Girl at the Mirror

          There is a Norman Rockwell painting called “Girl at the Mirror”  A girl, no more than 12 stares into a mirror with a magazine laid perched upon her lap, an Old Hollywood starlet flaps open. There she sits, on her little stool, staring quizzically at her reflection. Her doll, now an afterthought, lays crumpled against the mirrors edge.  Red lipstick, a brush and comb, and some jewelry lay scattered about the floor.  Her tender face says it all, so vulnerable and uncertain, “Am I ok? Do you like what you see?  Will it be enough to hold your attention?” When I look at her, I see my face, my questions, my uncertainties about what it all means to transition from who I once thought I was into this new woman Christ is making me to be

  My internal uncertainty has been around as long as I can remember.  How many times have I stared into that mirror and asked?   

          My little eight year old frame makes her way into the bathroom, gently closing the door and locking it behind her.   oh how i loved to play dress up, experiment with make up and try perfume cocktails of various kinds.  the bathroom held a plethora of beautification possibilities.  my secret space where i could stare, create, and recreate me.  i don’t know what it was about the power of a hairbrush and pony tail ring but somehow it seemed in my little mind the key opening a world of transformation possibilities of transformation.  but this day my partially wavy, partially straight hair won’t do anything. Scowling, I yank open the drawer fumbling around trying to find my bristly round brush (the one like moms).  I try it again.  And again.  Why can’t I get it to look the way I want?  Yank, yank, tug, tug.  The tears start to come. Determination sets in: This will work!   Pull. Tug.  More tears and anger rise up.  Why can’t I make this work?  My little fingers begin to pull and yank again this time attempting to untie the pony tail ring that has become a tangled mess.  Why does it have to be so hard?  Why can’t I get this right?  I’ve had it.  I’ve failed.  And I want this whole fiasco to be over.  I fumble around the drawer and find them.  My answer.  My little fingers tuck into the holes and begin to cut.  snip. snip.  a locket of my hair falls to the floor.

Defeat.

Trying so hard to make it right. 

At eight.

Eight?  

Even now, almost thirty years later, I stare into my reflection from the window.  Watching cars go by one by one, anguish sets in, as I stare avoiding the computer keys in front of me.  What do I possibly have to say to you that matters? How is this even interesting?   

Yank, yank. 

Tug. tug.

Will I ever get there? Who is this woman in the window staring back at me? I cannot begin to talk about authenticity unless I’m willing to face myself.  But how can I ever do this when there’s been years of hatred, judgement, and contempt.  Nice veneer, covering over a tangled mess. tugging and yanking, Unless I look into the mirror of his response........

       Who's reflection am I looking at to tell me my worth? (confession)

       How would things shift I were to look in the reflection of my Savior's response? (contemplation)

       What does he say? (scripture, listening prayer)

Catching My Bearings

Anytime I've traveled overseas or gone on a long vacation, I feel out of whack the first few days I'm back. I start unpacking the moment I get home, go shopping, and start nesting right away.  I will often comment to a roommate looking in on my queer and rather overly efficient behavior with, "I'm just trying to catch my bearings."  


I feel unsettled and I don't like it one bit.


So what do you do when your heart is trying to catch it's bearings and it can't?


That's how I felt last week.


Like all the things that normally kept it grounded and safe came undone.  I felt like a weary traveler trying to get back home yet finding herself wandering farther and farther away.


Two potential job doors were closed, a friendship felt tense, and financial strains seemed like they were never going to lift.  


Despair knocked.


Dread became my morning alarm clock.


And regardless of prayer, right thinking, and good friend pep talks my heart felt--sad.


It's a sadness that's familiar.  A sadness that's ebbed in and out of my 20s and 30s and become a familiar friend, or rather foe.  This isn't the kind of "good sadness" that beckons my heart home.  Nor the kind that invites out my grief to be more fully enveloped with love. Rather this is the kind that draws me inward--despair, anxiety, darkness, dread.


d e p r e s s i o n.


a n x i e t y.


They were back.  


Companions I had hoped were long gone.  Truth is they have ever so slowly been pushing their way back in the past few months.  You see it's not like I feel this way every day (which is why I second guess their presence) but last week they came visiting with a vengeance.


