My parents have reminded me more than once that I was so shy when I was younger, that they had to tell me to say “hi” to people.

Apparently, I was afraid of my own voice from the start.

Here’s the truth for today.

I’m battling for my voice, friends.

Perhaps I always have.

This is a spiritual battle. No doubt.

God vs. the enemy. They’re battling for lives. They’re battling for souls.

God created me. He’s cultivating a voice within me. He’s asking me to use that voice to proclaim truth and life to others. Truth and life to myself. He’s asking me to have faith in His creation, faith in the unique gifts He’s bestowed upon me.

The enemy. Forget that loser. Forget the niceties. He’s a beast, a deadbeat. He wants to kill and destroy my voice, my entire life for that matter. He wants to silence me with all his might. He’s on the prowl, up to nothing good. I renounce him and all his evil, scheming ways.

So many things have happened in the 15 months since I left my 14 1/2 year career as a speech-language therapist to stay home and pursue writing and photography. Beyond all the things that have happened, there’s been a behind the scenes. Behind the scenes, I’ve been battling a sense of identity, a sense of place. Behind the scenes, I’ve been asking big questions about work and worth. Behind the scenes, I’ve been struggling with my voice.

I’m riding a fine line between being totally confident in who and where I am, and utterly unsure.

Again, I’m certain this is an issue of faith. I’ve taken a leap of faith, and the enemy is coming on strong with his totally weak, but believable voices of doubt and fear. This is perfect timing for him to ride in on his black horse and kill God’s every plan for my life.

The enemy will not win, friends. He will not win. But he’s still trying.

After months of writing and editing, just two days before I was scheduled to present my first two children’s book manuscripts to my writing group, the manuscripts fell flat to me. Mind you, I’ve worked and reworked these babies up and down the past four months. I’ve edited, edited and edited some more. Both manuscripts have made me cry (in a good way). I’ve been certain there’s something unique about them. I’ve been certain that somebody, some agent out there, will see the beauty in what I’m trying to convey. But last Tuesday? They fell flat. Completely flat. By the time I got the manuscripts to writing group, I’d nearly talked myself out of presenting them to the group because I just wasn’t sure anymore. Fortunately, my writing group knew this presentation was coming and wouldn’t let me out of it. But today, I’m afraid to open the manuscripts back up because I don’t want them to fall flat again.

Yesterday, I published a post on my personal Facebook page in which I complained about having to wash grass stains, mud stains, and dirt stains out of my son’s WHITE baseball pants, something I’ll do 2-4 times a week for the next four months. I thought we’d gotten smarter after last year’s BLACK baseball pants, but not so much. There I stood at the sink, scrubbing for 20 minutes, followed by a several-hour Oxi-Clean soaking, followed by a machine wash and line dry. So I shared this post and it felt real. It felt like I was sharing my truth. But I’ll be honest, I fell in the Facebook trap. I put my voice out there, and then I doubted it. Was I complaining for complaining’s sake? Was I not grateful enough for all the wonderful things that come from my son’s participation on the baseball team? Should I have ONLY shared the awesome things about baseball season starting instead of this very real, but probably silly baseball mom annoyance? I got to overthinking. I got to doubting my voice. I deleted the post. I wrapped two red rubber bands around my phone so I wouldn’t go into Facebook and start doubting my voice again.

I’m doubting the internal voice that’s been telling me for years that I should get my hair chopped off. “Chopped off.” Those aren’t pretty words. That’s not the most eloquent way to say I’d like to get my hair cut VERY short. But that’s the brutal truth of it. “Chopped off.” Since we had two rounds of lice through our house three years ago, I’ve worn my hair up 80-90% of days. I haven’t gotten my hair cut in seven months. I’ve worn my hair up 100% of days since I returned from Africa. I want to wear more than ponytails and buns, especially as I approach 40, but I’m super low maintenance when it comes to hair. Even though my husband strongly prefers long hair, he’s given me permission to cut it. He knows I’ve been talking about this for three or four years, and thinks I really, truly want to do this. The haircut appointment’s made April 26th. I’m 80-95% convinced I’m going super short. But I’ve not fully convinced myself. I’m not sure I can trust that internal voice.

