Show Me Your Scar, I’ll Show You Mine

I have scars.

I got one recently after I cooked lunch for some friends. In the rush to have everything on the table at the same time, I burned my hand as I took bread out of the oven. It didn’t hurt until the next day. A puffy little blister, sore to the touch; I knew it would leave a mark.

There’s more. If you look closely, you can still see the faded triangle between my left calf and shin from the fifth grade when I tried to officiate a fight between two German Shepherds. On my other shin, there’s a scar from when I slid down a concrete bench in the 11th grade. I can still see where I got cut with a piece of glass on my right hand from who knows when.

What about the other scars? The ones that go deeper than dogs and bread?

It’s safe to say we all make a mess in life. It’s only when we refuse to clean up that mess, to deal with our wound, that things get ugly. I learned early on how to conceal what was inside by looking good on the outside. Do you know the smile I’m talking about? Thought so.

So instead of asking for help, the wound in me went unattended and infection set in. Gross and blistery, oozing with nastiness. No band-aid is large enough to cover guilt and shame forever. There I was, going to Bible study on Tuesday and bringing peanut butter cookies to the potluck, with that smile you know so well. Though I was in desperate need of some ointment, I was too worried what someone would think if I showed them how deep the wound went.

Just like it’s NOT normal for a person to show up at the ER smiling while bleeding profusely, it’s not acceptable to walk through life crippled because we’re afraid to seek help. Do you tell yourself, “Just keep smiling…no one will recognize I’m on crutches?!”

Reality is often ugly. Unfortunately the people we welcome into our lives don’t want to know WHERE we’ve come from, just that we arrived safely. It’s the equivalent of taking on this sort of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell gospel!

I’ll never forget going to a Bible study at one of the first churches we attended after moving to Nashville. We met in what seemed to be the busiest hallway on that Wednesday evening. It was, you know, one of those classes. The kind where the curious mill around the hallway just so they can see who walks through the door—unable to grasp the idea that imperfect people attend their church. Anyway, imagine my shock when my good friend walked in after me. I love this friend dearly and could never have imagined that we were on the same journey. Until then, she had never showed me her wound, I had never showed her mine.

Healing often begins when we realize we are not alone.

After I dealt with my pain, I began sharing my story with others. People would walk up to me and whisper that they’d been through the same thing. I could see the weight being lifted off their back because they found someone who had walked where they walked. I’m not saying everyone has to make a public proclamation of their experience. I just think that too many people allow shame, embarrassment, and guilt, and friends, and family, and church…to erase their story.

What does the Bible have to say about scars?

It says that when Jesus appeared to His apostles after the resurrection, “He showed them His hands and His side.” If you’ve read the account, or seen it acted out on any given Easter Sunday, you know Jesus didn’t show them gaping holes with bloody pieces of mangled skin still in tact. No. He showed them wounds that had been healed by His Father; and those very scars were how his friends knew it was truly Him! See the purpose of His scars?

Can you grasp the difference between scars and wounds? Scars come with a story of redemption. Wounds are still in the middle of trying to figure out their story.

I wish you could see my inbox. I often get private messages from people who are right in the middle of a gaping wound. It’s like they’re limping their way to the cross, and no one even notices. Here I am, miles away and connected only through the internet, and I wonder why they’re telling me? Is there no one around them to notice their wound?

Imagine how different the path to the cross would look if we were brave enough to lock arms with our friends who can’t make it on their own.

Today I want to challenge you. Yes, you, the person reading this post. YOU, the person who was wounded but found healing. You have a story…you know you do. I’m simply asking you to become more aware of the people around you that are lame, abused, and hobbling to the water cooler.

Don’t be afraid to ask, “What’s wrong?” So that at the right time you can say, “I have one of those scars too.”

You may be just the person to rip that Band-Aid off their wound and expose them to the greatest Healer ever.

 

 

This Bud’s For You!

On the way to the bus stop this morning, a thought occurred to me. It’s early March.

The blossoms are not supposed to be out. It’s not right.

Mother Nature hasn’t given the sprouts on the Bradford Pears permission to make their entrance yet.

But they’ve decided differently. Just look around.

I took these pictures for those who have found the courage to bloom, even though your season says,

“Not yet.”

Who cares if you’re older than you’ve ever been. Who cares that you’ve never been here before.

It doesn’t matter. Something is calling you out of your old season. You’re not late, not even early.

You’re right on time.

This bud’s for you!

What Happens If There’s No Fireworks? My Retreat Wrap-Up.

