Warning: Reckless texting can cause more than car accidents…

I went to a friend’s birthday party the other night, the second one I have gone to this summer (for adults), and it got me to thinking that it was high time I had a birthday party of my own. I texted Kent when I was on my way home. Below is our dialogue!

Shell: On my way home

Kent: OK- drive fast and pass on the curves

Shell: I want a party, daddy! (To be read with a British accent resembling that of Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory)

Kent: You can have a party when you turn 16!

Shell: How about when I’m 35? (Now this should have been his indication that I was talking about a birthday party when I TURN 35 in September!)

Kent: Stop texting and drive…I will give you a party-YES OH YES!!!!! (And THIS should have been my indication that he was not talking about a birthday party at all!)

So…. I did what he said and stopped texting after that comment and thought nothing of it. I got home and he was dutifully unloading the dishwasher like all good husbands do. (another indication of his intentions)

I checked my email and then he asked if I wanted to watch some TV. (this was a test) I said, “No, I am really tired and want to go to bed!” (apparently, a signal I gave unknowingly) He thought I said, “beeeeddddd” (and swears I was batting my eyelashes). We finally got into bed at about 1:30 and he snuggled up to me and said, “So…I guess it’s probably too late to have that party now, huh?”

Pause…time for me to catch up…considering whether or not I should tell him that I was not talking about a party in my damn pants!!! That in fact, I just wanted a damn birthday party when I turn 35!

And then I remembered Marvin Gaye and decided that a good wife would just let him believe that YES, indeed I was talking about a “pants party” and that NO, indeed it is never too late for “partying”!

And then…

Well, I laughed out loud in his face, so hard that I almost peed my pants! He had no clue that I had been referring to a birthday party…no clue at all. And I had no clue, until that moment that he wanted to “party”…no clue at all. So this just goes to show you that after ten years of marriage, we have some serious work to do in the area of text communication. We may have to start seeing a text therapist, because this is not the first time that texting has left one or both of us more than a little dazed and confused.

December 1999 was a life-altering year for me. On Quillen’s first birthday, I was involved in a major car accident with a drunk driver. At one point during my recovery, I experienced a moment with God that dramatically changed my perspective of Him. I realized this past week, as I was staring in the face of my crumbling “faith-structure”, that I have been chasing down this one moment of stark clarity and staggering peace for the past nine years, coming close, but never truly recreating it; Asking the questions, “How can I get that feeling back again?” and “What must I endure to actually get it?” Words cannot fully express my encounter with God that day, but below is my humble attempt at sharing a little slice of my story with you.

I laid there in the stark white room, the only flecks of color coming from the ugly mauve and hunter green border around the ceiling. Shadows loomed in every direction across the walls and the empty bed beside me. When Kent had left the room earlier, there was no need for the fluorescent lights to be on, because the floor to ceiling window had been lighting the room. But now he had been gone for almost thirty minutes and the sun was beginning to slip down and steal it’s light from me. He had walked over to the pizzeria across the street to get his bazillionth pesto pizza that week. The rehab facility I was in only provided meals for patients, and a crappy vending machine for visitors with the likes of moon pies, stale cheez-its and Pepsi products (yuck). So that pretty much sealed the deal. It was to be a “pizza only” diet for my dear husband until I could get up the courage to start learning how to walk again.

The phone rang and jolted me out of my pizza trance. Instinctively, I went to reach for it. My head lifted, half expecting my body to follow. But because broken bones are stubborn, my body did not obey my head. It did not have the capability to do anything but be still. I had metal rods in both my left elbow and my right wrist, which were also then covered in casts. One that covered my forearm and another that went all the way up past my elbow. My left leg was not in a cast, because I had broken both the femur and the hip socket. So instead they had to drill a titanium rod into it, brace it with a really sturdy ACE bandage and hope for the best. Fortunately, my right leg was not injured. However, since I could not use a cane or walker because of the shape my arms were in, I was pretty much laid up on my back, at the mercy of anyone who I could summon to my assistance. This is not fun for anyone I suppose, but even less fun for those of us who have a more than average case of “control issues”.

