FORGIVENESS - A RECIPE

Last week I was struggling with rage.

I don't like rage.  It makes me uncomfortable.

But it is usually a sign that I need to forgive something.

I'm committed to forgiveness.

I know that I am already forgiven.

That there is nothing I could do that would be truly unforgivable.

And if that is true for me, then that is true for everyone else.
#special #notspecial

Many of the things that I've needed to forgive

are obvious trauma

Some have been outright violence-perpetrated on me by someone else.
Those things are real...not to be minimized.

As I've walked this path though

I've realized that

 a lot of the things that I've need to forgive

were things that I did to myself.

I am learning to sit with my definitions

of a woman

of a mother

of 'good enough'

and understand that I've unwittingly been abusing myself

with those definitions

for my entire life.

So what is my recipe for forgiveness?  
This one is finicky....you can't skip any steps.
It's only got three....and they seem easy.
But each step needs proper attention.
If you add in embellishments...you also have to be careful.
Sometimes embellishments distract you from the next step.
To get it done..you have to go all the way to the end.
No backsies.

Recipe for Forgiveness:

1.  Name the Pain

2.  Define the Hurt

3.  Let it Die

Say what?
To forgive something...means I have to let something die.
(I got this from the brilliant Brene Brown.  Read Rising Strong.  It will explain.)
For something to die, it has to be fully alive.
(This part I think I got from myself but probably not.  I just don't remember the reference)

Step 1:  Name the Pain

So my recipe for forgiveness starts will a healthy dose of allowing myself to feel.
I'm an excellent avoider.

When there is something that I don't want to look at

I will find new and creative ways to avoid it.

I may even create an entire story

where I rationalize that the thing I need to forgive-

the thing that I need to STOP-

is actually needed and useful.

Or at least it might be one day.

So I will pack it away in the closet.

Like winter boots.

To bring out potentially in time of crisis.

When the sheer fact that I allow that thing to take up space in my life

ensures that I will feel the rage and be hurt by it again.

Step 2:  Define the Hurt

I have to go through the details-
look them full in the face.
Call the idea into being-
like Frankenstein's monster.
Give the thing life and depth and definition.
I have to be willing to admit to it.
Own it.
Understand that it was real and had an impact.
Understand that it has harmed me
and fixed me into a position
or allowed me to be different in some core way
by it's very existence.

I have to let go of all the things that I have told myself about it that 
allow me to pretend it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
All the diminishing words have to be removed.
It was hard.
It was scary.
It DID hurt.
Man did it hurt.

Usually, that is the hardest part.
The running away from the thing or myself is easy and ingrained.
To take a stand is hard.
To take a stand with yourself is the hardest.
And it requires that you sit with all the feelings.
Most especially the ones that hurt.

Step 3:  Let it Die

After the thing that needs forgiveness is fully formed.
Not hiding in the shadows anymore.
After I've named it, let it walk around in the light for a while,
hell...even loved it.
Or admitted to the love that I have harbored for it
then it is time to let it die.

Sounds violent.
Of course it seems violent...
that's why I've avoided it all along.
The finality and responsibility of mattering to myself
and of being enough
is terrifying.
Death is a hard boundary. 
It's very different than just putting something away
in case you need it again.
This is no storage pile of tools that you don't use often.
This is a ridding yourself of the THING.

So what has to die?
Sometimes it's the idea of what could have been.
Often...it's the hope that the past could have been different.
It's the person I was then or my idea of the person who hurt me.
It's the death of my naivete or the final throws of 
trying to make those winter boots 
look like spring sandals.
The death of whatever it is that's holding me back
is the only way to move forward to something new.
I can't hold on to both that me and this me.
When I'm looking back there...at that spot in the river
then I am NOT here in the now.

Usually (for me)
when the end is here
I've come to the acceptance of all that awful
and also...all I enabled myself to be BECAUSE of that trauma
and the end of my rope doesn't feel like a place to fall from
but instead a place to fly.
The end of my bargaining power
or the cage that is holding me back.
When it's time to forgive
I can usually let the end breathe its last breath.
So that something new can live.

And if I can't....then I go back to see what I did wrong in the recipe.
It works if I follow it.