This morning as we were getting ready for the day, my husband initiated a conversation about shoes and clothing items he’ll need to fit in one of our upcoming monthly budgets. When he said “NEED” I assumed he’d mention dress jeans, dress shirts, and casual, but cool short-sleeve shirts he’s been talking about needing for business trip nights out. All things he legitimately and likely needs right now. Instead, he started with shoes. Boots, in fact. He has two pair of boots, both he’s purchased in the past four years, one that still seems and looks brand new to me. Needless to say, a difference of opinion on “NEED” vs. “WANT” boiled to the surface. I dove too far into detail about the condition of his current boots when all he WANTED was new boots. Things went too far, too quick. Words were said. He apologized. And I felt bad for having expressed any opinion in the first place. Why should I stop him from getting new boots if he wants them? After all, he’s the one bringing in all the money right now. And I’m not. I doubted my voice.

Sometimes I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Sometimes we don’t know. We really don’t know.

So here I am. On the upper level of a high-end grocery store. Oddly enough, this is one of my favorite places to write. It’s fairly quiet here, but there are enough people to remind me I’m among the living.

I promised myself I’d write and work on my books every Tuesday and Thursday between the first week of January and May 10th, my daughter’s last day of preschool. I haven’t kept that promise 100%, but I’ve written most days and made a lot of headway. Where the books are going and the timing I had planned isn’t as crystal clear with my dad’s lung transplant in the wings.

More fire. More refining. More defining.

My voice. His voice.

Knock the enemy dead.

When I sat to write at this high-end grocery store this morning, I looked left to a meeting of elders. Honestly, I have no clue why they were there or what they were doing. But I kept noting this man across the table. He held a book. He read aloud. I sensed his wisdom, his kindness, even through the paneled-glass windows. I’ve never seen the man in my life.

As he exited the room, he laid his hand on my shoulder gently, far more than a split second, and said “Good Morning.”

Good morning. I see you.

Good morning. You’re here.

Good morning. Wake to the voice inside.

Good morning. Wake to your life.

Good morning. Trust God’s got this.

Good morning. It’s another day.

Good morning. It’ll all work out.

Good morning. Your voice, your place in this world is important.

Good morning.

I started a re-entry post, got all the way to 384 words and decided it wasn’t right. So here goes. My second try. My second shot. My best attempt to tell you where I’ve been these past two weeks.

No need to beat around the bush.

I need to write something bold, something brave, something public even though it’s not perfectly composed.

So let’s jump right in.

Let’s start with this bombshell of a reality.

Some of us need to start feeling ALL the feelings.

That’s right.

That’s what I said.

I’m truth telling today.

Have you anesthetized yourself?

Have you anesthetized your life so it’s clean, pretty, tidied up good?

Have you anesthetized your emotions so all you are is a robot, living in the gray middle ground of safe, don’t offend, don’t ruffle any feathers?

Yep, that’s me.

How about you?

Anesthetized.

Blah. Blah. Blah blah blah.

Anesthetized.

It definitely doesn’t describe all of you, but undoubtedly some of you.