Needless to say, the phone did not get answered. I did however, somehow manage to loop my finger around the neat little reaching gadget we fondly referred to as the “ass grabber”. I suppose I was thinking I would clamp the phone with my James Bond moves and slide it down the bed rail, where it would fall perfectly into my swollen and bruised up fingers, which resembled a pile of little smoky sausages. This did not work. Instead, I lifted the grabber just high enough to knock the phone off of the cradle and watch it crash to the floor, breaking into tiny pieces.

Shit. I missed the call. Anger. I broke the phone. Tears started welling up. I hate being alone. I hate being weak like this. Face is getting hot. Dammit, where the hell is he with that pizza? Chest is tightening up. Where is the nurse? Didn’t she hear the phone shatter? Shit. The call button fell to the floor with the phone. Panic setting in. Can’t breathe…. “Oh God”, I cried out. “Oh God, Help me!”…. Chest heaving with tears. I can’t reach the damn tissue. Nose running. Lip puffed out like an angry toddler. Sobbing…whining…more sobbing.

And….PEACE!

And I do not use this word lightly. A peace washed over me in that moment that I had never before and have never again experienced. It was surreal. It was beautiful. It was both quiet and deafening. It was scary. I was speechless. It was SUPERNATURAL. I don’t throw around terminology like this very often, but in that utterly helpless and desperate moment, I believe that I felt the Peace that passes all –and I mean ALL understanding.

Getting hit by a drunk driver makes you feel helpless. Being in an ER and the nurses not being able to get a morphine line in your veins feels helpless. Watching your wedding ring being sawed off your finger feels helpless. Having your husband of two years have to wipe your butt, feed you, bathe you and change your maxi pads feels helpless. Not being able to hold or cuddle or take care of your one-year-old baby feels more than helpless. So why didn’t God choose to pour His peace upon me during any of those moments? Why this moment?

I do not know.

But apparently somewhere in the realm of the Supernatural that I cannot even begin to perceive or understand, a Mighty God came down to a helpless and angry girl and breathed into her broken spirit, her broken will and her broken body, and began the process of making her whole again.

I sat there basking in what felt like light, even though there was absolutely no sun light in the room. In fact, it had been almost totally dark by the time this all took place. And ethereal as it may sound, a white, almost glittery sheen fell over the shadows that had been haunting me that afternoon. It was only momentary, I know, but it felt like hours. I closed my eyes, chest calmly rising up and down now, sucking in all the peace that I possibly could get through to my little lungs. Quickly, I turned my head to a voice, saying, “Pizza…get your fresh hot pizza” in a Gomer Pile-ish voice, seeing my sweet husband holding a small pizza box over his head. Sigh.

The moment was gone. The beauty had passed. And all my anger and frustration fell obediently back into place. I did not tell Kent of my encounter with Peace that day. Instead, I said in an annoyed voice, “Babe, the damn phone fell and broke. Pick it up would ya?” And he did. And then he tenderly fed me pizza; one bite at a time; one sip of coke (not Pepsi) at a time; one little piece of love at a time. And slowly…very slowly…I began to heal, with one bite of Supernatural at a time.

July, 1, 2008

June 26, 2008

Lying here beside you as you drift into your sleep, I cannot help but think of this same day five years ago- -the first time we shared a cozy bed together.

On that day, however, you were not lying curled up beside me. You were instead, curled up deep inside my belly, about to enter into our world with your beautiful red headed burst of light and joy.

Your journey into this world was undoubtedly one of the most difficult tasks of my lifetime and yet it has brought me greater fulfillment than I ever could have dreamed or imagined.

As I lay here snuggled up with you under your pink fluffy covers, pretzeled together, unaware of where my arms end and yours begin, I am reminded of something that a wise woman always use to tell me. “Have a girl, Shellee, she will be your best friend in the world. And she will take care of you someday when your old!”

