December 23, 2009
Surviving the Holidays Part 4/4: Unyielding Upheaval
When God’s in the mix, they bring beginnings.
Such is the case with the last post of this Surviving the Holidays series. A series for anyone–but especially those struggling with tragedy, loss, depression or abuse–part one focused on regaining a sense of safety by starting your own traditions; part two on finding joy in the season; and part 3, coping with dread and fear.
Part four is about beginnings.
Specifically, your beginning.
You do have one, you know.
Your beginning started the day a Baby was born in Bethlehem . . .
.. . a baby whose cry sliced through the murky night, burst through space and time, crushes powers and principalities and shatters chains in relentless pursuit . . .
.. . of you.
This eve of the eve of Christmas is the eve of the eve of a new beginning . . .
. . . for you.
Of God’s desire to bring unending upheaval to your pain and sorrow . . . despair and desolation . . .
Not convinced? Listen to Sara Groves’ rendition of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. Hold the words in your heart as your journey through the next few days.
Do you lay in solemn stillness?
Christ came to speak into it.
Do you carry a crushing load?
Christ came to carry it.
Does your form bend low?
Christ came to lift you up.
Is each day a painful step in your journey?
Christ came to journey with you.
Like a scene from The Last of the Mohicans, no matter where you go–or where you have gone–He will find you. No matter how long it takes. No matter how far.
He will find you.
He has found you.
Like the shepherds long ago, all you need to do is look up.
Look, and you will see Jesus there.
Allow Him to embrace you today, this Christmas, and always.
Then rest along your weary road and watch . . . .. . as He transforms your finale into a brand new day.
I can hear the angels singing over you.
Can you?
Glory Hallelujah! Peace on Earth!
December 18, 2009
Surviving the holidays part 3/4: So this is Christmas
At the risk of alienating myself from 99% of my readers, I admit I cannot stand the Beatles. They grate on my ears worse than Alvin and the Chipmunks. I don’t think they—or Neil Diamond—should ever have been allowed to record anything.
(Barry Manilow is a close third.)
But when my 12-year old smiled up at me with his precious freckles and asked for Rock Band Beatles Edition for Christmas, I couldn’t resist.
Soon after, the radio began playing John Lennon’s So This is Christmas. Over. And over. And over again. Through the grating noise, one particular phrase stood out to me at the end of that song:
Let’s hope it’s a good one
Without any fear
War is overIf you want it
War is over
Now…
I’m assuming if you read this blog, you’ve survived abuse or perinatal mood disorders, or both. If you’re like me, you slog through residual effects of it all, but the “war” itself “is over.”
The holidays–full of emotions and stress–stir up those after-effects for many folks.
In the previous two blogs of this series, I talked about ways to help yourself feel safe by starting your own traditions (part 1), and how to find joy in the season (part 2). But those posts didn’t address the overriding emotion of most survivors: fear.
Like the mashed potatoes at our Thanksgiving, fear is a bottomless bowl. I come back for seconds. And thirds. I turn the leftovers into potato pancakes and Shepherd’s pie.
And still, there’s more leftover.
In literal terms, I fear running into an abuser; having a panic attack while singing with my church choir; the perpetual–yet elusive–feeling something bad is about to happen.
It’s enough to make me want to hide under my bed for the next two weeks. With my dog. And my teddy bear.
Still, I long to have a very merry Christmas.
And a happy New Year.
I hope 2010’s a good one.
Without any fear.
I found some hope, as Mary must have so long ago, in the words the angel spoke to her, when she learned she was going to become pregnant. Here is a brief excerpt from The Message version of the Christmas story, Luke 1:29-38:
She was thoroughly shaken. . . But the angel assured her, “Mary, you have nothing to fear . . . Nothing, you see, is impossible with God.”
I wonder if Mary knew the angel’s encouragement would be as—if not more—important as she watched her baby boy grow up. As she watched him learn. As she watched him craft with His hands the same wood from which He’d hang.
Talk about fear.
Watching your Son, the Promised One, die.
Did the thought, “Nothing is impossible with God” even cross her mind as she lay weeping on the top of Golgotha?
Time and time again I find myself at the top of a Golgotha of fear.
Yet each time, God rolls the stone away and restores parts of me I thought could never be whole.
Brings to life another small piece of my shattered heart.
Whispers to me on cold, bleak mornings, “Dear child, do not be afraid. For I am with you always.”
Lord, thank You for being with us this Christmas season and always. Pierce through the fear in our lives. Instill within us the peace and confidence that comes from Your constant presence. And thank you, Jesus, for coming to earth to do these things for each of us–even the person reading this right now. Amen.
December 15, 2009
Steeples, smiles, and scars*
I can’t remember if I found church, or if church found me.
The question nagged me a few weeks ago, when I sat at a wedding at my family of origin’s old church. Built in the height of the Eisenhower renaissance, the red brick and white trimmed, Georgian architecture—replete with a steeple stretching toward the heavens—was full of “firsts” for me: my first baptism; my first recital (by memory) of the Apostle’s Creed; my first crush on a boy. Somewhere, at some moment in that church, amidst the flowing robes and tassels, behind the starched white neck collars, in the rhythm of liturgy and the drone of familiar doxology I found Jesus.