RAGE

I've recently had a little bit of a breakdown.

And by little bit....I mean, a big fricking cluster.

I am dealing with a veritable mountain of rage.

I keep trying to avoid it but....the truth is...I'm just pissed off.

This is not new.

 I have long known that I could burn the world down around me if I sat in my rage.

It is a part of me and it is powerful.

I have been afraid of using it.

Loosing it.

Looking at it.

Acknowledging it.

For fear of what will happen if I do.

But like all true things..my rage has refused to go away.

Most especially because I have refused to acknowledge it.

So I am forcing myself to sit in the grief and acknowledge the rage.

It's pretty hot in here.

After all of this....why do I still avoid some feelings?

I feel as though this rage is somewhat of my birthright.

An ugly part of my birthright but...mine even so.

My rage is a consequence of something that seems....positive.

Essential.

Necessary.

It's the residue of a coping strategy I've honed.

It is what i have leftover after I deny myself to take care of others.

When they refuse to take care of me.

It's a residue of a commitment to honor, obey, cherish that is not reciprocated.

The Expectors of my childhood got switched for Expectors of my adulthood.

I have inherited a deep, bottomless well of rage because I am a smoother.  

I am comfortable with abuse and disrespect of myself because that is familiar.

I want to get credit for all my hard work and have that mean success.

I want to seem rather than to be.

I want to give because that is all that I am worth.

My lineage is filled with smooth talking posers.

Facilitators of dysfunction.

Enablers of pretending.

Sin-eaters.

This path is my birthright.

I have got to reject it before it kills me.

This rage is a thing unto itself.

I am just not sure what to do with it.

Since my legacy is to help everyone else (except myself)-

I am habitually drawn to people who want me to 'help' them.

Help them pretend to be functioning.

Help them pretend to be honest.

Help them pretend to be enough.

In spite of their own fears that they are worthless.

I am so good at that shit.

Saving everyone around me while I die.

Why do I have such rage when I am so good at doing this?

When I've proven to myself that this is what I want?

The problem is...I've been too understanding.

Of all the reasons.

All the whys.

That it is totally ok for someone to lie or use me.

I've been diminishing.

Of myself.

And my value.

My actions tell my soul 

that it's completely ok for anyone to lash out at me, 

to hide important information from me.

To bury me in the lies of comfort.

To hand me their fears so that they can be free.

That I am supposed to stay behind in the dark,

taking care of everyone's fear

so that they can go into the light.

While I stay stuck in the company of my rage.

I've believed that by playing small,

by staying little,

by squishing myself...

I am therefore lovable

and will in consequence be loved.

I've been hell bent on keeping it together.

I want to be kind.

Most.

But I have to be kind to myself.

First.

And kindness to MYSELF looks an awful lot like rage.

Outrage.

Offense.

Snarling and protective.

Unbound.

Unlabeled.

Without a safe port.

I do not know how to do this thing.

Where I put myself and my value in it's proper place.

Not up high on a pedestal where no one can touch me.

Not down low where everyone can spit on me and walk on me as long as they say they love me.

But in a healthy, valued place.

I don't know that place.

I can't see my way to it clearly.

But I am not going back in the box

where I play it small

so someone else can feel big.

And I am not making excuses for everyone else,

waiting around for them to realize that I am worthy

so that I can believe that I am worthy.

I am going to find a way to have my own back.

To hear my own truth-

even when it makes me uncomfortable.

Or changes my circumstances.

Or my status.

Even if it means that I fail at everything I've tried to do so far in this life.

I've got to choose the hot mess.

Not the cold, logical compartmentalization.

ALL FAMILY SERVICE

This weekend marked the second time I've been honored to participate in the APEX UMC ALL FAMILY SERVE weekend.  

Our motto is to 'Welcome All.  Love All. Serve All'.

On this Sunday, once every other year, there is no service in the church buildings where we normally meet.  

Our church family has a list of service projects both large and small that we sign up for during this weekend.

The goal is to go out of our safe community and be the church with our acts.

This Saturday, our family joined with a small militia of folks to make 1500 lunches for The Brown Bag Ministry.  This work was essentially a relay race to create and bag lunches as fast as possible with lots of unskilled labor.  Dedicated, unpaid volunteers directed each of us in our appointed tasks.  It was easy; it was useful; it was a box checked in a slurry of fun. Apparently they do it every week like sandwich making Ninjas.

