the power of vulnerability

Brene Brown: The power of vulnerability

 

"Courage means telling the story of who you are with your whole heart." 

Vulnerability is incredibly powerful. As Brene Brown tells us, it is the source of real, deep, authentic human connection and relationship. Therefore, we can say that it is also the source of joy and belonging and love and growth. But vulnerability is also incredibly uncomfortable. Vulnerability means admitting we are not perfect; it means taking risks when there's no guarantee; it means owning up to failure; it means being gracious with ourselves; it means accepting that life is messy and hard, that sometimes we feel like we are drowning, that sometimes we simply can't do it all even though we desperately want to prove to the world that we can.

I went on a women's retreat not too long ago to a beautiful hotel about 45 minutes away from the city. There were about 30 of us staying together, enjoying the magnificent gardens, the pool, the quiet, the no-kids-allowed, the gym (HA yeah, right). I spent hours roaming through the gardens, running the trails, smelling the flowers, listening to the birds, reading in the sunshine. It was a weekend of much-needed rest, of much-needed outside-time, but, most importantly, of much-needed connection. I had only met a few of the women before the retreat, and, as an introvert, I was honestly anticipating a whole lot of exhausting "mingling." (We introverts really dread that mingling). But, as we all listened and learned together, as we talked about our stories, our heartache and our struggles, I began to feel a belonging that I didn't expect. The more that the other women were vulnerable with me, the more I was able to open up to them about my own struggles, and I even discovered aspects of myself that I hadn't realized before: deep, hidden shame and numbness that I've worked hard to strangle and suppress over the years. These women, by telling me their stories and sharing their burdens, helped me to realize the way that I've been handling my own pain. After Merideth passed, something hurt and angry within me, something deeper than my own consciousness, chose to numb the pain and the fear and the loss. And this numbing, this avoiding of all things painful, also made me numb to all things good; it numbed me to deep, beautiful joy, to love, to lightness and laughter and peace, as well as to human connection. It isolated me, and it emptied me. And it took other people to help me chisel away at it. It took vulnerability, both theirs and mine, to relieve and release me. It wasn't pretty. And it certainly wasn't comfortable. But, my goodness, it was good. It made me confront a lot of hurt, a lot of pain and fear that I've tried to avoid, but it also relieved me of carrying my burdens alone. 

When we let other people see us, and not just the version of us that we want them to see, but the real, authentic, messy, crazy us that we are, it draws people in. Why? Because they're messy and crazy and drowning, too! And by letting them see that we aren't perfect, it allows them to let down their guard and their walls and be real and authentic and messy with us. And that's connection; that's true, deep relationship, one in which we can share deep fears and deep loss and deep hurt, but also share profound joy and authentic love. When I look closely at my life, I see that the greatest relationships I have are the ones in which I don't have to pretend to have it all together. Is anyone ever drawn to "perfect" people? Seeing someone who "has everything together" (if there even is such a person?) sparks envy and unrelateability, not intimacy and confidence. To have the relationships that we so desire, that we were created for, we must be willing to let down our walls, to let others see into our real lives, to see us when we binge-watch Scandal and eat cookies for breakfast, to see us when we're going through a breakup, to see us when we get a bad haircut or can't pay our bills or can't make our hair into the perfect mesy bun or can't please everybody around us.

Isn't this what we all really long for? True connection with people who see us and love us fully, mess included? If it is, then we really must "let ourselves be seen. {We must} love with our whole hearts, even when there's no guarantee, to practice joy and gratitude, and to believe that we are enough," because (and I'm adding this), our Savior made us enough, and that's how He loves us. 

"To feel vulnerable is to be ALIVE."

2 years.

two years.

It doesn't sound like a very long time at all. Just 24 months. 730 days. 17, 520 hours. If you think about it, that's nothing in the grand scheme of things.

But I'm not sure that days or hours or minutes are really the best way portray or measure time; they just don't accurately convey how much things change, or how much we change, during a given period. Two years is easy to say, easy to think of. But what if we measured time in a different way? Maybe in tears shed? In life lived and lost? In people we love? If we measured time by how much we change, by how much we learn and grow and grieve, I think we would see that, for many of us, two years is a very, very long time.

Two years ago, a line was drawn, a big, thick, dividing line that has forever changed how I view life: everything since that day has been divided into the "before" and "after." I find myself looking at pictures and thinking, "Was this before it happened? Was it after?" It's become almost a point of reference, a concrete moment in time that changed everything. People say that time heals all wounds. Perhaps that's true. But, in my experience, no amount of time can ever get rid of the scars that those wounds create. And sometimes, watching the wound heal and slowly fade is just as painful as the wound itself. Maybe I don't want it to fade. Maybe I want to feel it the same way that I did when it was brand new. Because it proves that it was there, that she was there, and I don't want that connection to her to ever fade. 