The retreat weekend started with a bang. Maybe a howl is a better adjective. We were supposed to drive up on Friday night but due to the tornadoes and storms, we waited until Saturday morning. It was an agonizing verdict that taught me a lot about decision-making and just how difficult it is to get five women to agree on anything.

We decided to take one car, another huge decision in itself, and to meet at Christy’s where we would all leave together. There would be no early escape for me, no matter how hard I tried. I prepared to leave my house at 6 a.m., quietly and without drama, until I couldn’t find my keys. I had to wake Regi up to help me look for them. Found them. It occurred to me that I had stumbled on reason #1 to stay home.

I didn’t.

After meeting the other girls, we piled into Angela’s SUV and stopped at Starbuck’s on the way out-of-town. I realized I had no cash and had forgotten my debit card in my car…at Christy’s. I scrounged together the needed $4.25 and felt pretty stupid for being so unprepared. This was reason #2 two that I should have cancelled my trip altogether.

But I didn’t.

We chatted for two hours straight and arrived at our beautiful location. We made it just after the morning session started; I instantly knew when I walked into the room that I had discovered reason #3 that I should have stayed home. Certain crowds intimidate me. There were approximately 150 women which by my standards, was entirely too many for one retreat. If you check the rule book, I’m sure you will see that I’m right. We sat, you guessed it, on the back row. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself because as the above stated rule book will also divulge, it takes women approximately three sessions at a retreat until they are relaxed enough to enjoy or take in what is being preached, taught, sung, whatever.

Then the entire weekend came and went in an instant.

Nothing earth shattering happened in my life. I can’t say I went needing “this” and came away with “that” like many women who attended. And that was okay.

Here are some valuable lessons I learned:

  1. Finding five seats together at a retreat is difficult. It will be best to strictly adhere next time to the one-buddy policy if at all possible.
  2. Some of the kindest women you’ll ever met are the ones over the age of 60 like Kathleen and Sally.
  3. Peanut Butter Snickers were the chocolate of choice.
  4. There is great value to be held in honoring other people. (And this wasn’t even a topic that was taught on. It was simply something we saw acted out throughout the entire day and evening).
  5. My friends will cross busy streets and leave convenience stores if they don’t serve Diet Coke and if their ice machine does not work.

I also learned (again) that I live behind a wall. And I learned (again) that it’s up to me whether I will allow that wall to keep me at arm’s distance from others, the world, the emotion, the stretching, and the plying that is needed for my own personal growth. I must continually chip away at that wall because it will never go away.

Do you have a wall?

I learned that God doesn’t put us into situations for frivolous reasons. For example, just as soon as three of us were going to skip the small group breakout session (i.e. six women sitting around a table chatting…ugh), we changed our minds. Turns out it was there that one of my friends had her greatest revelation of the weekend. And we almost missed it because we wanted nothing to do with the unfamiliar territory.

How many blessings do you miss because you are afraid to take a step?

I can't believe we didn't get a pic of the 5 of us! (...next year) These are my roommates, Angela and Holly. I love them!

The weekend was full of some of the most amazing teaching I’ve heard in a long time; I am reminded that I must feed my soul. If you aren’t in a place where you’re growing spiritually, find a new place. Life is too difficult to do alone, let alone without the encouragement of women who have walked in our shoes and aren’t afraid to model their battle wounds.

I think it would be easy to view retreats as the only place we can off-load our burdens, the only time we can spend focusing on the matters of our heart.  I must purpose to retreat every day. A place where I stop, pray, think, consider the weight of my responsibilities, my job, my loneliness, my blessings, anything I carry, and lay it down. None of it is mine to carry anyway.

 Can you possibly exist on that once a year experience? Do you need to take a retreat today?

To be honest, I questioned why I even came on this retreat as I packed up my stuff to leave. I thought I’d meet so many new people, and experience a small epiphany along the way. However, it occurred to me, and was confirmed when Christy stated the same thing to me, that this retreat was more about me strengthening the relationships I already have. I spent many hours with my friends that I may not have the chance to do until the next retreat. I learned what’s important to them, where their zeal for others comes from, and what part of their heart is hurting.

I didn’t see fireworks. I didn’t wear half the clothes I packed. I didn’t have any near death bathroom experiences. I didn’t take a shower. I didn’t wash my hair. I didn’t cry. I put on as much make-up as I wanted. But I had fun, I laughed, I learned things about my friends I didn’t know, I was refreshed.

And I can’t wait to do it all over again next year.