And it occurs to me as I am recalling those words, warm and silent tears streaming down my cheeks into your hair, that I do not have to wait to “get old” for you to take care of me. For even though your eyes are heavy and your dreams have almost taken hold, you are gently patting and rubbing my arm, softly humming, loving me just exactly how I need to be loved in this moment, beautifully unaware that you are even giving me this gift on your birthday!

Thank you for being my gift five years ago- and every day! You are, quite literally, my daily dose of joy!

I love you sweet girl! Happy 5th birthday!

Love,

Mommy

June 22, 2008

I have purposely been quiet in the last few days, as a surprising amount of comments have rolled in over my last post. My comments are on moderation, so as each of them came to my email, I would read them and re-read them before I would actually post them. But I have to tell you, it was not out of my desire to edit them or filter them that I did this. I did this because it was my desire to feel each of these comments and their author, as deeply as I felt my experience with Thaddeus recently. From most of the comments, anger was the last emotion that I felt was present, including Thaddeus’. What I saw was a group of people doing exactly what I did in my post- - daring to take into consideration someone else’s perspective, even in the process of defending their own. Personally, I thought it was rare and beautiful.

Clearly I have made it no secret that I am struggling with issues regarding my faith. After all, that is what this blog has unintentionally become- - my own personal journey to both finding and holding onto my version of faith. By this, I do not mean that I am picking and choosing from the buffet of religiosity. I simply mean that in order for me to continue to live out the things I have always professed to believe, I must ask myself some extremely hard questions. Otherwise, I feel like a liar. Not only to my kids and my friends and family…but to myself.

Quite often I feel afraid to really ask the questions; to go beyond just wondering and really verbalize the whole question. Does God even exist? Is Jesus Christ the Son of God? Is Jesus the Way, the Truth, and the Life? And does no one come to the Father but by HIM??? Sometimes it feels yucky to form these phrases into words and not just thoughts. But I have concluded that I am more afraid of the not asking than the asking. So I keep on asking. And I keep on waiting.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you might be clued in to the fact that I have a severe case of what I like to refer to as bi-polar spirituality. One day you will read that I find “power in the blood” and the next day I am “cracked and drained” and the next my dukes are high in the air daring God to show himself in the midst of my profanity and insanity. This might be alarming to some that I am doing it so vocally, but the more people I talk to, people in many different walks of faith and places in their journeys, I have found that most, if not all of them are doing exactly the same thing- -asking, waiting, yelling, praying, feeling, digging, growing, losing and finding.

I have spent 25 years refining and polishing and fine tuning my version of “holiness”. And at the same time, I have tried hard to run from, cover up or bury my old-self, my “humanity”. But often I didn’t even know what I was running from. I just knew it was bad and evil and I should get as far away from it as possible. But to me it seems that it is my humanity that even creates the need for holiness in the first place. Shouldn’t I at the very least, be aware of what my own personal humanity entails, in all it’s rotten and dirty honesty, if I am going to try and live a life not entirely controlled by it?

And so, some days you might see me angry. Some days you might see me sarcastic or bitter and chiding. And some days you might see me flat on my face, worshiping a God I seem to question more than I love and live for, these days.

Here in this little corner of the electronic world is where I choose to share with you both my humanity and my holiness. The disclaimer is at the top of this page…they most often collide with one another!

June 16, 2008

I woke up one morning last week to an email from a friend of mine that I have not talked to in years. There were the usual opening sentences of, “How are you…I am fine” and then with great resolve and eloquent wording, he laid it on me. The shock of my lifetime! He has become an Atheist! Better described from his perspective, a Secular, devoted to a Secular life.

As I read his email, he described in detail his journey through and his departing from faith and a relationship with any form of God. He openly claimed his position in such a way, that as I read it, my guts actually hurt. I could literally feel through his words, an attitude of true relief and contentment, not what I would have expected from one who has confidently separated himself from God. He has studied this, toiled with this and lived this for many years, finally coming to this conclusion with the weight of someone who has clearly been in the trenches. This was strange to me and yet, I almost felt myself yearning for that release and freedom he had seemingly found. And as we continued to exchange emails, I was able to hear more of his journey, and understand a little more of where he was coming from.