Perhaps you’ve gone dead. Perhaps you’ve turned parts of you off. Perhaps you lost your fire, forgot how to cry, or don’t ever get angry anymore. Perhaps you play nice guy, good girl, or I’m down with that ALL the time. Perhaps you say you don’t care when you really care a whole lot. Perhaps you’re fearful and you play brave. Perhaps you’re dying inside and nobody knows. Perhaps you’re crying a river behind closed shades and everyone thinks you’re winning every corner of life. Perhaps you’re insecure hiding behind the security of jobs, money, bigger cars and bigger bank accounts. Perhaps you don’t have a clue as to what the purpose of your life is and you’re pretending you got this, man. Perhaps you’re ticked off and you haven’t let on for one minute that something’s irking you. Perhaps you’re wishing for a friend and you haven’t a clue how to be one so you just keep pretending it’s all good. Perhaps you want to rock the world upside down, but you’ve played meek as a mouse your whole life long. Perhaps you have a whole lot of opinion, but you’ve decided it’s best to just shut up and zip your lips. Perhaps you’re vibrant and lively, but clean and easy doesn’t rock the boat nearly as much. Perhaps you were hurt badly and you’re having a really hard time forgiving, but you let those burdens fester until they dry you up inside. Perhaps you’re jealous, envious of their vacation, their home, their pool, their children, their career, their spring wardrobe, their holiness, their carefree, optimistic lifestyle, but you blunt it and play fake. “Yay, we’re so glad for you!” when inside you’re dying, won’t acknowledge you haven’t tended your soul for a decade, maybe more. Perhaps you love the Lord, but you’re playing secular to be liked. Perhaps you want to be independent, but you let everyone wait on you hand and foot because it’s easier that way. Perhaps you’re addicted and you don’t know how to handle life anymore, so you numb and blind yourself to your dangerous reality because it’s easier that way. Perhaps you haven’t sat down for a minute to ponder what’s going on in your life, so you keep running and doing and working and trying hard to quiet the reality in front of you. Perhaps you’re tired, but nobody’s there to help so you suck it up. Perhaps this world feels all too much and you just can’t do it anymore, but everybody else seems to be running the race, so shut up and shape up and ship out because it works for everyone else, so why not you? Perhaps you need help, but you never ask. Perhaps you’ve blamed and shamed yourself for years, for all the things you did wrong, for all the ways you went wrong, and you push it away, you push it away some more, but it festers and you ignore it and you numb it and that little voice won’t stop talking, but you listen and keep it quiet, to yourself. Perhaps you need to grieve, but you shove it down because there is no time for grief. Perhaps you have opinions, big opinions about politics, but you keep quiet because you don’t want to rock the boat. Perhaps you eat doughnuts, fast food, endless energy drinks and fudge chunk brownies late at night. Perhaps you work out like a mad person. You count every calorie, watch every morsel in some pursuit of better, more, less, I’ll be better if, I’ll be better when mentality. Perhaps you’re playing angry when really you’re just plain hurt. Perhaps you’re hurt and you’re just plain numb. Perhaps you’re numb because you’ve never let anyone see ALL of you.

Yes, we anesthetize ourselves.

It’s true. And it’s no good.

Searing and singing the bottom, top and middle gray-grounds of our emotions is toxic, troubling and terrifying.

It’s better to be reserved, you say.

Better to hold it in.

Better to be kind and nice, patient and understanding.

Better to suck it up.

Better to use good judgement.

Better to be discerning.

Yes, have a discerning spirit.

For the sake of those who need to hear it, let me say this…

Some of us have been far too discerning for far too long.

Stop discerning every detail up, down and sideways.

Here’s why…

At its worst, hyperactive discernment leads to hyper-vigilant awareness of ourselves, our emotions and our surroundings, which leads us overthinkers, overachievers and people pleasers to believe the best solution is to anesthetize ourselves and our lives.

Stop. anesthetizing. everything.

Good.

Good enough.

Fine.

FINE is no longer FINE.

FINE is an anesthetized life.

Let us feel all the feelings.

I cannot and will not live anesthetized any longer.

I must practice authenticity.

I must live with integrity.

I must show how I feel.

I must speak up when I don’t feel right about something.

I must tell you when I don’t understand.

I must tell you when you’ve crossed the line. Gracefully, of course.

I must tell you when you hurt me, when that doesn’t work for me, when you’re trying to shut down part of me and I don’t want to be shut down anymore.

I must work through my emotions instead of letting them simmer down in.

I must not hide.

I must be true to myself.

I must be true to the world.

Anesthetized people. Let’s wake. Let’s rise. Let’s be who we are. Let’s stop hiding and harboring it in. Let’s live. Let’s live on the fringes and everywhere in-between. Let’s live WHOLE lives instead of SAFE lives. Anesthetized is safe. Safe is good, but let’s be honest, it’s not that good. Let’s live boldly. Bravely. Let’s gain a little ground for the sake of authenticity.

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the anesthetized life.

Whole living.

Authentic living.

The world needs all of us, not just the safe, pretty parts of us.

How about that for something to ponder?