 

Women, Chocolate, and Kleenex. Why Retreats Scare Me.

It’s Monday. I’m already worrying about Friday.

A couple months ago I thought it would be a great thing if a couple friends and I signed up for the women’s retreat. We’re all fairly new to our church—wouldn’t this be a good way to get plugged-in and meet a lot more people? I encouraged. I prodded. And now, as much as I’d like to, I can’t back out of my own idea.

A few of us are long time friends, a few are new-ish. I’ve never spent time alone in a hotel room with any of them that’s for sure (or seen them in their p.j.’s, for that matter), and I’m nervous.

How do you approach, you know, the stuff?

What if I snore? What if one of them snores? Or what if one of them snores and asks me if she kept me up all night with her snoring? I can’t lie for pity sake…I’m on a spiritual women’s retreat where lying is not on the agenda.

I can’t even think about three or four people sharing one bathroom. That frightens me. Literally.

The next question is, “How do I show up for breakfast the first morning?” Do I act like I’m okay in my own skin and not spend much time in front of the mirror? You know the minute I don’t, there will be an entire table of ladies who spent way more time on looking good and I’ll feel completely undone. Being female is not an easy task. If only some house rules were established, I’d be fine. Let’s start with these: a) No makeup allowed; b) Showers are optional; and b) No games allowed where you have to guess which farm animal is taped to your back or any other silly ice breaker. Guidelines or boundaries would surely up the enrollment to these things.

Then there’s the whole vulnerability issue. This is the part I think I hate the most. I’m an emotional person, but on my own terms, and I like to keep it together in front of people. But something happens when a bunch of women get together. No one can talk without crying, everyone feels inclined to share their deepest secret, a lot of singing in small rooms is encouraged, chocolate is consumed at all hours of the day…dear God, what’s wrong with me to think like this?!

Pressure. Insecurities. Fear of the unknown. You name it, women experience it.

But why do we have such a difficult time with ourselves? Maybe I’m speaking to no one but myself here. [Insert: tell me to go read my old blog called The Bag-man Cometh. Or Seeth.] That begs the question: When was the last women’s retreat you went on? Maybe you, like me, have just avoided them altogether so you never have to experience this emotional train wreck. Next time maybe I should ask for the private room rate and bypass this angst?

I think it gets down to us getting so wrapped up in motherhood, being a wife, being single, cleaning the house, making dinner, working long hours and never getting sick that we must maintain our super powers and not allow anyone to see us sweat. Or cry. Or downright sob. Or hurt. Or laugh. Or giggle uncontrollably into the wee hours of the morning. Or forget about everything we love that drains us and for one weekend focus on ourselves. Our stinky, frizzy morning haired, snorish, tired, hungry yet lovely and unique selves that is longing for refuge. Even if for just a weekend.

I have a few days before it’s Friday and we all load up and drive the 1.5 hours to our destination. We are thinking about all five of us driving together, but like one friend told me, if she brings her own car, it would be the perfect escape route should we need to make a quick exit. She has a point.

I’m already telling myself to relax, look forward to the weekend, to bravely step into these unknown pastures (although I may step on a cow patty or two), and get real. With myself, with others and most of all, with God.

Excuse me for now. I need to go buy some Kleenex and chocolate. Something tells me I’m going to need them.

An Unexpected Valentine

I’ve been holding off posting this blog because it relates to a very personal area of my life. I almost clicked erase a hundred times but couldn’t bring myself to completely trash my thoughts. Then I realized Valentine’s Day would be the perfect time to show my love for an important person in my life.

Two Saturdays ago a letter showed up out of the blue. A bona fide (although computer typed) letter with a cute heart drawn in blue ink beside the name. The only people that send me notes (other than birthday or Christmas cards) are Christy and Uncle Tommy. (Note to friends: don’t spoil the surprise and tell me you appreciate their letters too because I’d like to think I’m the special one.)

This was the best kind…a 6×9 bubble mailer. Sophie was puzzled that there was no return name, just an address and two letter state abbreviation she couldn’t recall. When I told her who it was from, we played tug-of-war over who got to open it.

It was a letter from her birth mom. Instantly I was back to the day we arrived at a hospital in Kansas with empty arms…only to leave full. I was in close contact with her birth mom before and after Sophia was born until suddenly, a couple of years later, the letters stopped. I experienced a brief pause and told myself, “This is how it needs to be.”

