum, both a strong AND beautiful woman. And I get excited when I put my hands to a new project and get a little grime on me.
The only thing that’s really different now, I guess, is that I cuss like a sailor when I break a nail like a girl.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Platform
For as long as I have pursued my gift of writing, I have been at constant war with a measurable angst in the deepest of my passion. It has been this talk about platform recently that has helped me to understand what my trouble was.
I had been trying to build my platform to fight my own demons, rather than simply building a brand. In doing so, I trapped myself in that platform and lost the essence of all I was.
Let me explain:
My time and my culture convinced me that I could never be what I’m passioned to be, that I could never be a voice in my world. Who am I, the world seemed to be asking, that anyone should listen to me? Once they found that beneath gifted words, I was nothing special, they would scoff at my every word.
So I began “building my platform” by painstakingly poring over every thought that passed through my head. How could I make it beautiful? How could I make it powerful? How could I make it poignant enough that I could be that writer that people started quoting in the halls, whether they could remember where they’d heard the quip or not? That, to me, was the definition of success: to be oft-quoted. To be watched and followed and friended for those little lines that, I hoped, spoke to my credibility.
I became so focused on proving myself as someone to be listened to, as a brilliant writer and a beautiful wordsmith, that I was terrified of saying anything normal. I cringed at the thought of using social media to say anything so mundane as, “Beautiful rain today” or “Watched a fantastic movie last night.” People became accustomed to me living in the philosophical, and I felt myself fading away into the shadows. My “platform” was costing me my humanity.
My writing suffered. My life suffered. Somewhere in the depths of the remnants of my past, I was there, craving a dance with my passion.
There had to be a balance between my platform and my life.
I determined to take my life back, to build my platform but to regain that ability to live outside of it. There was a beauty in the simplicity of simply living that suffocated under my platform, and when I let that break through and sink into my being, my passion lit up.
Since freeing myself to live a human existence and not just my platform, I find that people are more interested in what I have to say because they finally see some authenticity behind my words. Readers respond when they see your humanity beneath your platform, when you connect with them person-to-person.
Here are four tips to help you live authentically beside your platform, rather than under it - practice that will enhance your life, your gift, and yes, even your platform.
1. Read – inside your discipline. A worship minister friend once told me he savored the days when he wasn’t leading worship because they gave him the opportunity to be ministered to rather than doing the ministry. Reading others who share your passion does not threaten your gift; it feeds you.
2. Spend time outdoors. The trees, the sun, and the sky don’t care a lick about your platform. There is no pressure to perform. You don’t have to be the guru. You can simply be a part of a beautiful creation. Dance if you want.
3. Always carry a journal. When a thought hits me that I want to remember, I need to write it down. Otherwise, I’m going to let it run obsessively through my mind until I find a place to do something with it. That way, I won’t forget. But in that time between having the thought and doing something with it, I miss out on everything happening right in front of me. If I can write that thought down right away, it’s somewhere I know to go back to it, and I can live authentically and fully in the present moment.
4. Be Yourself, Not Your Platform. There are some anomalies in all of us, things we enjoy doing but can’t explain why. Things that people might raise an eyebrow at. Do them anyway. Don’t lock yourself into appearances at the cost of something that brings you joy. Authenticity is credibility, and those who follow you will appreciate your realness.
How do you keep balance between your platform and your life?
I had been trying to build my platform to fight my own demons, rather than simply building a brand. In doing so, I trapped myself in that platform and lost the essence of all I was.
Let me explain:
My time and my culture convinced me that I could never be what I’m passioned to be, that I could never be a voice in my world. Who am I, the world seemed to be asking, that anyone should listen to me? Once they found that beneath gifted words, I was nothing special, they would scoff at my every word.
So I began “building my platform” by painstakingly poring over every thought that passed through my head. How could I make it beautiful? How could I make it powerful? How could I make it poignant enough that I could be that writer that people started quoting in the halls, whether they could remember where they’d heard the quip or not? That, to me, was the definition of success: to be oft-quoted. To be watched and followed and friended for those little lines that, I hoped, spoke to my credibility.
I became so focused on proving myself as someone to be listened to, as a brilliant writer and a beautiful wordsmith, that I was terrified of saying anything normal. I cringed at the thought of using social media to say anything so mundane as, “Beautiful rain today” or “Watched a fantastic movie last night.” People became accustomed to me living in the philosophical, and I felt myself fading away into the shadows. My “platform” was costing me my humanity.
My writing suffered. My life suffered. Somewhere in the depths of the remnants of my past, I was there, craving a dance with my passion.