I got into the shower shortly after reading one of our exchanges and I began to cry. It was not a normal cry. In fact, there were few if any, actual tears. Instead, it was a bellowing that came from deep within my chest, a place that has never been opened up in me before. It caught me deep and would not let go. It was a gut grabbing emotion that made me have to lean on the wall until I could contain myself. I so badly wanted the delivery of full-blown tears and sobbing, but it just sat there in my stomach and my chest, laboring and contracting, as if it was not yet ready to be delivered. Kent came home shortly after I had gotten out of the shower and I was preparing to go to a friend’s birthday party. And with the site of him, I crumbled into his arms with such devastation that he had to actually hold me up. I could barely form words, much less sentences, so he just held me and let me cry the “ugly cry”! You know the one where you snort and heave and snot is coming out of your nose at forcible speeds?

When I finally came up for air, he asked me, “Are you just sad for him?” And surprising us both, I said, “Well, no, actually. I just completely and totally understand him and still relate to him on so many levels.” And it was then that I realized for the first time, probably in my entire life, that I was experiencing the feeling of empathy. I was literally aching, hurting and feeling for him and his journey that has gotten him to the place of unbelief, or belief, depending on how you view it. I have not quite gone all the way to vigorous unbelief in my journey to date. But I have come close, peering into it’s windows and doors, wondering if I could ever get up enough nerve to completely call it quits on all I once held true and dear. And believe me, I have wanted to. I have really really wanted to!

The thing I find amazing is that he is not in anguish or turmoil at this point. He has placed himself fully into his secular viewpoints with total peace, removing himself completely from his enthusiastic, evangelical upbringing. And though I might be criticized or deemed a “bad Christian” on this point, I can say with complete honesty that I do not feel sorry for him or want to pray for him or tell him that maybe he was not a believer in the first place. People say and do a lot of stupid things in the name of religion and Christianity. And on this day, at this point in my journeying, I had nothing to say to him except, I understand. I so understand. And I love you. And I choose to journey with you.

I do find it something worth pondering on, that only months ago, did I make the choice to plant my feet firmly back into Christianity, committed to finding my footing and where to actually dig my heels in. And then along comes a conversation like this. I don’t see it as a test from God, or a dangling temptation from Satan…(which may be to my demise) However, I see it as an opportunity to feel, to understand, to love and to continue relationship, despite my friend’s beliefs- -despite my beliefs. In the past, I would have probably tried to listen and love and understand, but I think I would have done these things with an ulterior motive. I know that I would have done them with the purpose of recapturing his flag and situating it firmly back into the foundations of Christianity, all the while subtly inserting scripture and doctrine so as to “plant some seeds”, praying vigorously that God would bring him back into the “fold”.

Admittedly, I have no seeds to plant. I am still very much on the journey of rediscovery myself and have little to offer in the way of answers. This by the way, goes completely against everything in my know-it-all nature. I am nevertheless awed at the beauty of this relationship being restored at this particular time and at this particular place in my life. And by the honest and heartfelt conversations that have transpired because of our willingness to hear and be heard.

My guts may be aching, but my heart is full!

June 10, 2008

Quillen asked me today if it was wrong to believe in God just because you were afraid of going to hell.

I asked him what he thought.

He said, “Well, I don’t know… About 1/4 of me believes in God because I am afraid of going to hell. And the other 1/2 of me believes because I really want to be in heaven with God someday!

I said, “Well, you are still missing 1/4 of the equation. What about the other 1/4?

He said, “The other 1/4 of me just really doesn’t want to think about it anymore!”

Oh little apple…so close to the trunk of my tree!

June, 8, 2008

For most of my life I have had this picture in my mind of God perched at the top of a long rope, like the one’s used in gym class, with a shiny bronze cow bell at the top.

For many years, I envisioned myself pretty close to the top of that rope, with just enough reach to ring the bell with great frequency, fervor and volume.

Whenever I made mistakes, I would envision myself slipping down a notch. A few bruises on my legs, hands torn up and irritated by the slide. But then I would muster up all my spiritual climbing skills and quickly shimmy my way right back up near the top! Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring!!!! “Don’t worry, she made it back up to the top, ladies and gentlemen!”