Or perhaps He found me.
That church–my first church–was my one safe haven. No one could touch me there. No one could hurt me there. Sitting cross-legged on carpet squares during lesson time, all I felt was love. The kind of love that pours through a Sunday School teacher.
I remember Mrs. Brown** well, even thirty years later. She hugged us. Smiled at us. Told us over and over and over again how much Jesus loves us. How much she loved us.
Now, we all knew Mrs. Brown had a favorite: her daughter, Emily*. Standing a full head above the rest of the class, Emily sat in the front row each time her mama taught. And as she taught, Mrs. Brown moved our hearts as much as the felt figures–Shadrachs, Meshachs and Abendigos coming to life, moving in and out of a fiery flannel furnace.
When Emily looked at me, all I saw was the giant scar surrounding her right eye, covering one side of her face and extending back to her ear. The scar scared a lot of us, but we took our cues on how to react from Mrs. Brown. She acted like it didn’t even exist.
And so gradually, we learned to look past it, too.
And Emily—she never seemed ashamed.
She just smiled and played like the rest of us.
In the decades since Mrs. Brown’s classroom, I’ve traded my little girl lace leotards for jeans; hymnals for grungy fonts on big screens; flannel boards for spotlights and ground fog.
I’ve been married in a church. Baptized my kids in a church. Been hurt worse than I ever knew I could be . . . in a church . . . so much so that I didn’t attend any church for nearly two years.
When I finally came back to church, I was scarred.
And I was scared.
But Mrs. Brown’s were waiting for me. They embraced me . . . loved me . . . smiled at me . . . and acted like my scar didn’t exist, even though I pointed to it and let it ooze all over them. Still, they didn’t care.
They don’t care.
They just keep loving me. Embracing me. Baptizing me.
They let me be broken.
Still.
They let me be lost.
Often.
And they help me get found.
Again.
And again.
And again.
*This blog was written for the Blog Carnival at BridgetChumbly.com. I appreciate the opportunity to ride the rollercoaster with them!
*Names have been changed.
December 10, 2009
Surviving the Holidays, Part 2 of 4: You are enough!
Welcome back to this little series on surviving the holidays. Whether you’ve experienced tragedy or abuse, holidays are rough.
The first post discussed the importance of guarding your heart and starting your own traditions, as a means of coping with overwhelming, post traumatic fear and vulnerability.
"I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me."
Today, Stuart Smiley is here to help us through the second topic in this series: worthlessness and inadequacy.
Abuse survivors have a warped impression of themselves, and others. Self-hatred and worthlessness are caused by actual or implied accusations hurtled at us during and after the abuse:
“You’re so stupid (bad, ugly, helpless, selfish…”
“You’ll never amount to anything.”
“You can’t survive without me.”
“You wanted it.”
“No-one will believe you. You’re such a liar.”
“You made me do it.”
“Nobody could ever love you.”
Brainwashed into believing we can’t survive or do anything–let alone celebrate–correctly outside the powerful family circle, building our own traditions feels like trying to walk up an ice-covered hill in smooth-soled shoes.
” . . . verbal affirmation of self-worth is a valuable tool, however silly it may seem. Another way to build self esteem is to try something new, but easy – again in a safe environment free of criticism and judgment. . . ” –Grace Alexander
As much peace as I’ve found starting my own family traditions, feelings of inadequacy still creep up and devastate even the most serene, tender moments. If I don’t recognize it early and call it out, the feelings of emptiness turn me into a sucking, nagging, complaining, despairing woman, lashing out at those who love me–and whom I love–most.
Recognizing and acknowledging these emotions are the first steps in reclaiming your life and potential as a beautiful, unique, and precious child of God . . . . . . and important ingredients for surviving the holidays.
"It's easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world." --Stuart Smalley
Please know I’m not a counselor, and for that reason, I implore you to seek professional help if you have thoughts of self-harm or more serious symptoms of depression. Hotlines and links to other resources are posted on the Fragrances of Hope page of this blog. Even your family doctor can help. Don’t be ashamed to seek it, if you need it.
Otherwise, here are four ideas for immediate application:
1. Start small. Don’t try to create a Pottery Barn Christmas. Do bake Christmas cookies (slice-&-bake’s are totally cool). Try to catch a snowflake on your tongue. Light a scented candle. Learn how to knit and be satisfied, even if you only complete a small, slighty-holey dishrag. Read the Christmas story from Luke 1: 26-2:20. Outloud.
2. Copy your kids. Be on the lookout for what makes your kids smile during this season. Is it a little nativity set they like to arrange and re-arrange? Is it building a fire in the fireplace in the middle of the day–just because? Making a snow angel? Reading The Littlest Angel, The Polar Express or The Christmas Lizard (one of my favorites)? Savor what they savor. Reclaim their joy and make it your own.