When I woke up this morning, two years after Merideth's passing, I didn't want to get out of bed. I wanted to close the curtain and sleep the day away in total darkness. That's the thing about grief: it's exhausting, and sometimes, we need a day to just lean into it and let it consume us. So, I spent the day with Brandi Carlile, which seemed only fitting; her low, rich voice takes me back to Merideth like no other, and it brings with it both a joy and a sadness that don't really contradict, but rather heighten the strength and experience of the other. I heard the slow piano, and I remembered Merideth telling me about this particular song, jokingly proclaiming in her silly Southern accent that she was sure that Brandi wrote the song specifically for her,

“Tell me, did I go on a tangent? 

Did I lie through my teeth?

Did I cause you to stumble on your feet?

Did I bring shame on my family?

Did it show when I was weak?

Whatever you've seen, that wasn't me.

That wasn't me, oh that wasn't me.”

Bum bum bum bum.

Sometimes the world just feels so dark, so heavy. But, if there's anything I've learned in these past two years, it's that dawn comes at the end of the night. There's hope. All I can do is hold onto that promise through the darkness, and in the dawn, I'll hear Brandi's voice begin anew, 

“I wanna believe, do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet?

When you fall I will get you on your feet.

Do I spend time with my family?

Did it show when I was weak?

When that's what you've seen, that will be me.

That will be me. Oh, that will be me. ”

You are a blessing, and I love you, sweet Merideth. I am so proud of who you are. Every ounce of love that I have in my poor heart goes out to you. I pray that it reaches you.

grace like rain.

Rain changes things.

It changes the environment, how the world looks and feels. It changes the smell of the air, the color of our surroundings. It changes moods, emotions, plans.

Like I said, rain changes things. 

I was strolling down Avenida Central in downtown San Jose the other day, and I watched as a huge, ominous cloud moved over the mountains and drifted toward the city. The sun was blistering hot, clothes sticking to my skin; the smell of exhaust hung in the air, stagnant. That big, dark cloud looked like salvation at that moment, and the closer it moved toward the city, the darker it became. The air cooled, and the wind picked up, and it was then that I began to notice the small, subtle shifts in the world around me...Pace quickened. High heels clank clank clanked harder on the pavement. Crowds scattered to find shelter. Taxis were hailed. Buses were filled. Umbrellas were opened. The whole mood of the city shifted. It became hurried, but relaxed at the same time, a moment of both panic and relief from the sweltering heat.

Clearly, rain means different things to different people. To some, it means traffic jams, crowded buses, expensive taxi rides, slippery roads. To others it means ruined hairdos, wet shoes, canceled plans, muddy kids. Still others, it means warm fires, cute rain boots, good books.

As for me, I've never minded the rain.

In fact, warm summer rain storms are pretty high on my list of favorite things. I love the way that the cool drops sizzle on the hot pavement, creating an eery, almost romantic mist that hovers right above the ground. I love the way a storm brings a smell of freshness and renewal, and the way it seems to induce a mysterious, yet soothing, quietness to the world. And since it's pretty much always summer in Costa Rica, every rain storm is a summer shower. And I absolutely love it.

So, as I strolled to the bus stop in San Jose, dodging umbrellas and reckless taxi drivers, I relished in the sweet feeling of the cool raindrops on my skin. I let them wash over me, accepting all that they brought with them: the wet clothes, the soggy shoes, the dripping hair. And I realized that no matter what I or anyone else felt about the rain, whether it was an inconvenience, a nuisance, or a gift; it is a truth. We have to accept and embrace it.

And I  started to think that grace is a little bit like that. Lately, it has been difficult for me to fully accept God's grace. I feel too far gone; I've messed up one too many times. Grace just doesn't make sense to my human mind. Punishment makes sense. Justice makes sense. We learn at young age that punishment is a natural consequence to any disobedience or misbehaior: when we fight with our siblings, we get put in time-out; when we talk back to our parents, we get spanked or sent to our room or forced to sit on the bathroom sink with soap in our mouths (A Christmas Story style). It's a simple cause and effect, and I can understand it; it follows the natural human order of things.

But grace isn't like that. Grace doesn't make sense. We mess up, and instead of being punished, we're forgiven; we fall down, and we are helped up to our wobbly feet; we run away, spend all of our money, lie and cheat and steal, and we are welcomed home with a warm embrace.