I prayed. I renounced. I excercised.


They stayed.


You see back in March, I decided it was a good time to begin tapering off my meds to see if my brain had rebalanced chemically and physiologically things were back in order.


Apparently not.


Now a lot of this is a mystery to me--how much is circumstances? how much is the battle of my mind? how much is warfare? how much is stress? how much is physiological?  


And quite frankly, I just don't know.


I only know my threshold when it's crossed and last week it was, which I now know from experience doesn't get better but only goes deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.


It's humbling.  Because I don't have all the answers.  I only know what I know up until this point.  I don't want to be the national spokesperson on anxiety & depression yet I feel as though staying quiet about it isn't the answer either.


So I'm going back on my meds.  I don't know for how long or where this new trail on the journey will lead, but I do know...


He still loves me.


p.s. If you feel like no matter what you do the darkness keeps getting darker and it's harder and harder to function and take hold of hope and you feel less and less like "yourself," please consider the physiological aspects to depression and call a doctor.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel and things will change.

To KILL a Mockingbird

Yea, don't oooo and ahhhh at the cute little birdy.  Good riddens!


For weeks now right around dinner time, let's call her Maggie the Mockingbird, taunts, scrutinizes, and discriminately gocks at our poor little neighborhood cat, Olive


Little "Olive" (as we like to call her, we don't know her real name) makes her way around our house about once a day.  I assume her owners are somewhere nearby?  But there's something about her demeanor that begs the question, "Are you loved?"


She lingers around and quietly makes her way near me and something about this little thing beckons me, "Acknowledge her."


Now I am not a cat lover, but little Olive has won her way into my heart.


And that is why I am indignant at this Maggie the Mockingbird and her taunting.  I wish I had a video of it for you.  She just sort of hovers around Olive, finds a tree limb nearby, and cackles "Goooooooock!  Goooooock! Mwwwwwaaaaa!  Gooooock!!! Mwwwwwwaaaaa!!!"  


How does poor little Olive ever find rest or reprieve with all that obnoxious chatter!?


And so today, I HAD FINALLY HAD IT!  When I got home from my walk and saw this interaction happening yet again, I sauntered over to that tree branch and yelled, "STOP IT!  Leave her alone.  You cannot torment her like this anymore!"  (I even claimed it in the name of Jesus I was so rowelled up!)


And then I went over to little cowering Olive and said, "Now Olive you can't let her treat you like this!  This is not OK.  Fight back girl!"


Now, moments later as I type, I notice the mocking has finally quieted.  I do hope Maggie has flown far, far away never to return (but sadly I'm guessing she will, tomorrow, at just the right time). And I wonder now about Olive, why day after day she lets Maggie attack her?  How a big cat like her can be taunted by such a punitive little bird? I wonder about her life at home and what she's seen and heard since she was a kitty.  What are her owners like? Do they feed her well, rub her belly, and cuddle up against her in the wee hours of the night? Or is she used to the cackling, feeling small and neglected?


And then things becomes clear.


Really clear.


Olive is not unlike you and I.


Why day after day do we listen to the mocking voices in our head? Agree with them? Why do we again and again cower in fear and agree with the gocking lies of the enemy? Why we don't rise up and take our place?


But as I think about it more and how I felt about Olive I realize how we too need our advocates. Someone (most the time more than one) who steps in the gap and says NO MORE! Who fights for us to prevail and not let the Mockingbird win! Who exposes the distortions, puts the punitive bird in it's proper place, and ushers our hearts home to their rightful place nestled with Him.


Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. ¹¹Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil. ¹² For we^[c] are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places.
 ¹³ Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm. (Ephesians 6: 10-13)


For all you Olives, you are not alone. Take your place. Let's stand! We can do this together.

The Maze

Muddled.

Messy.

Inadequate.

Afraid.

How can you use a girl like me?

I feel so desperate,

for more of Thee.

A maze of souls,

I walk through blind,

to seeing the path,

You want me to find.

I hit a wall,

and turn around,

“I should have known,”

a contemptuous frown.

But what if the wall

was part of the plan?

to redirect

and hold your hand?