And then it happened one day, that I slipped down all of the notches and hit the gym floor with a thud! And for the first time, I found it hard to muster the courage and start “the climb” again.

Once I did get my courage up, however, I found it to be a long and painful process to start all the way from the bottom, with no landing pad below me to catch my fall. There were no more firm knots to plant my feet on as I tried to inch my way up to the next level. Instead, I found them to be frayed and torn from too much use- - from too many slips.

Recently, I felt like I was getting pretty damn close to the top again. I would lie in bed and actually visualize myself coming close to ringing that shiny bronze bell again. I found myself looking forward to announcing, “Hey world, I made it back to God, rope burned and bloody hands to prove it. I am here. I have finally arrived, once again!”

But yesterday, I slipped again.

And this time, though I did not fall all the way to the ground, I fell down enough lengths that I was left swinging mid-air, nothing to grab onto, dangling with no footing.

I have had enough of the rope. I am exhausted. I cannot climb it anymore.

I have decided to cut it down and play a good healthy game of tug of war with God instead!

May 29, 2008

I went to a “women’s day” at Ecclesia the other day.

That statement in and of itself is HUGE!

I don’t usually like women’s retreat thingys. They make me feel all squirmy and seventh grade-ish again. I don’t know why this is an issue with me, but I really really don’t like hanging out with big groups of women. Despite this fact, I was truly looking forward to this day. For some reason I felt drawn there. I knew within the depths of me that I needed to be at this particular function, on this particular day.

Overall, the day was wonderful. It did not feel at all “women’s retreat-ish”. It was more like people just hanging out because they wanted to hang out. Not because they were “retreating” at church.

But there in that room full of women, most of which I did not know, we were asked to go into a small group of five women and confess. Yes, I said confess. They asked us to just listen to God and confess. “Seriously”, I thought, “they want me to confess to these chicks I don’t even know? Dammit, why didn’t I sit closer to the door? I could make a run for it and claim diarrhea! Admitting to the big “D” would be a hell of a lot better than confessing my junk to total strangers, right?”

Nonetheless, I obediently walked over to my group, so as to save face. I have not known these women for very long, so I did not want to look like a total jackass right off the bat! I sat in a little circle and started listening to women confessing. These things ranged from simple daily toils to huge life shattering struggles and addictions. It was beautiful and raw and humbling to be privy to these women’s struggles. Fortunately, I was last and was able to listen and ponder and relate to them before pouring my guts out all over their shoes.

And then it was my turn. I paused…I am rarely at a loss for words. I did not really know what to say. My list of confessions seemed trite and meaningless in the wake of the confessions that had unfolded before me. Not to mention, I was scared that if I really started talking, the shit would hit the fan and they would all find out how badly I really stink. I rambled all over the map for a few minutes about my struggles with faith and my identity in Christ and my disdain for the term “stay at home mom” and as I was talking, I realized that everything related back to one thing.

HATRED.

Sickening, nasty, putrefied, disgusting hatred.

Hatred towards God!

Hatred towards others! Others in a better place than me, others with a better career than me, others with more obedient children than me, others with cleaner homes than me, others with more money than me, even others that like to scrapbook and stamp more than me. (which I hate to do by the way)

Hatred toward feeling sick all of the time. Hatred that I was in a car wreck and still feeling the repercussions, both physically and emotionally, almost daily. Hatred that I am too fat, that I am too short, that I have scars all over my body and that I have a hole in my eyebrow. Hatred that I try so damn hard to eat healthy, spending hundred of dollars on super healthy foods, only to race to the nearest drive-thru when I am in a hurry, or worse, just because I have had a bad day.

Hatred because I am caught between two identities of “stay at home mom” and singer/songwriter/real writer-writer.

Hatred because I feel like I cannot and will not ever change.

Hatred because I…Hatred because I…because I…

I HATE myself.

I said it.