Fire up.

Awaken, precious soul.

Rise up and feel again.

 

Dearest Blog Readers,

My iPhone died late this afternoon. I tried a bunch of things and nothing’s working to fix it. Looks like I’m going to have to bring it into AT&T tomorrow to see what’s wrong.

For some odd reason, the temporary death of my iPhone caused me to have a significant revelation this evening.

Something is off with me.

Something is not sitting well with my soul.

My last day of work as a 14 1/2 year speech-language therapist was December 18, 2014.

That was followed by two months of my husband’s eye cancer.

That was followed by two months of hefty spring cleaning and acclimating to new normal.

That was followed by a crazy busy summer, home full-time with our three children for the first time ever.

That was followed by September through December 2015, four of the crazy-busiest, all-encompassing AND life-giving months I’ve experienced in my life.

That four month, crazy-busy period was followed by January and February 2016, which have been the quietest, LEAST BUSY months in MY. ENTIRE. LIFE.

How odd is that?

Since the first week of January, I’ve been spending every Tuesday and Thursday working on a long-standing dream. Writing books. I’m working on a children’s book series. The first two children’s books are fully drafted and have been edited MANY times. I think they’re good, potentially very good and unique, too, but doubt and disbelief definitely get in the way. The third children’s book is a crappy first draft that needs at least 500 words edited out before it has any sort of viability. The fourth book is adult nonfiction. It’s a slow go. SLOW. VERY SLOW. It will likely be a year or two or five before it’s viable. But I’m going. I’m moving on it.

I’m certain God’s granted me these months of quiet space for a very good reason. He’s given me quiet before the storm, or quiet to work on these books. Perhaps BOTH. Either way, I’m doing my part. I’m taking advantage of the quietest space I’ve had in my adult life.

For months, I felt as if I’d emerged from a wilderness or captivity, but was standing at the bottom of a wall looking straight up. I wasn’t sure how to get over the wall and was feeling stuck.

In December and January, I had revelation not once, but three times, that God was going to take care of moving that wall, NOT me. I’ve felt freedom in that realization. I no longer feel stuck like that.

But since that revelation, I’ve felt more and more that I’m LOST. Or maybe I’m drowning due to my own lack of faith. 14 months ago, I took a major leap of faith, arguably the biggest leap of faith I’ve ever taken. I’m in the water. I’m in the deepest deep. But I’ve lost sight of something. I’m feeling a certain panic about the complete UNknown that comes with a leap of faith. I have no idea what’s next. I have no guarantee of what’s going to happen next week, next month, next year or five years from now when it comes to this leap of faith to focus on writing, photography, and staying home with my children. I can’t promise myself or my husband, my family or anyone else what’s going to happen next. There IS no paved path. It’s just me and God here. If I’m completely honest, this is freaking me out a bit (or a lot). It’s testing my faith. I’m simultaneously bored and all wired up. I’m simultaneously full of faith and lacking faith in what God has planned next.

But there’s something else.

I’ve become aware of a grief that’s in me. It’s come out sideways for a long time now. I wasn’t aware it was grief until a few months ago. Now I know better.

Yesterday, I watched a video of researcher, author and speaker Brene Brown. It was about grief and allowing ourselves to say good bye to some things before we’re fully able to embrace and move into what’s next.

That video resonated with me. Deeply.

I’m believing more and more that I need to grieve some things.

This is private business.

This will not be public.

This is for me and me only.

I need to get with God.

I need to do some journaling.

I need to create some crappy art, to do some crappy writing that nobody will see or judge except me.

I’ve already visited one pastor for some conversation. I’m thinking I need to visit another.

I need to give myself time to explore this grief. What is this? Who and what do I need to grieve before I can move on to what’s next?

What is it about me that needs to move out of the way so I can fully embrace this next season God has for me? Thank you, my friend Monica, for helping me see that I NEED TO MOVE OUT OF THE WAY.

