Thoughts on faith reconstructed, being alcohol-free, dealing with disability,and living transparently (and somehow keeping a sense of humor)
Hello, dear readers.
I am just popping in to let you know that I have added another blog to my body of work.
www.OfWitAndWhiskers.wordpress.com is a lighter blog, and is geared toward Cat Lovers (and how I became one after loathing the furry creatures most of my life.) See? Much lighter fare.
I will continue to focus on recovery, of course. Check this page, and www.WilmingtonFAVS.com, for my other blogs. As always, thank you so much for your readership! God bless you and yours.
The WordPress.com Statistic Helper Monkeys (their terminology, not mine!) prepared a 2013 annual report for TheBeggarsBakery.net. I am sharing it with YOU with a heart full of gratitude.
What a year! When I started this site to share recovery, parenting, marriage, and general life issues in an authentic way with others (and also because writing is my therapy, of course) … I did not really believe anyone would read my work. I remain amazed and so grateful that you do!
God bless you in 2014, as your support, readership, and comments have blessed me in 2013.
We are all in this thing called “life” together!
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,700 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.
On January 3rd, I will celebrate thirteen years of continuous sobriety. In getting ready to publish my testimony in full, I wanted to share what ‘hitting bottom’ was for me. I need to remember these things, so I am not doomed to repeat the past.
And I need to share it with you – in case you have touched bottom yourself, or know someone who is there now.
“Bottom” is a terrible place to be, but it is the only place that gives you enough leverage to push off.’
Hitting bottom enabled me to anchor on the true Rock, instead of drowning in the dark abyss.
I am still – forever – an alcoholic, and still – forever – in need of Grace. It is only by the grace of a savior who is willing to crouch down on the bathroom floor with me that I am saved.
It is by His grace that I live now, one day at a time.
By: Jana Greene
“Please, Jesus…please.”
My prayer was simple and desperate, my head spinning.
Crouched down against the unfamiliar toilet – in the home of the hostess for the Christmas party where I was employed.
How did this happen again? How did I let this happen again? I was so careful, careful with the first drink, nursing it politely while milling awkwardly about the crowd of coworkers. I wanted to gulp it down to ease my nerves. I was shaking when I arrived alone at the party, because I was sober then.
Sober always meant shaking.
The second drink went down a little quicker. But my hands slowly stopped quaking and with the warm fire of the drink came slight nausea. Ironic that I must drink every day now – even though my body was starting to reject alcohol vehemently.
In those days, the whites of my eyes yellowed and face bloated, every day ended with a violent vomiting session.
Every day ended with the words, “Please Jesus, please.”
Be careful, I reminded myself while I poured the third. But I was just starting to feel “normal”, laughing with the other partygoers…maybe even fitting in, just a little bit. For just a few moments…joviality. The warmest place. Then, just as always, the relaxation turned to spinning and whirling.
I worked for an elementary school that year – my coworkers were also my children’s teachers, principal and librarian. My daughters were in Kindergarten and second grade respectively. I had to be careful with the drinking on this occasion. I’d been able to hide the extent of my drinking to my coworkers, friends, husband – the world. Or so I earnestly believed. I passed off hangovers as stomach bugs and headaches as minor inconveniences. I thought I was such a clever girl.
It had been less than an hour since I’d arrived at the party, when I had my fourth drink. I was proud that I was pacing myself so well. But by the sixth (or seventh?) drink, I casually wove to the guest bathroom, taking care to lock the door behind me.
And then the sick. The warmest place filling my throat and choking me.
I hate myself, I thought, shaking with another retch. Vomit quietly!
How did I even let this happen?
I tried to asses the situation soberly, rationally. But I kept forgetting where I was. Worse, someone had gone in to the bathroom with me! I could feel the presence of another person, but I couldn’t focus enough to identify who it was. I wished they’d leave! Having someone see me at my weakest was my worst fear. I was not alone….that much I knew.
Through the door, I can tell that voices were rising over the holiday music in the living room.