3. Music. Download your all-time favorite Christmas song. Dance to it when no one else is home. Sing the silly Christmas songs with your kids (Alvin and the Chipmunks come to mind. I used to hate them until I watched my kids laugh and love them.) Play instrumental, sentimental Christmas music as you fold laundry and go about your daily activities. Breathe in deeply with your ears.
4. Help someone less fortunate. Have you ever seen tears well up in a mother’s eyes when you take gifts to a women’s shelter? Seen gratitude melt the wrinkles on a shut-in’s face when you bring them sparkly Christmas cookies? Heard a homeless man choke back tears as you serve him food at a homeless shelter? Other people are hurting all around us.
We can allow the darkest parts of brokenness overwhelm us in vain, or we can morph it into radiant, healing compassion.
The choice is yours, this holiday season.
As the angel Gabriel said to Mary all those years ago, the Lord is with you. Do not be afraid.
You are beautiful.
You are enough.
And you can be free.
My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. –Luke 1:46-48
December 5, 2009
Christmas Column: The Shattered Ornament
Published in special Christmas publication of the Zionsville Times Sentinel, 12/02/09
I cherish one ornament on my tree over all the others.
It’s not the one you’d expect.
It has no sparkles. No grandeur. Nothing to make it stand out among the glittering, glass balls and Sponge Bob Santas.
No, the ornament is a little girl made of porcelain. She has long dark hair and wears a pink nightgown. In her hands, she holds a Christmas stocking. Made by Joan Walsh Anglund, the ornament has beloved black dots for eyes, a sprinkling of freckles, and chubby, rosy cheeks.
Decades ago, the ornament was a gift.
A miracle, you might say.
I remember this ornament from my earliest Christmases. She was there when Dad put the Perry Como Christmas eight track in the player. She was watching from the tree as Donny and Marie hosted all their family Christmas specials.
And in the bustle of decorating on one of those Christmases long ago, the little dark-haired ornament was dropped. She shattered, and along with her shattered my heart.
See, I’d grown quite attached to the little porcelain girl. When you’re a child, you have the ability to gaze at inanimate objects and they take on life in the midst of that gaze. Whole worlds are created within and around those objects—dazzling worlds full of dancing (which I could never do) and singing (which I try to do) and where the outside world can’t reach in and do any harm.
Such was this little Joan Walsh Anglund ornament to me. The pink-gowned girl was me, untouched, and perfect.
I wept and begged my parents to make her whole. “Surely, Dad could fix her,” I remember thinking. Dad could fix anything.
But alas, she was shattered beyond repair.
So I did the only thing left to do: I turned to the magic and the miraculous.
I turned to Christmas.
If my parents couldn’t fix the broken ornament, then perhaps Jesus could. I concocted an idea to wrap the ornament in tissue and place it in the tower of my toy castle. Then I gathered my mom, dad and sisters together. I asked if we could all hold hands and pray. Surely after the prayer, when I grasped the tissue, the little girl in the pink nightgown would be whole.
I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. I didn’t want Jesus or Santa or anyone to think I was peeking. That might break the magic. As soon as I said, “Amen,” I reached in and took hold of that tissue full of shattered pieces.
Only there were no pieces.
I peeled back the tissue to reveal a whole, new, ornament.
My sisters and I gazed at each other, astonished. We squealed with excitement and danced around the room in our flannel, flowered nightgowns. As the celebration continued, I stood still, clutching the ornament, searching for traces of evidence of pieces glued together. There were no marks. No lines indicating someone fixed her.
No. The ornament was brand new.
When I was much older, I learned my parents bought a new, identical ornament and replaced the broken one. But for years, I believed the magic occurred the moment we prayed.
Indeed, there was magic in that moment. It’s a magic that remains even today. Tears stream down my cheeks as I write this, knowing that in the top of that plastic castle tower, more was pieced together than an ornament.
Hope was restored.
Belief became real.
The possibility of wholeness was realized.
And isn’t Christmas just like that?
Christmas is when the least suspected thing becomes the greatest; when the biggest magic happens in the smallest gestures; when the world’s greatest nursery was a stable; when the world’s first ornament was a star in the eastern sky; when the world’s first present was a tiny cry that echoed hope and possibility across the world.
We walk the malls and sidewalks this holiday season not searching for gifts as much as we’re searching for hope.
We make purchases which morph into glistening music boxes which twirl for a few moments, wind down and die.
What we thought held the world only holds a moment.
So my Christmas wish for you, dear readers, is that you may find meaning in what others find meaningless.
May you find longevity in what others find fleeting.
May you find freedom in places others wouldn’t dare tread.
And when you hang your favorite ornament—no matter how old and tattered—may you find wholeness in your most broken places.
I’m a thirty-something mama & wife trying--moment-by-moment--to follow hard after Jesus' scent. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and perinatal mood disorders, this site is my gift to you: a celebration of brokenness, hope, healing, life, art, and all the miraculous moments in between.
Visit my weekly newspaper column, Life With a Twist, in the Commentary section of the Zionsville Times-Sentinel: 