Thirteen months ago, my writer friend, Kris Camealy, told me that my “five point plan [wasn’t] going to work anymore.” I have NO idea how she knew that. But she was spot on. My five-point plan isn’t working anymore. I’ve been trying to work a five-point plan, and let me share a little insight. Five-point plans don’t work in God’s economy. Five-point plans aren’t compatible with leaps of faith. Five-point plans don’t cut it when you need to grieve some things you weren’t even aware you needed to grieve.

It’s time.

I’m nearly 40 years old. I’ve already told you I’m going to ROCK my 40s and beyond. I WILL do just that.

I’m also keenly aware that I have no plan B. I’m already IN plan B. Plan B WILL BE God’s way.

There’s been a struggle, here.

I haven’t cracked the struggle wide open yet.

But I’m willing. And ready.

I didn’t expect this. I didn’t plan this AT. ALL. It’s not a part of the five-point plan. Honestly, this all just occurred to me TONIGHT. But I’m taking a blogging break, effective immediately, for a minimum of two weeks. We’re in the middle of a series titled “Love Letters to Friends.” Four posts remain. God’s up to something with this series. And those last four posts are important to me. I’m not willing to write those posts and move forward unless I’m ready. Tonight, it came to my attention that I’m not ready. Not quite yet, anyway.

I’m not ready to finish this blog series until I do some work.

I’m not ready to move to the next step in writing those books and book proposals until I do some work.

I’m not ready to break free until I do some work.

I’m not ready until I’ve cracked the struggle wide open.

I’m not ready to move into my future until I’ve grieved the things of the past.

And I’m not fully surrendered to God until I COMPLETELY surrender my strong people-pleasing tendencies. This is a problem, people. Taking a leap of faith is not a time to worry about people, what they think, how they respond, or how they don’t respond. I thought I’ve been real, but I’m worrying too much if I’m resonating. And it’s spilling over into my book writing.

I have some work to do, friends.

So long.

Farewell.

I want to be better for you.

I’m called to this. So I have to work through this.

Offline for now. Online again, once I’ve worked through some things.

Thanks. I adore you for reading and understanding and hanging in there with me. Please pray I’ll come back better. It’s time for soul care and deep digging.

 

Dear Friend,

I sigh as I sit down to type this letter. Do you know why? Because I’ve neglected you. I’ve outright neglected you. It’s not okay. It’s simply not okay.

Back in the day, we were best friends. You’re so humble, kind and gracious to have still called me best friend this past year. But I’m afraid I haven’t acted like a best friend. AT. ALL.

Back in the day, we were active friends. We lived together. We did lots of stuff together. We shared our deepest, darkest secrets with one another at the dinner table. Long walks and late night conversations bonded us forever. Not to mention all the crazy fun we had together. Honestly, I’ve never had so much fun as I did with you.

You made me free.

You made me laugh.

You made me feel special.

You noticed all the little things.

And you always had the capacity to go deep.

Back in the day, we spent a lot of time together. In fact, I’ve spent more time with you than 90% of friends I’ve had in nearly 40 years. Time. It’s worth something. It means something. It meant something to me. Time means we went deep. Time means we were true. Time means you saw me, and I saw you. Flaws, beauty and all.

Back in the day, I’m sure we would’ve never imagined that you’d move there and I’d be here. SO far. Yet so close.

What does this mean for us?

It means I haven’t seen you in something like seven years. Maybe more?

Wow.

I’m sighing again, friend.

That’s too long.

Distance made me immune. Distance caused me to believe we’ll never recapture the essence of the friendship we once had. Distance made me believe it’s okay to NOT respond in a timely fashion. Distance made me forget your awesome, beautiful, gracious humanity. Distance told me “Hey, no worries. It’s not like we can go out on Saturday night, anyway.” Distance made me inconsistent and terribly unpredictable as a friend.

I’m not nearly as awesome at friendship as I once was.

And I’ve proven myself to be a horrible long-distance friend.

I’ve neglected to return phone calls. Worse yet, my best excuses were “so busy,” “too busy,” and “too crazy around here.”

I’ve neglected to return emails in a timely fashion. You’re AMAZING at email, and I’m hit and miss when it comes to responding to personal email of any length, width or depth. It irks me beyond belief that you sent an email wishing me Happy Birthday and Happy Anniversary last July 4th, and I found it in my inbox a couple weeks ago, realizing I likely never even responded.