Now, someone is knocking at the bathroom door! I am laying on the cold tile now, convulsing in dry-heaves, but I can still hear the knocking. I whisper to whoever is hunkered down in the bathroom with me, “Shhhh…please, don’t open it!” Pulling myself to my knees, I can see that the bathroom floor is a mess, the lovely white rug splattered with the evidence that I cannot control myself.
“Just a minute,” I say louder, trying to articulate the words.
Another knock, and then a woman’s voice. “Are you okay?”
It sounds like the school’s principal. Oh no.
“Yes,” I respond, but it sounds like “yesh.” Hot humiliation burns my face.
“Okay then….” the voice says, unconvincingly. “Okay.”
Get up, I tell myself, pulling myself up to the counter. Get up, damn you…. and fake sober!
I’d taken such care to prepare for this evening, having bought a new “little black” dress, curling my hair, and wearing just the right makeup. But my shoes are missing….where are my shoes?
If I could pull of looking okay on the outside world, I could still be okay on some level. And this night, while driving to the party, I had repeated a mantra: paceyourselfpaceyourselfpaceyourself….you can do it if you try!
This night, I promised I wouldn’t cross the line between “relaxed drunk” and obliterated, which is what always (every single day) “happened to me, in the privacy of my own home. As long as no other human being knew my secret, I was safe.
Insanity is thinking that you would be just fine, as long as nobody knew – and I could find my shoes.
Now, on the bathroom floor, I remembered it was not only my professional reputation at stake, but my children. The party-goers were same people in the first line of defense for children, my children. They would pity my beloved daughters at the very least, perhaps even … I cannot even imagine. Oh, my sweet girls – how I love them. How much better they deserve.
I raise my eyes up to the bathroom mirror, and my reflection paid homage to my dread. Eyes ringed in crimson, makeup sloughed off with sweat.
This is the mother of my beloved daughters.
Sick.
I tried to wipe my face with a wad of toilet paper as best I could, and then kneeled back down to clean the floor. It was difficult with the room spinning.
I hear a strangled whimper rise from my own throat and it swells to an involuntary sob. I try to muffle it while I rummage around in the cabinet under the sink for air freshener to cover the stench of vomit, but it is not use. The only think under the sink is a small toilet plunger and a very old bottle of White Shoulders perfume, half-full and orange with age.
I still feel whoever is in the room with me when I am misting the perfume around the bathroom. He is crouched down on the floor with me, but I still cannot discern his identity. Whoever it is, I owe him an apology. “I’m sorry,” I cry in a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
I stand up, wobbly, and smooth my hair.
I can make slight eye contact with myself in the bathroom mirror now and hold the sad, strange gaze. I am just beginning to feel like the un-numb version of myself again, the hiccup in my buzz was rapidly becoming the itch of sober reality, immediately uncomfortable. Never mind, I tell myself.
Opening the door, my boss and coworkers – my children’s teachers – are standing around casually, trying not to stare at the wreck that emerged from the bathroom.
And my thought process is simple and desperate in that moment of sickness. I have stopped politely imploring Jesus to help me, afraid that he might – and what that might mean.
Instead, I am thinking, “I need just one drink.” After all, I’m not the first person to get drunk at a company Christmas party. It’s practically expected. I will just pace myself.
I’ll just be extra-careful.
Clever, dying girl.
By: Jana Greene
I’ve been looking back on my very brief career in the airline industry recently, not out of melancholy or nostalgia, but because so many of the terms I learned while training seem to relate to my current spiritual life.
You see, I’ve been in a bit of a funk, waiting upon the Lord to reveal his plans – and himself – to me.
“I’m ready, Lord,” I tell him, impatient that his timing so out of whack with mine.
But instead of instructing me on where to let the wheels down and make a descent, I am getting: “Circle back around, be patient.”
Life in a holding pattern, it seems, is not my forte.
And so I wait, trying to trust that the Pilot knows what He is doing. He has all the credentials, certified and able to direct the course of my life. This is not his first flight. He knows his way around – the lay of the land, the circumstances of my life – since he is the mastermind of both.