I struggle to accept this grace gift simply because I am so very aware that I'm completely undeserving of it. Sometimes I am tempted to scream at God, "Stop forgiving me! I'm unworthy, and it's just a matter of time before I mess up again." But He keeps forgiving me anyway. He keeps showing mercy anyway. And I find myself both comforted and oddly troubled by that fact, almost frustrated that there's nothing I can do to earn my way back into God's good graces. It would almost be easier if I could "do a good deed" to make up for all of my shortcomings. Earning is something we are accustomed to, but free grace is disconcerting. After all, we are taught our whole lives that nothing is free, that nothing comes without hard work and dedication. But then Jesus comes along and tells us, "Hey, here's this free gift. Here's this grace that transforms and renews; you did nothing to earn it, but I freely give it to you out of love. Just accept it in faith." And that's all we can do: accept His gift of forgiveness. All we can do is sit still in His love. All we can do is let His mercy cleanse us from the inside out.

All we can do is let His grace wash over us like the rain.

We fall short, but His grace is more.

So we rejoice.

service project in snapshots

turn on the faucet.

“I thought about how we feel lonely, sometimes to the point of tears, but we don’t let those tears come because we are not supposed to cry. You need to turn on the faucet. Wash yourself with the emotion. It won’t hurt you. It will only help. Let go, let the tears flow, feel it completely – but eventually be able to say, ‘All right, that was my moment with loneliness. I’m not afraid of feeling lonely, but now I’m going to put that loneliness aside and know that there are other emotions in the world, and I’m going to experience them as well.” Tuesdays with Morrie

Today is one of those days.

It's one of those days where I feel overwhelmed and under-qualified. One of those days when my loneliness is almost palpable, as if I could reach out and grab it with my bare hands and sink my nails deeply into it. One of those days that I just wish I could climb into bed with Mom and curl up with a good book next to my sleepy dogs while Dad makes pancakes in the kitchen. It's one of those days that I want to be able to call my sister-in-law and go on a long walk through the woods by the river. One of those days that I wish I could talk to Merideth, or go to a coffee shop with someone who actually knows me, who knows my story and my past and who loves me anyway. One of those days that I question what on earth I'm doing here, where my life is really going, and what could possibly be the purpose of it all. It's one of those days that I feel like my heart is breaking all over again, that my body and mind can't possibly take it anymore, and I'm almost tempted jump on a plane just to feel the arms of family and friends embrace me, like a healing and protective force that relieves the stress and loneliness and fear and hurt and uncertainty. 

One of those days that I want to escape. Just take a little break from my life. Even if it's only for a little while.

It's one of those days. 

I wish I had some incredible wisdom to share at this point. I wish I could say, "ok, when you're feeling this way, all you have to do is a, b, and c, then it will all go away." I wish I could make sense of it all, to make it better with just a simple formula. But that's not real life. That's not authentic living. There's not always an easy or obvious solution. Sometimes things are just hard, and we can't just turn them off or look the other way, no matter how much we'd like to. Even when we use other means of escape, our problems or emotions are always there waiting for us like a loyal friend when we finally turn off the TV or log out of FaceBook or shut the novel or put down the bottle.

Sometimes we just have to turn on the faucet, as Mitch Albom says, to let the emotions and experiences penetrate us fully and wash over us with all of the force and aggression that they can muster. Only then can we see the hope at the end of the tunnel, no matter how long or dark that tunnel may be. Because there is hope, there is always something to grasp. And today, even more than all other days, we can be sure that it is finished, that He has done it. And there is always, ALWAYS, hope in that fact.

I was recently reminded of an old song that had a very significant impact on my heart when I first discovered the love of Christ. So, today, I'm letting those words fall over me like the warmth of an old, familiar blanket, and I'm living in the light of their Truth as I turn on the faucet.

I pray that you hear the love of Christ in these words, as well.

"I hear You say,
'My love is over
It's underneath
It's inside
It's in between

The times that you doubt me
When you can't feel
The times that you question
Is this for real?

The times you're broken
The times that you mend
The times you hate me
And the times that you bend

Well my love is over
It's underneath
It's inside
It's in between

The times that you're healing
And when your heart breaks
The times that you feel like you've fallen from grace
 
The times you're hurting
The times that you heal
The times you go hungry and are tempted to steal
 
In times of confusion
In chaos and pain
I'm there in your sorrow under the weight of your shame
 
I'm there through your heart-ache
I'm there in the storm
My love I will keep you by my power alone

I don't care where you've fallen or where you have been
I'll never forsake you
My love never ends
It never ends'"

He is Risen. He has defeated. He has loved us with a furious kind of love. He has grieved and hurt and felt forsaken. And He has conquered the world.