To give up

and let go,

to figuring out

what only you can know?

Participation; not getting it right.

Learning and growing

as we wade through souls,

Whose transformation

only You can hold.

Designer of the maze,

O can’t you see?

the bushes and vines

that entangle me?

Chop them away,

cut them through,

(or perhaps they’re part

of Your plan too?)

Just, please, release me

to follow You.

Meet me at the walls,

dead ends,

and turns,

Guide me through,

The One Who Sees,

As I hold Your hand . . .

The end.

An opening

A new direction to go . . .

Muddled.

Still messy.

Inadequate for sure.

But Love giving me courage

to help me see,

“Inadequate yes,

but Beloved My love

transforms thee.”

The Dress Part II

If you haven't read my previous post about the dress or need a refresher click here before continuing (or you'll be really confused).

The story of that 5th birthday would often come to mind as a significant event but I wasn't quite sure why? That's the thing about the Holy Spirit, sometimes he brings up things that seem a bit strange or confusing to us so we don't pursue them. They feel "out there" and we dismiss it.

The thing I'm learning is God has a much clearer vantage point to our story and the distorted narratives we often live out. So he brings up the odd image or recollection every now and then to "retell" us our stories and breathe the gospel's life into them. The best thing we can do when this happens is dismantle our little gods of understanding and control and follow Him into the unknown. Again and again I've been rather undone by what unfolds.

Now, back to that dress.

I think the enemy used "the dress event" and many others to distort the image of my mom and my relationship. If she was "weak" then I needed to be "strong." Truth is my mom wasn't always sick, she could care for me in many, many ways. However, I began to close off my heart to her and not look to her for care in the way a little girl does with her mom. Slowly I began to believe care was not really available to me which played out in subtle ways. And see, if you believe that lie you tend to anesthetize your heart numbing out to a lot of what makes life, life (hurts, frustrations, anger, elation, joy, goofiness...). I was "even keel" to a fault and my friends told me they never felt very needed. I started to sort out everyone else's problems and hurts while ignoring my own.

Now here's the beauty...When the Spirit took me back to the dress event he wasn't simply talking about that event, rather it was the metaphor for a couple things.

First, illuminating what I had done with desire in my life. He loves his children to dream, hope, long for things, play. The dress symbolized that to the little girl. Sadly I had shut down or felt ashamed for a lot of the things I still longed for as an adult woman. Somehow I equated godliness as being void of desire, like I was somehow supposed to be OK now. The opposite is true. Godliness is being open and honest about the desire, not judging it, but bringing it into relationship with God. Letting him illuminate what it's pointing to (and quite frankly it's often not what we think).

Second, the dress was an image of relationship with mom. Our relationship was fragmented by her illness at the tender age of five. And there were a few other events afterwards that seemed to slither in with the same message, "Take care of yourself. Your heart is obviously too much. No one can care for it anyway." Did I know I was living out of this distorted narrative. No way. But later in life I felt the repercussions of it.

The Lord seemed to be saying, "Don't accept this as the final story. There is more, much more."

He began to take me back to other dresses that popped up on the pages of my life. (He did this on a a retreat called Learning to Love the Master as I dialogued with him about my story).

One in particular stood out. The October after my mom's hospitalization I asked to be a bride for Halloween. I have no idea why and where I came up with the idea. I have vague memories of my mom saying it was a rather challenging costume. However, what I remember most is how hard she worked to bring the little dream to fruition. There was gold glittery lining, bling, lace, ...even a bouquet.

And I felt beautiful.

"Sweetheart, she cared, she cared so much."

"Beloved these dresses are a symbol of being set apart, chosen, special, clothed in care and beauty."

Which is why, this year when I was invited to my cousins wedding who was marrying a lovely Indian woman, I knew...He was inviting me into longing again, desiring to be the beauty and believe dreams do come true (afterall, He's often there author).

The other fuchsia dress.

Throughout my childhood I used to sneak into my Grandma's closet and admire her minks, gowns, and fancy jewelry. There was always one dress that stood out...

And so when the invite arrived and my parents invited me to go, I knew, it was time... for the dress.

I let myself want it, really want it, the I'm eating no carbs kind of wanting it!
And wa-lah! My dream came into being.