He knows exactly where I’m going, and I don’t have a clue. Not having an idea of my destination only adds to my frustration.
“Thank you for flying blind with God today,” pre-flight announcements would say. If there were any. ” on your way to God-only-knows-where, for the purpose of God-only-knows-what.”
And that’s not where the air travel metaphor ends..
Right now, God is on the precipice of taking my life somewhere wonderful, but it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
So many challenges have presented lately, I feel like a Frequent Flyer who has earned the status as a hostage – having experienced too may changes in a short period of time.
And most recently, I’m just justthisclose to a full-on Tarmac Tantrum, because there has been an inordinate amount of time just sitting in the plane without even getting off the ground. Confined, and feeling slighted, the whole situation out of my control.
I’m afraid of new journeys, and resent the Comfort Compromise – even though the safety constraints are there for my well-being, I’m tired of being all buckled-in.
But when we are soaring, God at the controls – and I take enough time to look out the window instead of trying to figure everything out, the views are incredible.
“We are, once again, in a holding pattern,” I hear God’s voice crackle across the intercom.
“But you can still enjoy the view!”
Down through the clouds, I see the people milling around, as they become tiny ants on the ground. I stop to consider that my Pilot knows every thought in the heads of each “tiny ant” – and ever hair on each of their heads, so precious are them to Him.
I can’t help but admire his creation as we fly over, knowing that the majesty of mountains and vastness of the sea that confirms God’s handiwork is also manifest in the smallest cells and molecules .
He is in all. He IS all.
Why do I so often Miss that?
And as to directly answer my question, I hear:
“The Free Will sign is always illuminated,” my flight attendant – an angel – advises. “so feel free to move about your life.’
Ah, yes. The Free Will, so generously given us by God. That’s how I so often miss the things God shows me…my free will is busy focused on other, more trivial pursuits.
As the Captain indicated that we will be descending shortly, he reminds us not to fear. “you may hear changes in the engine, or feel a little turbulence, I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”
I’ve been flying in a holding pattern so long, I scarcely know what to do when Permission to Land has been directed. What shall I take with me into this new place where God has brought me?
The armor of God, of course. It’s really heavy, but absolutely essential.
His word, of course. It is how I will navigate my new surroundings.
Good friends, who have been through thick and thin, and love Christ with all of their hearts.
And faith. Never leave home without it!
And as I depart the plane, which has kept me hostage in a holding pattern for so long, God stops all of the important things he is doing to thank me for flying with him. Thank you for Trusting Him.
Stepping onto the concourse, the whole atmosphere changes, It is loud and bustling, full of people and full of opportunity. It is almost always a vastly different place than I thought I would end up.
But I know that my Pilot accompanies me on my missions every day of my life, even – especially – on a new, bumpy journeys.
It’s going to be wonderful.
By: Jana Greene
This letter is a gift to someone who is a gift to my life. I asked her permission to publish it, to which she responded:
“You have full permission to publish it if you want—I hope it inspires others to have real friendships like ours!”
Amen, Sister-Girlfriend. The world would be a much better place.
My sweet Melissa,
Do you remember the first Christmas that we became friends? Our daughters – now freshmen in college – were fourth-graders who had just declared themselves Best Friends Forever. I was a struggling, single mom, just having divorced my children’s father after fourteen years of marriage. My little girl was having a terrible time. I got her a good therapist, and tried to calm her fears of loss, which were pretty well-founded.
What she really needed was a very good friend. Your daughter was that very good friend to her.
It was a horrible, awful time in my life. I was working four jobs to feed my girls after being a stay-at-home mom all of their lives. They became latch-key kids. I became a hot mess from the guilt.
When we first met, I was holding on to my four-year-old sobriety by a single thread, it seemed, and living on high anxiety. You invited me over anyway when the girls were having a play-date, serving coffee (and, I’m certain) sweets. You asked questions that nobody else had bothered to ask, and didn’t judge me when I answered honestly.
