A few months back, I started my second Celebrate Recovery step study. This program for finding freedom from "hurts, habits, and hang-ups" follows the same 12 steps from Alcoholics Anonymous, but from a Biblical standpoint. The first time I completed the steps, I found it difficult to probe deeply into my past because I was weathering the agony of divorce at the time. This time, I'm struggling to let go of emotional and spiritual pain from my Hashimoto's thyroiditis flare-up last summer and fall.
Today I took a day off to work on my personal inventory, a critical part of step 4. I could have done it at home, but I wanted a quiet place where I wouldn't be distracted by piles of laundry and dirty dishes. My friend and coworker Melodie graciously offered me her little Air BNB apartment, A Little Bit Country. "I want to contribute to your project," she said.
She did more than just give me a bed and a quiet place to get alone with God. When I arrived yesterday afternoon, she took me for a walk through her lovely neighborhood out in the country, interrupting my chatter over my latest crush only to point out this abandoned church.
After that, she and her husband Brad fixed a delightful dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables with grilled cinnamon pineapple slices. Wow! The dinner was almost as enjoyable as the conversation; Melodie recounted the most entertaining stories about her mission trips to Latin America and a journey to a Mayan village for a college research project.
I woke just before nine this morning to a wonderfully quiet house and some strong coffee Brad had left for me. Since my doctor advised me to avoid coffee due to its acidity and the possibility of inflammation, I usually enjoy only one cup a week, diluted 50 percent with chicory. The full-strength coffee, on a Thursday, felt extra special. I figured it would fortify me for the daunting task of reviewing my entire life and listing everyone who'd hurt me as well as everyone whom I'd hurt. Another of Melodie's rich gluten-free brownies couldn't hurt either, I reasoned.
I snuggled onto the cozy couch in the second bedroom, clad in my nightgown, fluffy pajama pants, and plush socks, the coffee on a tray beside me. Soothing Hillsong worship music played on my phone, and gentle morning light streamed through the windows. I made quick progress through my first 30 years, remembering to stop every 15 minutes or so to flip over the paper and write a few positive memories about the people who'd hurt me. The fact that I'd processed these same hurts eight years earlier probably made it less painful this time around.
The tears started when I got to last year. For each incident, I had to write one-word emotions to describe how I'd felt then, and also how I feel now. Empowered with a packet of emotion words, I scrawled lengthy lists of painful words that shimmered through my sheen of tears: powerless, maligned, misunderstood, frantic, despondent, hopeless, terrified, abandoned, forgotten, humiliated, forsaken, bereaved, ostracized, discarded, disillusioned... UNLOVED.
For some of the neatly outlined squares, my "now" list simply said "still" with an arrow pointing to the "then" list. The first time I wrote that word, still, I crossed my arms around myself and sobbed. It hurt so much to let myself feel the pain and anger that I had buried for months, but it also felt good to let the hurt out. Following some powerful advice from a former counselor, I simply sat still and allowed myself to feel the emotions. Instead of judging my feelings, I invited Jesus into them with me. I let the pain wash over me in waves, and I asked Jesus to heal the wounds that were now open to His care.
At that moment, I realized something so impactful: even as I relived the most painful moments of perceived abandonment, I no longer felt alone. Instead, I felt safe, cradled in the strong, gentle hands of my Father. I felt secure, understood, LOVED. I breathed deeply of the peace that surpasses my understanding.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I decided to go for a walk in the sun. I retraced my steps from last night's walk, stopping to visit a young pair of friendly goats. When I tried to feed them some grass from the box attached to their pen, I accidentally dropped most of it on one goat's forehead, but it didn't seem to mind.
Next, I clambered up the gravelly hill to the old church and gazed at it for a few minutes, taking in the birds' nests in the eaves and the vines that had overtaken the walls. I could almost see the children from decades past playing in the empty yard behind it. I imagined potluck suppers, weddings, baby dedications, and funerals behind the remaining stained glass windows.
After that, I sat down on the gravel and pulled out my scripture memory cards. I meditated over them for many minutes, pausing to watch the long grass undulating in the wind like ocean waves after I read, "All your breakers and waves have swept over me" (Psalm 42:7). As I quoted, "Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?" (Matthew 6:26-27), a massive hawk glided high above me. I held my breath as I watched it soar effortlessly on outstretched wings. Farther away over the verdant hills, a flock of smaller birds flew back and forth in perfect synchronization.
For a long, long time, I sat at the top of that hill, marveling at the everyday beauty and savoring the history of that church and those hills. I felt grounded, rooted in God's love (Ephesians 3:17). All the turbulence of the coronavirus and the election felt trivial in comparison with God's permanence.
At last, I returned to the house for a delectable lunch of still-tender leftover short ribs, part of the "eighth of a cow" that I bought recently. (Melodie laughs every time I say that; she's pretty sure I actually purchased a portion of a fattened steer. I told her they're all cows to me.)
For my afternoon's work, I sat on a stone bench in front of a tiny family cemetery from the 1800s, a walled-off plot of public land right in Melodie's back yard. The meticulously carved monument to their two-year-old son reminded me that trials and heartaches touch others' lives, too.
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| In MEMORY of John L Goforth... Born January the 9th 1861 and departed this life Dec 20 1863.... Let the children come unto me for such is the kingdom of Heaven |
Continuing my inventory, I soon found myself sobbing again, wondering if some of the relationships most dear to me would ever be the same. I prayed for the ones who'd hurt me, the same ones whom I'd hurt. I prayed that God's grace would mend what I am powerless to restore. I imagined what it might be like to love others fully despite their imperfections, and to be loved unconditionally in return.
I drove away feeling curiously light and heavy at the same time. I felt bruised, yet also hopeful. To quote another coworker and friend, Laura, I felt ready to "open up to let all the good stuff in."
I'm thankful that I could take this day off to take care of myself, to press close to God and get honest with myself. I'm confident of this: "He who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion" (Philippians 1:6).
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| This sign made me laugh on my way out. So true! |
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