I recommend doing it.

I don't want any part of my story to diminish the value of what you can get out of coming together with a crew of willing hands to create comfort.

If this is how you are called to serve, this service is ENOUGH.

More than enough.

If we had stopped there, we would have been comfortable and would know we had been of service.  

Instead..out of sheer dumb luck, we raised our hands when asked who (if anyone) was planning to go downtown to Oak City Outreach to help distribute the goods.  

We accepted the invitation to wade deeper out in the water.
What follows is my recollection of an hour distributing supplies at Oak City Outreach in downtown Raleigh.
I recommend that too.

Here is the mission of Oak City Outreach pulled from the Catholic Diocese of Raleigh's website :

As we walk into Oak City Outreach, I am reminded of a playground at a school.  

Chain link fence surrounds a kind of courtyard/parking lot between two buildings.

People are everywhere.  

Waiting.  

Sitting on blankets with a friend on the ground.

Leaning on the wall.

Fanning themselves, playing with their hair.

Doing what people do when they have time to kill.  

Fidgeting.  

Smoking.  Heckling.

Sleeping.

There are people from every age group and race here.  

Children with a parent or grandparent.

Men standing like soldiers waiting for orders.

Women in groups or alone.

  There are definitely more brown faces than cream faces.

There is a swirling mix of humanity in this tight space.

Everyone is waiting.

There is a quiet, silent hum of tension.

It's a hot, muggy day.

Most people are wearing more clothes than the temperature would dictate.

Some are wearing coats.

Many are in all black.

But others are in a riot of colors and styles.

One is holding a white oriental parasol.

She looks like a queen.

It is hard to get a feel for what is happening- 

where we are supposed to be.

Every time you get a sense of the pattern, people seem to shift.

Is there a line or a queue?

As we walk into the main area, a group of young men is walking out.

One smiles broadly and spits  these words at us:  

It don't matter.

The work you doing...it don't matter.

There's a race war coming.

Look at Charlotte.

We are coming for ya'll.

This young man circles out of and through the courtyard for a little while longer. 

He's hunting for something.

Practically begging someone to take the bait.

Someone to incite.

Something to ignite.

He wants to be heard.

He is sincere in his conviction.

He radiates animosity.

He is so sure of his belief and his righteousness.

He smiles the whole time.

It feels like a slap.

It is a bullet.

Remember bullets from last week's post?

Bullets are aimed at you, meant for you but...they are never about you.
They are about the pain of the one shooting.

It is this young man's pain wrapped in shrapnel with a charge attached for big impact.


I've been working with bullets.
I know to let it pass through me.
So I did.

I also let it inform me.
I feel all the defensive responses that want to come up.
I feel the fear lurking right under the water.
We don't belong here.
This place is not safe.
These people hate us.
Let the people who know how to do this, do it.


I feel the pull
 to forget that these people are US;
To forget that the people who know how 
to welcome 
and serve
our brothers and sisters
best
right now
are also 
US.
The same.
Love they neighbor.
As thyself.
Broken as you are right now.
Imperfect as this moment may seem.

For the next hour, we do what we are invited to do.
We serve.
All.
Even that angry young man.


We set up tables.
A line has already formed before we have offerings out.
There are sandwiches and water.
There are also boxes of produce that need to be gifted.
Kale, squash, peppers, watermelons.
We do our best to make everyone welcome.
My daughter uses a cardboard fan to try and cool off our guests.
The sun and the humidity are brutal.
A lady named D. leans in close for extra fanning.
The queenly lady with the parasol, also has a Chinese fan.  
It is red with black lace and is like a humming bird.
I can't take the heat AT ALL she says.
A man with tired eyes and a black cap asks:
How much can we have?
Take whatever you need.
You can have as much as you need.

We greet and meet.
We bag corn for a lady with broken fingers who says she has 13 mouths to feed.
We see the same faces come back through the line again-and we smile like old friends.
One whippet thin lady runs up as the line thins and says
Oh good!  you're still here!  I almost didn't come because I was too late.
You're right on time we say...we've got some saved just for you.
and then we laugh with her.