Sometimes when you stop trying so hard, God makes mystical things happen. Like our friendship.
At the time, you were wary of organized religion, and I was wary of everything. But in your guest bathroom, you had a display of decorative crosses. Every time I went to the loo at your house, I thanked God for you and your kindness. I prayed that you would trust Him again, even as I struggled to trust Him myself. Yes, on the loo! I can tell you that now, all these years later.
That Christmas, I sat with all of our girls while you went on a date with your hubby. Before you departed for the evening, you gave me a pretty little wrapped gift box, and instructed me to open it when you left. I did, and it was a lovely new wallet.
When you came back home, I thanked you, and you said that I should make sure to look inside of it. Folded in the zipped compartment was a hundred-dollar bill.
“Get your girls a little something for Christmas,” you said, like it was not a big deal.
It was SUCH a big deal, Melissa, to fill the girls’ stockings that year. Such a big deal.
Little did I know that praying for you on the loo would be the least of what we would come to discuss as our friendship deepened! No subject was off-limits, no pretending to be who we were not. No pretense, all acceptance – what a wonderful foundation for a friendship.
I have to tell you, my friend, throughout the storms, you were my safe place. And always – even if there were tears – laughter was ultimately the order of the day.
We are pretty cool that way.
Over the years, we have really been through it together, have we not? With six daughters between us, holy cow – have we ever!
Teenagers and all the stupid stuff they do. Teenagers and all the awesome stuff they do.
Through a divorce and a new marriage (both mine) you were such a support. Through your steady marriage, you taught me so much.
When our husbands drive us bonkers, we have a kvetch session, and are a-okay again.
When our kids drive us bonkers, well … together, we find the strength to soldier on.
We’ve done the Mom Circuit, and weathered the “Mom, leave me alone!” syndrome.
Between us, we’ve done new careers, and unemployment.
We’ve drowned our sorrows in Queso dip at every Mexican food restaurant in town. (Cheese plays a major role in our relationship, as well it should!)
We’ve had pajama parties, and felt the betrayal of gravity (especially me….you look MAHVELOUS!) and – as we schlepped into our forties – the reward of chasing dreams and catching them, on occasion. (Or should I say, we sashay gracefully into our forties – and beyond.)
We’ve struggled with the discovery of what is out of our control (everything, essentially) and celebrated what we which we can control (keeping the faith.)
We’ve threatened to write a book together – which, incidentally is still TOTALLY happening!
Most meaningfully, when my own family members high-tailed it out of my life, you ran towards me.
You and I …. we’ve had spiritual crisises and awakenings, stumblings and triumphs. And shared with honesty every experience.
We discovered together that we are NOT orphans after all, but beloved daughters of the Most High King….princesses, really!
And that makes us sisters. Family.
Even our husbands became MFFs (Man Friends Forever…please don’t tell them I said that,) and our daughters as close as any siblings.
Family, like I said.
Your love, prayers and steadfastness have helped keep me sober. Honestly, I doubt I would have maintained it without your support.
That love….those prayers and acceptance – they have kept me from running away from home on numerous occasions (“This parenting teens thing? I QUIT!”)
In the midst of building this friendship, you had a revolution in your spirit. When God lit a fire under you, he used spiritual kerosene!
Girl, you were on FIRE, and you are still on fire! It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever been witness to.
A spark from the heart of Jesus himself caught the hem of your garment, and you just had to serve Him. You served Him by helping other women, like you helped me. By genuinely loving them – fiercely. From it came additions to the sisterhood – the WAYwards – and lots of tears and laughter.
And laughter came in handy during the difficult times.
Several years ago, when I got sick, I stayed sick for nearly three years. It was another awful, dark time in my life. Chronically fatigued. Endlessly in pain. And with no answers in sight, living on high anxiety once again.
For three solid years, I fought numbness, pain, fatigue….every single day, and bitched about it plenty. My complaining and frustration had to have tested your dedication! But you listened every time, and never gave up.