And he allowed me to share all of this with mom by my side.

Another fuchsia princess dress.

The Dress(es)

My birthday is June 26th. As long as I can remember I have loved gifts. Giving them. Getting them. The process of finding just the right one. Love it! (I think I get this from my Mom and Dad who have an unbelievable track record of picking out just the right things).

One particular birthday stood out for years, but I wasn't quite sure why? That is until Jesus invited me back there, wanting to rewrite the story in a way only He could.

It was right before my 5th Birthday. I can still remember the anticipation and excitement looking through the children’s catalog (I'm telling you gift giving is a BIG deal). I carefully circled the pages and items I liked. And then... in this cornucopia of catalog goodness... I found it . . .

the most beautiful,

fuchsia pink dress I’d ever seen!

I specifically marked the page and eagerly showed mom my one special wish for my birthday—my princess dress!

My mom always delighted in my over-the-top dress up games and acting antics, I just knew she’d try to get it for me.

That is....

Until....

Mommy had to go away.

"She needs her rest. She'll be back when she feels better."

My dad and family did their best to give me a special birthday, despite not having mom’s help. I got to have my birthday at Chuck E. Cheese! Nothing beat that mouse, my friends, ski-ball and Ms. Pac Man, and, of course, presents!

After the pizza and games, I began to tear into the glorious gifts with great anticipation. I opened them

one by one,

Ooooooing and ahhhhhing at each special gift

... all the while anticipating the Big One (you know, the

one that’s always strategically left last).

THE LAST BOX…and…and…

A Barbie?!

No dress?

Where was my dress?

The one thing I wanted...

The special thing I had asked for.

I was confused...

But she knew?

Nothing in my little heart understood why the very thing I had wished for and delighted in wasn’t given to me? Why would mommy and daddy withhold something good?

And that's the story. This has always been where the memory ended. As I got older, I got my facts organized, completely understanding the impossibility of my mom or dad being able to get the dress because of my mom's medical needs at the time.

So...Jesus, what?

Go there Beloved....let me uncover other things that were going on. Who else was at work in the midst of your confusion and hurt. (When the Lord brought this up , my heart was ripe for the uprooting. There was so much heartache and confusion going on in my present circumstances somehow it made it easier to go there).

No dress?

Where was my dress?

“They tricked you.”

They tricked me. (doubt)

I could hear the deceit.

The distortion of truth.

Exposed.

But Jesus I know the truth now? She couldn't do anything about it?

"Facts” don’t change wounded hearts.

Jesus wanted truth to penetrate that “inmost place," that is where He wanted the transformation, to rewrite the story.

Sweetheart, your heart was assaulted by the enemy, he distorted the picture. And it was intentional. Think about it darling a beautiful, princess dress. Princesses long to be cherished, chosen, rescued.

You see the Evil One has used "the dress" event and numerous other events throughout my life (but the Lord chose this one) to tell me a twisted message; “See what happens when you open up your heart to desire? Don’t get your hopes up because, they’ll only get crushed (fear). Don’t open up your heart and ask for your desires because you’re never going to get it. Just settle, keep that stuff hidden, it’s always safer. And I know you want safety, right?”

He’s right, that wicked, sly, sick serpent is right, I do want safety, but at what cost?

Jesus was gently exposing the cost of self-protection and tenderly showing me more about its origins.

He also exposed the enemies scheme. The enemy used this disappointment and many others to unearth fear, “If you keep your heart open you will only be hurt. Your heart is too much anyway. It’s not safe to let them in. I’ll help you find a way out of your vulnerability so you feel safe again.” (bartering control, a way out of pain).

Fear and control are his greatest tools.

If he can get us to distrust God’s heart, skew our image of God through life’s hurts, make us believe we have nothing to offer, and take us out by bartering back a measure of control (a way out of fear and pain), He has our allegiance. We live a protected, safe, fearful life.

B U T .... once his twisted strategy is exposed that's been

hidden in the darkness,

R O O M is created...

JESUS' light can now permeate!

The Gospel can now touch a place that has yet to hear it in that inmost place...

Enter Dress #2

(to be continued...)