So. Sure, it's been close to a year since my last blog post...even though I promised myself and anyone who'd listen that I was going to try to stay consistent in posting. That alone should be enough for this {only semi-rehabilitated} perfectionist to withdraw, give up, stick to journaling, and just get back to my normal, blog-writing-free life. But then a few things have happened. First, I've had some trusted friends ask when I'm going to start writing again. And I, too, have felt a gentle-but-persistent urge to get back to this wonderful, therapeutic, perspective-giving activity that I so enjoy. And finally, my absolute favorite blogger posted a few challenging and inspiring essays, and then recently asked those of us with an interest in writing to contribute to her blog. Friends––all that together is enough to light a little fire under me. So, here goes.
I've had a hard year. A really hard year. The whole take-our-family-to-Africa-for-three-years thing, followed by the come-home-after-only-three-months-because-of-religious-violence thing, well, those were just the beginning of my challenges. As you might have gathered from my last post, my husband and I were officially not on the same page with regard to the decision to return home. And that sort of discord, on a decision that huge, is fodder for all sorts of trouble and pain and sorrow and guilt and grief and uncertainty. And we experienced it all, and then some.
It just didn't make sense. It didn't make sense that anyone, marching under the flag of religion, would perpetrate deadly violence or violent threats against anyone, but especially other religious people whose very lives were devoted to following God's call. It didn't make sense that after my dear, earnest, faith-filled husband and I had given up most of what our culture considers successful (great jobs and schools, stability, house, cars, furniture, clothes, 401k, you name it), in exchange for what our faith calls successful (service, sharing our gifts, obedient submission to God's desires)––that it simply didn't work out. It didn't make a drop of sense that when my best friend, my partner and deepest confidant, my great love––that when he and I were faced with the very same facts and reports, at the same time and in the same setting, we drew wildly different conclusions about what would be the best course of action. It made even less sense that on returning to the United States, my husband would take a job in the one place that I had explicitly stated that I didn't want to live (and that he simply could not bear to accept a job in the one place that I very much wanted to live).
It was all so messy. My imperfect, but pretty wonderful, marriage. Not so wonderful anymore. For the first time in memory in this relationship, I was feeling things like insecurity, doubt, fear, and profound sadness. Everything just felt so upside down. Like when you're a kid and you're hanging on a playground metal bar by your legs, and staring at the world while the blood rushes to your head and your hair hangs down below. You know that you're looking at all the same things and people and places. But it all still seems so foreign. That's what 2013 was like––my amazing, grace-filled life just looked so foreign. Relationships that had been so rich and important were suddenly so tense and hard. Activities that had been natural and easy somehow became taxing and exhausting and overwhelming. Despite glimpses of the lightness and laughter and joy that had characterized my life, more often than not it was just a struggle. There was a lot of struggle. But because of our faith, and because we are firm believers in marriage and the covenant that we had entered into, rather than walking away, we walked in obedience. Instead of giving up because we weren't "feeling it," we stayed the course knowing that love really really really is a choice. It is a verb. It is a doing, not just an emotion. And yes, it stayed messy and hard and almost hopeless for a really long time.
And then somewhere in all of that mess and pain and grief, I allowed myself to stop. To stop striving for a return to my old life. To stop convincing myself or my husband that we needed to get quickly through this tough phase of our marriage. To stop trying to manage and control and plan and force. And instead I just allowed myself to breathe...and to let go...and to lean in to the life that God has given me here. I've heard that humiliation can lead to humility. And perhaps that was the work that needed to happen in me.
Slowly, I started to embrace what I did have, instead of mourning what I didn't. I began looking for job opportunities for myself, to plug in with our kids' school, to relax into the idea that maybe this was where we were meant to be, perhaps for a season or perhaps for even longer. And that idea was starting to be okay, because my joy does not come from my circumstances, and my contentment is not a product of what I have. Those qualities come from my gratitude, my awareness of how great and big and good my God is. And when I finally allow myself that perspective, I get to see that the grace and gifts that I thought were missing had in fact been right here all along––I was simply too sad to see them.
And it was then, just as I began to embrace the messy, that I so clearly started to see the beautiful standing right there beside it. It was then that the light and the laughter and the joy started to return. My marriage––that single most important of all human relations––was starting to heal. The communication and connection that I so desperately missed were showing up, and better yet, sticking around. Through a series of happenings that were nothing less than God being present in ways that were almost physically palpable, the mess of 2013 blossomed into the miracles of 2014. The very hard work that we had been doing in marriage counseling has begun to show fruit, in a peaceful and seasoned and loving way, and we are so very grateful. Other important relationships are healing as well, but this time with a depth of love and understanding that I find both authentic and comforting. My husband recently decided to pursue a new field within his medical practice, that of palliative care, in which he will be able to use his tremendous personal and professional gifts to ease suffering in a way that seems almost tailored for him. And––big bonus––it will allow him much more predictable hours and time with our family. Then, as he looked for fellowship opportunities within a few hours of our beloved old town of Greenville (where I wanted to return), my husband heard news that a brand new fellowship in palliative care medicine––the first in the state!––had just been approved...30 minutes from where we hoped to live. He has since been accepted to be that "first fellow" in the program. Days later, I was offered (seemingly out of the blue) a position with the absolutely wonderful pediatric practice where I had worked previously.
All this has left me feeling a lot like Paul, the disciple-formerly-known-as-Saul, these days. The book of Acts describes how Saul––thinking that he was doing the right thing all along––gets knocked right off of his horse and struck blind. Then after a few (certainly long, hard, and seemingly hopeless) days of this blindness, he is approached by a man who prays and places his hands on Saul's eyes, and immediately, we are told, "something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again." Me too, Saul. Scales that previously blinded me to the truth and beauty of my life; they are gone now. I have learned so much through my own painful and frightening experiences these past months. Though I would never have chosen them, they chose me, and taught me things I am so grateful to have learned, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. I have learned more patience, more compassion, more humility. When I hear stories of people daring greatly, yet things still not working out as planned, I have a richer empathy for those involved. When I hear of couples journeying through unpredictably hard times, or of marriages moving toward separation, I am still deeply saddened, but I now understand the pain at a depth that I simply couldn't before. When I feel the sting of disappointment or disapproval or anger from those closest to me, I am more equipped to understand, and to give grace. Because when you've been a recipient of such extraordinary grace, you've just got to be a grace giver as well.
The scales are off...for now. Surely they will grow back in some other area, and I may need to be knocked clear off of my horse again (please God, not anytime soon), but for now, I am better for the hardships and messiness of this last year.
And frankly, I don't have words to adequately capture how magnificent much of these past few weeks have been. There has still been plenty of hard in the middle of all this wonderful, but I am learning that this life is going to have its share of both, the messy and the beautiful, and that is okay. I am okay with "both/and"...as long as I pull back far enough to see not only the big picture, but the Hand that holds and guides and comforts each of us through every messy and beautiful moment.
I am honored to note that this essay and I are part of the "Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project" — to learn more and join us, click here. And to learn about the book, Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, click here.