There had to be a balance between my platform and my life.
I determined to take my life back, to build my platform but to regain that ability to live outside of it. There was a beauty in the simplicity of simply living that suffocated under my platform, and when I let that break through and sink into my being, my passion lit up.
Since freeing myself to live a human existence and not just my platform, I find that people are more interested in what I have to say because they finally see some authenticity behind my words. Readers respond when they see your humanity beneath your platform, when you connect with them person-to-person.
Here are four tips to help you live authentically beside your platform, rather than under it - practice that will enhance your life, your gift, and yes, even your platform.
1. Read – inside your discipline. A worship minister friend once told me he savored the days when he wasn’t leading worship because they gave him the opportunity to be ministered to rather than doing the ministry. Reading others who share your passion does not threaten your gift; it feeds you.
2. Spend time outdoors. The trees, the sun, and the sky don’t care a lick about your platform. There is no pressure to perform. You don’t have to be the guru. You can simply be a part of a beautiful creation. Dance if you want.
3. Always carry a journal. When a thought hits me that I want to remember, I need to write it down. Otherwise, I’m going to let it run obsessively through my mind until I find a place to do something with it. That way, I won’t forget. But in that time between having the thought and doing something with it, I miss out on everything happening right in front of me. If I can write that thought down right away, it’s somewhere I know to go back to it, and I can live authentically and fully in the present moment.
4. Be Yourself, Not Your Platform. There are some anomalies in all of us, things we enjoy doing but can’t explain why. Things that people might raise an eyebrow at. Do them anyway. Don’t lock yourself into appearances at the cost of something that brings you joy. Authenticity is credibility, and those who follow you will appreciate your realness.
How do you keep balance between your platform and your life?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Precious Jewels
For a couple of weeks leading up to Christmas, I laid in bed wrestling with the images of special gifts. Those precious trinkets and tokens given from one to another that somehow seal a treasured relationship, a place of honor, or a special love.
In those moments, I could not get my dad out of my head. Dad and I had an awkward relationship, to say the least, and it left a lot to be desired in a little girl's heart, but there was one thing my dad knew how to do: he could convince me I was special. Not to the extent that I felt special, walking around like a proud peacock and spreading my feathers, confident in my place in anything. Just in the way that there was something just under the surface, something secret that made me somehow special to him. And so leading up to the holidays, I was thinking of those special gifts and particularly with the image of precious jewelry...and it absolutely disgusted me.
There was something dirty in that mental image, something less than settling, something that finally had the strength to question a special relationship and the meaning behind a father giving his daughter precious jewels. Maybe it was something about my knowing my relationship with the man, the "secrets" shared, the odd sense of...something. Relationship? I would hesitate to call it love, though I loved him with a daughter's heart. Still do (a ransomed daughter's heart, as my true Father has answered so many of my unspokens), perhaps more now.
And I was thinking about the oddity of a father giving his daughter the jewels or the tokens of a love that he should have reserved for a wife, for a true lover. It was just creepy; it made my skin crawl, and something in my heart pained in those moments before I fell asleep with these images on my mind.
Then, as He is so often to do, my true Father spoke. He spoke in such a way that I could not deny His voice or His presence. He said, "Perhaps it isn't so creepy. Perhaps it isn't absurd. For I...I have these jewels for you, my daughter. And I would be honored if you would wear them."
It wasn't an easy surrender, not by any means. How could I accept a token of a love from a Father when these less than glorious images of a corrupt earthly relationship were holding a death grip on my heart? Literally keeping me up at night in the season of gifting, tormenting something in me that began to see clearly and yet was so enticed by the offering of an honest Father.
How to reconcile the gross with the godly?
For days, He worked on my heart. Mostly in those weak hours before I went to sleep, when my heart was still and the world was quiet and I was able to process, side-by-side or simultaneously, the image of the precious gift of a father with the unspeakable precious gift of my Father. Where love took on a new meaning, a real meaning, and I could see the honor in the gift. Even the gift of precious jewels.
Praying, following, listening to my Lord, I began shopping. Browsing for that fine jewelry that was too good for me, that made me feel too special, that stood and questioned that lingering part of me conflicted between filth and love, between brokenness and humility, between being convinced and being cherished. It was tough. Really tough. There were a few things I was drawn to immediately as my heart cried out, "This is beautiful!" then followed with "...too beautiful for you." Those questions of purity and wholeness that have long lingered in my heart were far from silent, screaming for answers and demanding I take a step back from what I knew God was calling me forward to.
What I knew was of Him.
And I put those jewels down, left them behind, and went home to think on it. To pray on it. To consider...