Receiving this letter after so long an absence brought many thoughts to the surface. I was tentative at first, then surprised at how I giddy with excitement I became when I saw Sophie’s eyes light up. This is how it needs to be, I told myself. And instead of feeling threatened, I was suddenly aware of how indebted I feel toward her birth mom. Like I’d name a town after her if I could. Okay, maybe a street in a really cool town. Nonetheless, I want to scream out, “I love this girl!!!!!!” just like in the commercial, in hopes she can hear five states away. Such an intense love for a girl I barely know.

When the pictures from the envelope spilled onto the table, I knew what caught Sophie’s attention—the nose? The eyes? Maybe the lips? Hair color? Of all the gifts I’m able to provide, there are some things money can’t buy and I am at peace with that.

Sophie scrambled upstairs to read the note. She cranked out Coldplay while reading a letter that was addressed to me. Eventually I made my way upstairs to have a read.

“Are you sure about this? Doesn’t it make you feel odd, bringing her into your life?” you ask.

Absolutely not.

Without this girl who gave birth to my daughter, I would have missed out on my gift. It’s that simple. Nothing will ever change what Sophie and I are to each other: no letter, no meeting in years to come, no knowledge of or lack thereof. A love story that began over 13 years ago will entangle our lives forever. This is exactly how it was meant to be!

I studied the note—a mixture of sweet and kindness, revelation/happiness/silly, all tied together with a bow of gratitude. We noticed many similarities and Sophie and I laughed at the top of our lungs because we realized where this-and-that came from. The glasses and braces I remember when I met her are gone; the high school girl who graduated with my child in her belly has become a woman. Now she smiles from the picture, with her husband at their wedding, and arm and arm with her sisters.

Our hearts are full.

I really can’t think of what to say next; why am I even penning something so personal? Maybe because writing is one way I can offer an ounce of gratitude, and maybe because I hope she will read this one day. And maybe because I’m feeling so much love today and I want to share it. And why not? I’ve thanked people for gifts of money, friendship, casseroles and flowers. While I’ve never really thanked someone for life, this is me trying. And midst this extremely feeble attempt, I somehow pray that birth moms everywhere know how much they are loved for the gifts only they could give.

Wouldn’t it be great if you put into words something that makes your heart happy today? Maybe it’s thanking someone for their huge act of kindness, or maybe it’s simply telling them how you appreciated their small gesture of concern when you needed it most.

Your words are powerful. Certainly more powerful than any box of chocolates you may think of buying. So here’s to celebrating love, and happiness, and gifts that come in forms we least expect.

–

I have so much more to share on the gift of adoption in the future! I have more friends than I can count who have amazing stories of how their families came to be. Each one is different, unique to their situation. For Regi and me, our children’s stories are entirely separate as well. I do not intend to say that if you aren’t in touch with your child’s birth mom your story is less. Pure and simple: Kids need families and families need kids! And adoption is a gift that chose us and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I originally started writing this blog in honor of some friends who celebrated the finalization of their adoption last Friday. How beautiful to witness first hand a new branch sprout on their family tree! Last year if you had told them they were going to become parents, they would have called you crazy. But God had something greater than they could ever dream and now a precious 12-year-old daughter shares their name. I have no doubt that she was born to complete their family. She’s like the unread P.S. on the letter of their lives. Perhaps these friends will understand most the place in my heart where this blog comes from.

The Bagman Cometh. Or See-eth.

A quick trip to the grocery comes with a dilemma. Makeup? No makeup? Hat? No hat? I care about what I wear, but not always. Sometimes I take the real me, unphotoshopped, as I sneak around the aisles. If I spot someone I know, I pretend to be glued to the buy-one-get-one free chicken broth just to go unnoticed.

Today I just wanted to get in and out of the store, short and sweet. I didn’t feel like small talk but you can’t escape it there. The people in green are just so stinkin’ friendly.

The very second I walked to where the baskets were waiting, I was greeted by the kindest man ever. Jacob. Older than my father but younger than my grandfather so I don’t know to classify him. Every time he sees me, without fail, he loudly calls to me, “Ahh, my favorite customer is here. Kim! How are ya today, Kim?” Emphasizing my name each and every time. Cheeks turn red; I should have worn the hat.

A couple years ago, Jacob got me confused with someone else and called me by the wrong name. This sparked our friendship. He reminds me of this every other time I see him, and he often recounts the entire story to whichever cashier is within earshot. I play along and laugh at the appropriate time, wishing he would work a little faster. Impatient Man is behind me. Jacob hugs me hello, hugs me good-bye, and I don’t even know his last name.