Another lady asks about the painted shirt my friend's son is wearing.
He looks like an angel she says.
Maybe he is I say.
What is puff paint?  I need a craft for my Sunday school kids and that shirt is fly!
This angel boy explains what puff paint is, where you get it, and how to use it.
With the seriousness of a doctor explaining medicine to a new parent.
We laugh with gorgeous, bright eyed children.
We trade recipes for collards and okra with an elderly woman.
And then we trade recipes with each other.
How do you like to make that?
I hate okra my friend says.
Too slimy.
We explain again and again what the lavender orbs are (eggplant) 
and how you could cook them.
Then..it is done.


We were so honored to serve our people.
We are so blessed by the gift of the service.
We are so grateful to have accepted the invitation.

It may not matter what we do.
The point is to do the work...not to worry about whether it will be received or valued.
Maybe nothing is changed by what we do.
Except US.

We are not out there trying to change the world.
Or trying to resolve a political or socio-economic entanglement.
We aren't trying to cure addiction, mental illness or FIX anything.
We aren't out there to take bullets, or return fire.

We are just showing up.
To serve.
ALL.

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR

When we are afraid, our instinct is to look away, 

blame someone or something else, 

say it isn't our fault. 

Breathe.

See.

Pause.

These are very hard things to do in the face of fear.

And there is so much fear in America right now.

It feels too simple to me to say that we are dealing with racism and stop there.  

We ARE dealing with racism. 

Please don't misinterpret my intentions or simplify what I'm trying to say before I say it.

It seems to me that we are dealing with something more than racism.

Something wicked and sneaky and banal in it's evil. 

It seems to me that we are walking around trying to numb ourselves from so much....

we're not just denying that 

black lives matter or

 that gay lives matter or

that blue lives matter or 

that unborn lives matter.  

I'm worried that our underlying belief is that NO LIFE matters.

I'm worried that we're afraid to admit that to ourselves.

And yet...I wonder how much your own life matters to you.

I know that my life didn't matter that much to me.

And most people would generally consider me a successful contributor to society.

What does that say about how much we love ourselves?

 I FOR SURE did not love myself.

And I didn't think I was supposed to.

That made it easy to use myself up.

That makes it easy to operate from fear.

I have learned that we can love someone else exactly as much as we love ourselves.

Exactly that much.

And not a speck more.

God really gets this.  

I think that is why we get messengers to tell us these simple yet confusing things.

LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF.

Not more than yourself.

Not less than yourself.

Exactly as much as you love yourself.

This took me a while to process.

Like...a looooong while.

I spent a lifetime of denying my own value.

I looked for my own happiness through exclusively focusing on other people.

Love to me was done best (and maybe only) through using myself up.

Pain was the path.

Self-care was the cost.

I thought that the amount of love that I felt for my children was limitless.

But as my love for them grew, I realized that what I had thought was limitless before, was minute.

And as my love and care for myself grows...I realize that my capacity for love hasn't been tapped yet.

And here's the craziest part....the more I care for myself, the more love there is to give.

Love is not limitless.

Love is fueled by....LOVE.

And that has to start with taking care of yourself.

You can't do that in fear.

You can't do that with hustle.

Love is not the hamster wheel, the 'right' car, the cool crowd.

Love is listening to the small still voice and then doing the next right thing.

Even if the next right thing is sitting down.

Hugging a friend.

Telling someone no.

Love is understanding that no lives matter.

Until all lives matter.

Here's another thought...as my love for myself grows

so grows my love for my children

and so grows my love for other people's children

and then there goes my love for other people.

I am positive there are still blind spots that I have.

Places where I've still got hard cold judgement instead of compassion.

I found one last week.

This is a lifetime of work.

More than enough.

that's why Mark 12:31 is so important.

There are two things we need to do.

Only two.

Love God with our everything.

Love each other as much as we love ourselves.

When we get through with that, we can worry about the details.

It is much harder to look into our fear, sit down with it and let it teach us about our own darkness. There is so much fear that is choking us right now. 

Friends....what would happen if you sat with your own fear...for a minute (or a day) to acknowledge it? Would the world stop or would we know where to begin?