To consider a life where His love speaks louder. Where His grace answers. Where His mercy shows. To consider a life of being His, marked by a gift of treasured jewels, of something beyond beautiful that does not, in fact, contradict anything in me. It only contradicts the pain and the lies that have too long held me back.
It speaks in truth, and it is an honor to wear His gem.
So with God by my side, I found that jewel He chose to honor me, at least in this moment. I wear it around my neck, knowing as I run my fingers over it that we share a pure love, without need for convincing or for secrets or for questioning. We share something wonderful and blessed, as my Father has answered the heart of His daughter and shown worth, wonder, and beauty within. And without.
With this token, Lord, I am honored to be marked as yours, to know this as a sign of something incredible that is not tainted in the least. To embrace your grace, your mercy, and your love without question of my worthiness, my purity, or my place as your beloved daughter.
So this is what love is.
Maybe it's not really creepy for a Father to gift His daughter precious jewels. At least, not in this case.
In those moments, I could not get my dad out of my head. Dad and I had an awkward relationship, to say the least, and it left a lot to be desired in a little girl's heart, but there was one thing my dad knew how to do: he could convince me I was special. Not to the extent that I felt special, walking around like a proud peacock and spreading my feathers, confident in my place in anything. Just in the way that there was something just under the surface, something secret that made me somehow special to him. And so leading up to the holidays, I was thinking of those special gifts and particularly with the image of precious jewelry...and it absolutely disgusted me.
There was something dirty in that mental image, something less than settling, something that finally had the strength to question a special relationship and the meaning behind a father giving his daughter precious jewels. Maybe it was something about my knowing my relationship with the man, the "secrets" shared, the odd sense of...something. Relationship? I would hesitate to call it love, though I loved him with a daughter's heart. Still do (a ransomed daughter's heart, as my true Father has answered so many of my unspokens), perhaps more now.
And I was thinking about the oddity of a father giving his daughter the jewels or the tokens of a love that he should have reserved for a wife, for a true lover. It was just creepy; it made my skin crawl, and something in my heart pained in those moments before I fell asleep with these images on my mind.
Then, as He is so often to do, my true Father spoke. He spoke in such a way that I could not deny His voice or His presence. He said, "Perhaps it isn't so creepy. Perhaps it isn't absurd. For I...I have these jewels for you, my daughter. And I would be honored if you would wear them."
It wasn't an easy surrender, not by any means. How could I accept a token of a love from a Father when these less than glorious images of a corrupt earthly relationship were holding a death grip on my heart? Literally keeping me up at night in the season of gifting, tormenting something in me that began to see clearly and yet was so enticed by the offering of an honest Father.
How to reconcile the gross with the godly?
For days, He worked on my heart. Mostly in those weak hours before I went to sleep, when my heart was still and the world was quiet and I was able to process, side-by-side or simultaneously, the image of the precious gift of a father with the unspeakable precious gift of my Father. Where love took on a new meaning, a real meaning, and I could see the honor in the gift. Even the gift of precious jewels.
Praying, following, listening to my Lord, I began shopping. Browsing for that fine jewelry that was too good for me, that made me feel too special, that stood and questioned that lingering part of me conflicted between filth and love, between brokenness and humility, between being convinced and being cherished. It was tough. Really tough. There were a few things I was drawn to immediately as my heart cried out, "This is beautiful!" then followed with "...too beautiful for you." Those questions of purity and wholeness that have long lingered in my heart were far from silent, screaming for answers and demanding I take a step back from what I knew God was calling me forward to.
What I knew was of Him.
And I put those jewels down, left them behind, and went home to think on it. To pray on it. To consider...
To consider a life where His love speaks louder. Where His grace answers. Where His mercy shows. To consider a life of being His, marked by a gift of treasured jewels, of something beyond beautiful that does not, in fact, contradict anything in me. It only contradicts the pain and the lies that have too long held me back.
It speaks in truth, and it is an honor to wear His gem.
So with God by my side, I found that jewel He chose to honor me, at least in this moment. I wear it around my neck, knowing as I run my fingers over it that we share a pure love, without need for convincing or for secrets or for questioning. We share something wonderful and blessed, as my Father has answered the heart of His daughter and shown worth, wonder, and beauty within. And without.
With this token, Lord, I am honored to be marked as yours, to know this as a sign of something incredible that is not tainted in the least. To embrace your grace, your mercy, and your love without question of my worthiness, my purity, or my place as your beloved daughter.
So this is what love is.