You prayed for my health fervently. Sometimes, when I was in the middle of exhaustion and complaint, you would just extend your right hand toward me and pray so hard that we would both cry – even when I was right in the middle of a bitching session!
It’s hard to be hopeless when someone is that dedicated to asking God to help you.
But sometimes – when you stop trying so hard – God makes mystical things happen.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I remember telling you. And I meant it. “I can’t!”
“God can,” you said, with no judgement. More listening, more praying, more encouraging. You listened. Like a true friend, you loved fiercely, calming my fears of loss, which were pretty well-founded. “Father,” you prayed. “Please heal my friend. But even if she doesn’t get better, we praise you. We LOVE you!”
Because you see, what I really needed was a very good friend. You were – and are – that very good friend to me.
All these many years later, how many cycles have we gone through !– Distrusting organized religion, and calling on God. Trusting God, and being there for each other.
I’m so grateful for you.
Thank you for being so steady a prayer-warrior. Thank you for never, ever saying, “This friendship thing? I QUIT!”
Thank you for all the times you still give me encouragement (and chocolate) and for being my “nothing is off limits” sister.
When I think about who you are and who you’ve become, and all God has in store for you, it brings me to my knees.
When I pray for you, I ask God to take that beautiful, bright, effervescent and glorious spirit of yours and just unleash it on the world in a way that brings him glory. I pray that the same joy your spirit brings me gets unfurled on the world, and comes back on you like a tidal wave.
I never forgot the Christmas that you folded a Benjamin in the gift of a new wallet … so that I could give my daughters a Christmas. But more importantly, I never forgot that you reached out to this hot mess girl, that you went out of your way to be kind.
I never forgot that you treated my frightened, maddeningly insecure and hurting fourth-grade daughter like your own. Now a confident – gregarious, even!- young woman, she never forgot your love, either.
I love that you never stopped praying for my healing. I love your heart, that it breaks for hurting people.
I love that the most important prayer I ever learned to pray, I learned from you – “I trust you, God. I may not understand a single thing you are doing, but I trust you.”
It was a beautiful thing to do for an old friend, to teach me that prayer.
I love you with all my heart. Thank you for being a friend. Thank you for being family.
And Merry Christmas, BFF.
By: Jana Greene
“None of us has ever seen a motive. Therefore, we don’t know. We can’t do anything more than suspect what inspires the actions of another. For this good and valid reason, we are told not to judge. ” ― Brennan Manning, The Wisdom of Tenderness: What Happens When God’s Fierce Mercy Transforms Our Lives
You don’t understand me. You may think you know me, but you don’t.
If you only knew my heart … you might not judge me so harshly.
Or, you might judge me even more harshly….if you knew my heart.
A few weeks ago, I posed the simple question on social media: “If you could describe the feeling of being judged by others in one word, what would that one word be?” I received an avalanche of responses from people of all different ages and creeds – in rapid succession. Most of the responses were graphic, the words divided pretty neatly between two camps:
Deep, wounded feelings of inferiority, and a strong, almost violent verbal depiction of spiritual beating.
Being judged does not feel uncomfortable… or a little unpleasant.
It’s personal. It’s the worst kind of personal, because it confirms the fundamental fear of being misunderstood, and couples it with the sting of rejection.
My own word to describe feeling judged was “jagged.” When other people judge me, it makes me feel torn – not slashed in a way that is easily mended or stitched, but with uneven edges and patches missing. When the full brunt of the judging stops stinging, I can tell that healing will be slow and scarring.
Isn’t that the crux of feeling judged? If taken to heart, it never heals just-so. Judgment feels jagged, because it is sharp-edged self-righteousness … like the blade of a sickle, separating us one from another without benefit of cautery.
Many readers responded with similar words.
“Raw”” shared one friend. “Cut-to-the-bone, ashamed, disgusted, disappointed, gut-wrenching….take your pick.” She continued, ” it’s never fun to feel judged… like you came up short on character or something.”
Broken. Splintered. Betrayed. Heavily yoked.