I neglected to acknowledge your 40th birthday with a call or card.

And yeah, back to email. It seems like every time I throw you a tough one, you respond immediately, with depth, sincerity and love. And I don’t respond for another month or two, three or four. What’s up with me and this long-distance friendship thing? Clearly, I did MUCH, MUCH better when you were in my daily physical space.

I’m running myself into a rut, and I know this isn’t what you would want for me. You always want the best. You always love, even when it’s not justified. You always send the sincerest, even when I’ve been more selfish than I care to admit. You’re always honest. Always kind. Always true. Always loyal. Always FULL of grace. Forgiving. Thoughtful. And humble.

Sighing again, friend. This is weighing on my heart.

I don’t know what to do.

Honestly, I hate talking on the phone. I just need to get better at email. And somehow…we need to see each other again and maybe more often.

Seven plus years is too long.

We need a night or two together.

Girl’s night. Just you and me.

Then maybe another girl’s night with some of our old friends.

Then an afternoon hanging with our kids at the park. They play. We chat. We eat picnic lunch. However long it takes.

No rush.

No distractions.

Just us.

Catching up. In real life. In real time.

Yeah, that would be good.

That would be awesome.

I’m sorry, friend.

Please accept my apologies.

I know I’ve already addressed this up and down, and I know you’re filled to the brim with GRACE, GRACE and MORE GRACE, but I’m wholly convicted. I’ve not been good at this long-distance friend thing.

I don’t have a great solution, but one thing’s for sure…you’re worth more than I’ve given.

This, I need you to know. 

You’re still in my heart. You’re still there. Nothing’s changed deep down.

Above all, I pray you find a true heart hidden in this letter.

A heart still loyal.

A heart that still calls you friend.

A heart that remembers the best days, treasures the bond, and expects hope and a future. For us. As friends. For now…LONG, LONG-distance best friends.

 

 

 

This is part of a month-long series on friendship titled Love Letters to Friends. To read the rest of the posts in the series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the series introductory post. Scroll to the bottom and you’ll find all the posts listed and linked for your reading pleasure.

Dearest You,

I’m pretty sure you wanted to be friends with me. You reached out to me. Personally. On more than one occasion. FOUR times to be exact. I’m quite embarrassed to admit that I declined all four invitations.

Why did I say no? I don’t know.

I’ve likened myself to you more than once. I see myself in you. You and me? We’re kind of the same. You’re the high action version of me. The version of me that achieves and accomplishes and knows everyone. The version of me that’s smart and witty, lovely and involved. The version of me that “does it all,” and does it all well.

But for some reason, that version of me isn’t working right now. I’m all pooped out. I’m all worked out. I’ve achieved. I’ve done it all. But yeah. I’m kind of tired.

I need time to explore the creative side of me. I need time to determine if my dreams have meat to them, or if they’re just puffy clouds of cotton candy high in the sky. I need time to breathe and be, and figure out what life’s gonna look like through and far beyond my forties.

You and me? Yeah. We’re kind of the same.

Deep down, I wonder if you remind me of the person I “should” be, the person I “could” be, the person I believe the world would prefer me to be. Yeah. That’s probably right. Totally right.

Honestly. Shame on me for putting my insecurities in the middle of a friendship you wanted to forge. I should have just been myself, ALL of myself, and said YES to every one of those first four invitations.

But before I go off the deep end and dramatize this as if it’s a done deal…

I did reach out once. (It went well.)

And I did say yes, TWICE, to your most recent attempts to include me in something super cool. (I give you major props. It was as super cool as it seemed.)

But truth be told, we’re much more acquaintances than we are friends.

That’s my fault. That’s my insecurity getting in the way of friendship.

Please accept my sincerest apologies.

If you ever reach out again with a personal one-on-one invitation, perhaps I should seriously consider a YES.

 

 

 

This is part of a month-long series on friendship titled Love Letters to Friends. To read the rest of the posts in the series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the series introductory post. Scroll to the bottom and you’ll find all the posts listed and linked for your reading pleasure.