Maybe it's not really creepy for a Father to gift His daughter precious jewels. At least, not in this case.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Shut Up
Do you ever find yourself talking your way into a bigger and bigger hole? It happens more often than I’d like to admit, but it is something God is working on in me. And you know what? I am content to be quiet.
There are things I have prayed for my whole life, things I would never know how to go after myself or how to achieve. Relationships restored. Wounds healed. They are things I never thought would happen because as much I was talking, trying to speak them into existence, the gap between what I experienced and what I longed for only seemed to grow wider.
I have always been that way. I have always been under the impression that if I could string the right words together, if I could keep talking until someone actually heard me, and if it was as eloquent, pointed, and quippy as possible, words would fix everything. But for all my talking, I never got one step closer to the reconciliation, the restoration, or the peace I was praying for.
So I started talking more to God and less to the objects of my obsession. Tell me what to do, Lord. Tell me what to say. Tell me how to heal this and how to demonstrate, how to show (because I believed I could show by words and it would be faster than by actions) that my words match my heart, that something is different now, that the world should see me in a new way, that the past should be forgiven and healed, that we should all move on. That I should be respected as the new woman You have made me in my heart and that my life speaks a new story now, according to Your grace. Tell me what to say, Lord. Tell me!
And then He answers. Cleary, concisely, honestly.
“Shut up.”
Shut up? But if I shut up, how will I ever tell them? How will they ever know the tremendous blessings You have poured out into my life? How will they know that I’ve connected with You in a new, real way and that You’ve completely turned me upside down? How will they know that what I do now, what I say, and everything I am breathes only for You? How will anyone know, how will anything change, if I don’t tell them, Lord? If they don’t hear me?
“No, seriously. Shut. Up.”
In those still moments when I try to figure out what all this means, how to speak a message without words when it feels like the very people I want to share a new story with are hardly looking my way, would hardly notice the subtle quietness and the small yet radical shifts in my manner, my posture, my being. In those still moments, I notice that they are noticing.
The calmness of a once tumultuous sea invites someone to turn their head. To see where the storm disappeared to, to look out over the calm, and to simply notice the way that what seemed devastated, destroyed, violent, defeated is simply still. The loudest voice in the world could not turn heads the way the stillness does. The most carefully crafted, beautifully elegant words could not make an impact the way a posture of grace, of humility, and of stillness reaches beyond the cognitive and creates an unspoken dynamic.
God, in His mercy and His grace, has stilled my storm. I have known that; He has done it again and again as I’ve fought against my own currents to keep the trouble going, having feared the stillness myself. And when what He was doing in me sank into my heart, really sank in, I saw how I was changing. I saw how I was seeing the world differently. How my heart responded in a new way. How everything changed in less than the blink of an eye. By simple surrender.
Then, I did the only logical thing I could think of: I have been trying to tell everyone about it. Loudly. Forcefully. Demanding attention for the beautiful stillness, for the awesome power of His mercy, for the redeeming power of His grace. Demanding that everyone’s eyes be opened not by His work reflected in me but by my words, which – if we were honest – you would struggle to trust if you had known me before, if you could not see the faithfulness behind them. If I’m trying to get you to see me in a new way by doing exactly the same things I would have done years ago as a form of manipulation, then of course your response will be timid.
But I’ve learned to shut up. I’ve learned to stay quiet. And I understand more of what Mary knew – that there are stories of God that you hold quietly in your heart and treasure them. These are your stories, your moments, but all the words in the world would never capture exactly what it means to carry Jesus inside of you. It is your smile, your radiance, the way you live your life before the world. It is walking along beside Him, making the journeys He asks you to make, trusting His word, knowing that He is somewhere, even when you don’t see Him right away. It is the song you sing with your life: magnificat.
For the record, the more I learn to shut up, the more I watch Him work in my life and the more I see Him answering my prayers. Wounds healing, relationships restoring. It takes more time than I’m used to, more time than I would like to give. I have to stop myself, pull back, and embrace the stillness millions of little times every day because when I see those small inklings that things are going in the way of peace, it’s still in me to jump all over it and start talking, trying to capitalize on the moment and force my way through the patience to the end result. It doesn’t work; it only results in increased tension, mild to moderate setbacks, and that painful conviction of knowing I have spoken against the work of God in my life despite using all the words of His love.
So I am content to be quiet, teaching myself to be still. To listen to the still, small voice inside of me that reminds me of my place. To fall on my knees. To hold my moments with God close to my heart and know that it is my smile, my song that tells His story; not my contrived and strained words. And to breathe – just to breathe – the small beauties of a blessed existence, like this morning’s thick fog. Then to smile, to worship, and to thank Him for His little gifts and His big ones…and the answered prayers I see unfolding every moment when I answer Him and simply shut. up.