I said it out loud, there in that little group of five women that I did not know and that I had almost tried to sneak away from. I cried a little. And then I said it again, but with a little more confidence. “I am confessing today, that I hate myself. That quite possibly I am addicted to “hating myself”. And that all my fear and anger and frustration about everything else in my life is stemming from that self hate.” I also expressed that I have had friends tell me that to find my identity, I must first find my identity in Christ (come on, you know you were thinking it) And to that I say, “then I guess I am totally screwed, because clearly that part is still a bit of a mess as well.” Amazingly though, as I yanked all of this nastiness out of myself and began to spin it into actual words, I started feeling a little lighter and a little less dark . It was as if just admitting that little word “hate” out loud, actually took some of the hate away.

I wish I could say that I walked out of there feeling light as a feather and that I woke up the next morning feeling all refreshed and renewed by this new found self awareness. But the feeling was more to be described as “cracked and drained”. And though this analogy is nothing new and original, I kind of feel like a vase that has been thrown against a brick wall, pieces all crumbled in a pile in the dirt. And now I am carefully sifting through the pieces, trying to figure out which ones are worth salvaging, worth super gluing back together. And the funny thing is, that I feel like it is ok if there are some big chunks missing, or some crooked lines that don’t exactly fit back together all perfectly. I think I kind of like having the cracks show a little bit. It feels more open, more breathable. And leaves all the more room for God to shine through this “crack-pot”.

(The other day Zealy and I were in the drive-thru line at the bank for what seemed like forever. She asked me to turn the music off and the conversation went something like this!)

Zealy: Mom, people can’t really see Jesus can they?

Me: Well not right now, but we will when we get to heaven someday.

Zealy: I don’t want to go to heaven SUNDAY!

Me: Not Sunday, honey, SOMEDAY!

Zealy: I don’t want to go Sunday or someday. I don’t want to go EVER!!!

Me: Well that’s ok, Quillen didn’t use to want to go either. You don’t have to want to right now. I am just curious though, why don’t you want to go?

Zealy: Because they have horrible food up there!!!!!

Me: What? How do you know that?

Zealy: I just do!

Me: What do you think they have “up there”?

Zealy: (rolling her eyes dramatically)
They only have fish and loaves up there! Oh…and fruit…lots of fruit! You just have to sit around and eat fruit and fish and bread ALL DAY! And I HATE fish…especially Salmon!

Me: Zealy, I don’t think God will make you eat fish. Heaven is perfect, so I think we might have all of our favorite foods there. Maybe even mac and cheese!

Zealy: Nope, I don’t think so. And the other thing, is that you have to walk…ALOT!

Me: What do you mean?

Zealy: I mean there are just huge streets of gold everywhere and it’s really hot and you have to walk all over them all day long. I hate walking. I get really really tired! So I am not ever going to heaven! OK?

Silence….Squirming in my seat….I am pondering something brilliant to say that will enlighten my 4 year olds mixed up theology.

Zealy: Mom?

Me: Yes?

Zealy: Can you ask the lady in the drive-thru if I can have a yellow sucker?

I used to look at people that were disenchanted with Christianity and think, “wow, they must not be in the Word.” Or, “they must not be in community.” Or, “they must be taking part in some horrible secret sin that is separating them from experiencing the full love of God!”

Now, I know differently.

I didn’t do anything to lose touch with my faith. I was in a Bible study at the time. I was taking Christian parenting classes. I was in a wonderful church where I had recently been on staff. I was loved by a godly man and we were raising a little boy in a Christ centered home. I was doing all the right things. And POOF!!! It was just gone. Now looking back, even though it did not feel like it at the time, I can see how the hand of God was working and plowing and planting and tending to my depleted soil. So many tears were poured out of me to water His tireless work. Growth is hard. I can honestly say there has been nothing fun about it. And I have spent the better part of five years pretty pissed at God.

I recently ran into an old friend of our family’s while I was shopping. She stopped me and asked the usual polite questions. “How are you? How are the kids? How are your parents?” I obliged and fed her all the answers I knew she would want to hear. Then the dreaded question of where we were going to church came tumbling from her lips. I always get weird when this question is asked, because it is attached to so many other issues for me. Plus, I sometimes feel like this question is asked with the intention to measure ones Spiritual ok-ness. Assuming, if you are in church, then you must be in good standing with Jesus.