He sees me at my best, like right after I’ve had lunch with a friend and stop in for some milk. And my worst, like the time I felt the need to personally question the gentleman in the parking lot who flipped me off because I got his parking space. That’s another story he likes to tell. (The time he was dressed up as Santa and walked up to me and said, “How are you today, Kim?” still has my kids rattled.)

This time, between bagging eggs and Cheetos, he pays me a compliment. “Jacob, you are too kind but I think you need to get your glasses adjusted. I look terrible and you know it.” We laugh, he insists, I contradict. I know the guy behind me hears, even though he now pretends to read the cover of Cooking Light. And I know he thinks a little cover-up would have done wonders.

As Jacob takes my groceries to the car, we take our time. This is when we catch up on the kids, his work schedule, and the price of groceries. His breathes like the 70-something-year-old-man he is and I wonder how I would ever know if something happened to him. He packs up my car, hugs my neck, and says he’ll be looking for me on my next trip. I secretly vow to make myself more presentable next time.

As I back out of the parking lot, I look in the rear view mirror and try to see who he was talking about.

Why is it so difficult to see ourselves as the bag-man does? Beneath the dirt and beyond the phony. Past the impatience, beneath the mask, and beyond the organic bananas, to the core. Past who we used to be, to who we have become. Every time we see ourselves as not-entirely-forgiven, or not-exactly-beautiful, or not-as-good as-our-neighbor, we undo everything that was accomplished on the cross.

We were made to walk in grace, to rest in mercy, and sometimes it takes people like the bag-man to gently remind us of that. God sees us bare and undone and loves us in spite of ourselves. Why can’t we do the same?

I think we could learn a lot from the bag-man.

1 Peter 3:4: Cultivate inner beauty, the gentle, gracious kind that God delights in. (The Message)

Buckle Up. Bad Weather Ahead!

Tuesday morning I dropped Sophie off in Leiper’s Fork to check out a school. The long drive is not something I typically do any other morning. Just think Tennessee farms, horses, and fog settling beneath the branches of empty trees on a cool winter morning. On the way home, I purposefully let up on the gas pedal and turned the radio off. The quiet helps me think. And remember.

It’s hard to believe that just two nights before, eerie tornado sirens were drowned out as the wind whipped through the Bradford pears and delivered hail and buckets of water.

This calm after the storm reminds me of a time when Sophie and I flew to Texas to visit my mom. On the way to the airport, Regi said, “Not such a great day to fly.” The sky was gray and the thunder deep within the horizon made me think the second coming was underway. I got nervous when the pilot came over the loud speaker to announce that the beverage service would be delayed. That always means trouble.

The plane’s ascent felt like I was riding in my mom’s blue Pinto on the dirt road of my childhood rather than in an MD 80. If you could get inside my mind at these times, you’d hear me praying the Rosary, meditating, reciting the books of the Bible, and then settling in as I lock into a familiar Rich Mullins tune. I make sure my bases are covered.

This particular flight occurred after I’d had a conversation with my mom about spatial disorientation. (I bring these things on myself.) I managed to convince myself that we were experiencing that phenomenon as we sliced through the clouds. Were we right side up or upside down? It looked as though the clouds were slapping the windows of the plane; we were in an all out tug-of-war as we climbed. Sophie nestled her head in my lap and fell asleep. I gripped my armrests as the guy in 14B read the newspaper.

Eventually we shot out of the clouds and we were sitting atop what resembled muddy cotton candy. Now that we were over the storm everything was breathtaking. Blue skies stretched as far as my eye could see. And not just any blue; it was bluer than anything Crayola has ever attempted. The airplane was so calm that I wondered if the storm had been that bad. Did I overreact? Finally the familiar ding echoed across the loud speaker and the illuminated seat belt disappeared.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier if we could all be ensured a smooth ride?

The truth is, we will encounter turbulence along our way. I’ve come to learn that often the only path to a blue sky is the one that goes right through a mean storm. I’m talking a choppy, knuckle-gripping squall that lasts longer than the weatherman predicted. But think of this: it’s only after the misery of winter that yellow daffodils are prompted from the ground!

Perhaps that blue sky is placed above us as an anchor. An anchor of hope that says we’re in for some tough times and that we need to buckle up. An anchor that reminds us there is something greater beyond the blue. An anchor, firm and steady.

Whatever it means for you, I pray you find the courage to get through your situation. After all, it’s usually the most uncomfortable road that takes you on the ride of your life!