So we can rejoice.

Listen here: Times by 10th Avenue North

holy holes.

I was challenged today by the wise and inspiring Brennan Manning to do some self-reflection, to consider who I really am, beyond the facade, beyond the smooth, shiny labels that I often hide behind. Young Life-er. Adventure-seeker. Traveler. Friends watcher. Ex pat. Christian. UGA grad. Athens native. Spanish lover. Reader. Writer. Friend. Daughter. 

In his book The Furious Longing of God, Manning pours out his heart in desperate, reckless honesty,

"I'm a bundle of paradoxes and contradictions. I believe in God with all my heart. And in any given day when I see a nine-year-old girl raped and murdered by a sex maniac or a four-year-old boy slaughtered by a drunken driver, I wonder if God even exists. I love and I hate. I feel better about feeling good. I feel guilty if I don't feel guilty. I'm wide open, I'm locked in. I'm trusting and suspicious. I'm honest and I still play games...and that's just some of the rest of Brennan."

  

In the midst of his deep, dark confessions, he writes, "There is the you that people see and then there is the rest of you."  I stopped after that sentence, and I decided to use my morning to do some searching, searching for the "rest of me." And I discovered that there is a whole lot inside, so many desires, hopes, dreams, fears, grief, joy, pain, and overwhelming, aching love that all work together to make up the woman that I am. People. Experiences. Places. Struggles. Weaknesses. Bravery. Knee-bending grace. It's all me. Every little puzzle piece. Every relationship, past and present. Every moment, however brief. Every place and experience and emotion.

And I'll be the first to admit that it's not all pretty. There's a lot of hurt there. A lot of fear, anxiety, failure, stress, sadness. A lot of contradictions, too. But it all adds up to the rest of me.

the rest of me...

struggles with faith, with the belief that God exists.  

wants to belong.

misses home, everything and everyone familiar.  

strives too hard.

wants to be with people.
loves to be alone. 
too often compares myself to others.
overindulges in all things sugar.
sometimes feels guilty.
laughs a whole lot.  
hopes to fall in love. 
thrives in nature.
is a hunter of beauty.
tries to live in the light.
is sometimes seduced by the darkness.
over-analyzes. 
loves people. 
is plagued by doubt.
fears failure. 
craves authenticity.  
sinks in grace.   
escapes in books. 
seeks true friendships. 
lives in freedom.
asks questions.
is desperate for Jesus. 
grieves a great loss.  
is always learning.
fears time. 
is nostalgic.  
values raw honesty. 
longs for a life of adventure. 
searches for truth.  
wants to feel everything. 
strives to be brave.  

And that's only a small part of my story.

I am a sinner, saved by grace.

That's a larger and more important story.

Only God, in his furious longing, knows the whole of it. 

He covers us. He longs for our presence. He responds in tenderness.

And He fills our holy holes. 

"Jesus came not only for those who skip morning meditations, but also for real sinners, thieves, adulterers, and terrorists, for those caught up in squalid choices and failed dreams. Those of us scarred by sin are called to closeness with Him around the banquet table. The men and women who are truly filled with light are those who gaze deeply into the darkness of their own imperfect existence."

wyld life video: we believe in kids.

I think sometimes we don't give kids enough credit.

We assume they're too young.
Too immature.
Too self-focused.
Too unconcerned.
Too "underdeveloped."

I often get caught up in thinking that kids, or "adolescents," live life on the surface, skimming the very tips of various issues, but unable and unwilling to go deeper. We see their smiles, hear their laughter, listen to their big dreams. And we simply take them at face-value.

They're kids, after all. Middle Schoolers. High Schoolers. These are supposed to be the "best years of their life." They don't have a care in the world. They don't ponder the bigger aspects or issues of life. Why should they? They're "just kids."

It's all so simple. They're all so simple.

 

But I started wondering what would happen if we didn't assume. What would happen if we dug a little deeper? What would happen if we didn't automatically presume that they didn't understand? What if we finally took a deep breath, overcame our assumptions, and actually asked them?

Last week at WyldLife Club, that's exactly what we did. We asked kids. We asked them what they thought of the God of the universe. We asked them what they wanted to learn. We asked them what questions they had. About anything. About everything. We asked them what they wanted God to be in their lives, if they wanted Him in their lives at all.

And this is what they came up with.

Click Here--We Believe in Kids