There are things I have prayed for my whole life, things I would never know how to go after myself or how to achieve. Relationships restored. Wounds healed. They are things I never thought would happen because as much I was talking, trying to speak them into existence, the gap between what I experienced and what I longed for only seemed to grow wider.
I have always been that way. I have always been under the impression that if I could string the right words together, if I could keep talking until someone actually heard me, and if it was as eloquent, pointed, and quippy as possible, words would fix everything. But for all my talking, I never got one step closer to the reconciliation, the restoration, or the peace I was praying for.
So I started talking more to God and less to the objects of my obsession. Tell me what to do, Lord. Tell me what to say. Tell me how to heal this and how to demonstrate, how to show (because I believed I could show by words and it would be faster than by actions) that my words match my heart, that something is different now, that the world should see me in a new way, that the past should be forgiven and healed, that we should all move on. That I should be respected as the new woman You have made me in my heart and that my life speaks a new story now, according to Your grace. Tell me what to say, Lord. Tell me!
And then He answers. Cleary, concisely, honestly.
“Shut up.”
Shut up? But if I shut up, how will I ever tell them? How will they ever know the tremendous blessings You have poured out into my life? How will they know that I’ve connected with You in a new, real way and that You’ve completely turned me upside down? How will they know that what I do now, what I say, and everything I am breathes only for You? How will anyone know, how will anything change, if I don’t tell them, Lord? If they don’t hear me?
“No, seriously. Shut. Up.”
In those still moments when I try to figure out what all this means, how to speak a message without words when it feels like the very people I want to share a new story with are hardly looking my way, would hardly notice the subtle quietness and the small yet radical shifts in my manner, my posture, my being. In those still moments, I notice that they are noticing.
The calmness of a once tumultuous sea invites someone to turn their head. To see where the storm disappeared to, to look out over the calm, and to simply notice the way that what seemed devastated, destroyed, violent, defeated is simply still. The loudest voice in the world could not turn heads the way the stillness does. The most carefully crafted, beautifully elegant words could not make an impact the way a posture of grace, of humility, and of stillness reaches beyond the cognitive and creates an unspoken dynamic.
God, in His mercy and His grace, has stilled my storm. I have known that; He has done it again and again as I’ve fought against my own currents to keep the trouble going, having feared the stillness myself. And when what He was doing in me sank into my heart, really sank in, I saw how I was changing. I saw how I was seeing the world differently. How my heart responded in a new way. How everything changed in less than the blink of an eye. By simple surrender.
Then, I did the only logical thing I could think of: I have been trying to tell everyone about it. Loudly. Forcefully. Demanding attention for the beautiful stillness, for the awesome power of His mercy, for the redeeming power of His grace. Demanding that everyone’s eyes be opened not by His work reflected in me but by my words, which – if we were honest – you would struggle to trust if you had known me before, if you could not see the faithfulness behind them. If I’m trying to get you to see me in a new way by doing exactly the same things I would have done years ago as a form of manipulation, then of course your response will be timid.
But I’ve learned to shut up. I’ve learned to stay quiet. And I understand more of what Mary knew – that there are stories of God that you hold quietly in your heart and treasure them. These are your stories, your moments, but all the words in the world would never capture exactly what it means to carry Jesus inside of you. It is your smile, your radiance, the way you live your life before the world. It is walking along beside Him, making the journeys He asks you to make, trusting His word, knowing that He is somewhere, even when you don’t see Him right away. It is the song you sing with your life: magnificat.
For the record, the more I learn to shut up, the more I watch Him work in my life and the more I see Him answering my prayers. Wounds healing, relationships restoring. It takes more time than I’m used to, more time than I would like to give. I have to stop myself, pull back, and embrace the stillness millions of little times every day because when I see those small inklings that things are going in the way of peace, it’s still in me to jump all over it and start talking, trying to capitalize on the moment and force my way through the patience to the end result. It doesn’t work; it only results in increased tension, mild to moderate setbacks, and that painful conviction of knowing I have spoken against the work of God in my life despite using all the words of His love.
So I am content to be quiet, teaching myself to be still. To listen to the still, small voice inside of me that reminds me of my place. To fall on my knees. To hold my moments with God close to my heart and know that it is my smile, my song that tells His story; not my contrived and strained words. And to breathe – just to breathe – the small beauties of a blessed existence, like this morning’s thick fog. Then to smile, to worship, and to thank Him for His little gifts and His big ones…and the answered prayers I see unfolding every moment when I answer Him and simply shut. up.
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