I told her we had been driving down to Taft/Ecclesia in Houston (approx 60 miles away). She asked why in the world we would want to drive so far away with all the wonderful churches here in Conroe. I fumbled around with my words, not wanting to offend her choice of church or her view of what makes a church “wonderful”. I managed to get something out of my mouth that had something to do with the “arts” (she thought I said “hearts”), realizing even as I spoke, that my “reasons” for going all the way down there were wrapped up in things not made of words. Describing this was hard, but even harder still, was translating this to someone in the isles of Target. She listened to me stumble and stammer, her face covered in perplexity, and then proceeded to give me a ten minute dissertation on how no church is ever going to be perfect. GOD! Don’t I know???

The worst part of the encounter was when, thinking I could have a vulnerable moment with this woman, being that she had known me since I was about ten years old, I told her that I really had not been in the best place “spiritually”. I explained that I had really struggled with figuring out how to know God in the past few years, and that I had been forced to start from scratch with the “do I really accept this as total truth” question. Her response made me not only regret that I had run into her, but that I had gotten out of bed at all that morning. She woefully said, “Oh Shell, that makes me sad. That is just too bad. I just can’t believe this!” I know she meant well and really does love me, but her pity for me made me feel broken and wrong and well…like a failure! This “pity party for Shellee” went on for several more painstaking minutes and then she wrapped up the conversation with, “I wish y’all would just come to our church or at least find one closer. (again) There are just sooo many great churches in Conroe!” We said our goodbye’s and I tucked my barely flickering little light under my damn pathetic little bushel and headed for the parking lot.

I was rethinking this conversation the other day and God gave me something so big, so profound, so lightening bolt-ish, that I was brought to a sudden and unexpected rush of cleansing tears.

It is not too bad that I don’t know how to relate to God these days. It is not so sad that I have lost my way and am not sure which route to merge back onto. It is not a shame that I can’t answer my kids with total confidence when they ask me why I believe in Jesus! It is not a pity that I don’t know where to go to church or what small group to be a part of or if I EVER want to be in a Bible study again.

IT IS NOT!

Instead, I am realizing that it is a beautiful thing to get lost and meander back on a different path from which I came. It is good to have bad communication, because it forces one to communicate if the relationship is worth salvaging AT ALL. It is good to have conversations with my kids that make me squint and flinch and shift in my seat, because it highlights my humanity for them, thus showcasing God’s sovereignty. It is good to visit and commune and dip my toes into new bodies of water, as I search for the soothing balm that will best heal my open wounds.

IT IS GOOD!

During the course of five years, I have certainly missed the security of being grounded in what I believe. It has been uncomfortable at best. Conversation after conversation has often brought me only to more places of doubt and frustration. Yet, amazingly, I still pray and I still expect those prayers to yield answers, if nothing else. I do have faith. I have had it all along. It’s just been different. Not at all like the steadfast faith of my youth.

This faith, the one of the past five years, has been topsy and turvy. It has left me bruised and bloody. It has left me feeling unsatisfied and wanting, instead of confident and comfortable. It has NOT allowed me to stand on the Rock of my salvation and shout out the Truth. It has been questionable and stubborn. It has been burdensome! But it has been mine. And I have still been me. And I have still seen a mighty God transforming a flighty little girl into a woman, continually redeemed.

For all the fear and frustration and anger that I have felt over the past several years, I have also felt varying degrees of unrequited freedom and beautiful, gut wrenching, raw transparency. And as I begin to sift through this dirty little pile of ashes that remain, I have also begun to find the fragile little sounds of a new voice for my faith to speak with…my voice. Not my mom’s voice, or my youth pastor’s, or my Bible study leader’s or my best friend’s or my husband’s voice…but mine! Shaky and weak as it may be, it is mine. The one I call my own!

The one He calls HIS OWN!