Another friend found it difficult to stop at one word to describe her feelings. “Violated and victimized,” she explains. When people smile to your face, and talk behind your back, “It is sabotage , emotional hijacking.”
Being assessed as “not enough” is just as painful, as having your value estimated by another human being is often worse than having been misunderstood.
“Vulnerable,” described one young woman. And as if she had made herself vulnerable in the posting of the very word, others added to the sentiment. “And less-than.”
Misrepresented. Misunderstood. Rejected. Pitied. And perhaps most stingingly, condemned.
“Unworthy,” shared one. “And crestfallen.”
“Small,” said another friend, to whom I would never would have attributed that feeling. “You know – like someone has just decided you’re not worth a place at the table.”
The comments of one person gave me great pause.
“When someone passes judgement, I feel like they put a label on me, stuck me in a box and taped it up tight. This enables them to just ‘walk away’ and not ever really know the true me. I have to also add that I think people pass judgement when they are afraid, or lack knowledge and empathy.”
Only one person can have one person’s experience. Only God knows what my experience is. The oft-repeated adage, “Only God can judge me” is true, but we forget that sometimes, when we are busy determining whose motives are pure and whose are not (as if we could ever know) and who among us is in the wrong.
Being judged by other human beings doesn’t make one repentant. If anything, it makes one defensive. Maybe when our spirits evolve beyond that spiritual schnaudenfrude (by your misfortunate deeds, I feel much holier) the blade will dull. I hope so. I think God wants his kids to be kind to one another. That evolution can only happen when we ask for God’s help in overcoming our human ways.
I have to be reminded of this constantly – to live this, because I’ve just made too many mistakes to survive spiritually intact otherwise. I’ve been too hurt, and inflicted too much hurt – in my careless, momentary value judgements of others.
And taking the judgement of others too tightly to heart slices and dices, jaggedly…opening a a big, black, sucking vortex of self-important insecurity. When the scars from all the judgement become too tight, it is a reality check that I am giving people too much power.
The power to stick me in a box, tape a label on it and walk away…and never even know the true me.
The true You.
You don’t understand me. You think you do, but you don’t. (Heck, I don’t even understand me!) But the Father, who understands every individual’s inherent value, does. And it’s personal.
God, in Christ, says …
“You think you understand me, but you don’t. If you only knew my heart, you might come sit next to me at the table, and know freedom.
I KNOW YOUR HEART.
There is no condemnation.
I’ve seen what you’ve done. It is finished, as far as the East from the West.
I’ve walked around in human skin, I know the temptations firsthand. It isn’t easy. Shake off that yoke.
Shake it off and stop trying to tie it around the necks of others. The burden is mine.
I understand you. In me, you are….
Perfect. Unbroken. Complete. Valued.
You are connected. Continuous. Fixed and whole.
I didn’t come to cut you away, but to bridge what is holy with what you are – what you really are …mine.”
“With the arrival of Jesus, the Messiah, that fateful dilemma is resolved. Those who enter into Christ’s being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud. A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death.” – Romans 8:1 (Message)
Dear Bob,
Today is out sixth wedding anniversary. Of course, you remember – because you are just so cool that way, husband-wise.
What a wild ride our lives have been since Oct. 27, 2007, right?
This morning, when you wake up next to me, you will likely sneak out quietly to make the coffee. You will feed the cats and shush them as they mew for food, so that I can sleep in a little late.
And when I wake up, my first thought will be to make the coffee and feed the cats so that you can sleep in….on this – our Anniversary day.
And maybe that’s one of the reasons we just work so well. Come to think of it, yeah. I think that has a lot to do with it. Here is a poem for you….it’s pretty corn-ball, but it comes from the heart. I do love you so.
Your Wife
Six years of marriage…. How can that be?
(Seven since you’ve shared your life with me.)
You are the rational, organized one,
I bring the chaos (we’ll call it the ‘fun’ ?)
You calm me down when my anxiety peaks,
You are the one through whom God often speaks
to quell my nerves and bring the sense.
Do I thank you enough for this?
We’ve done richer and poorer,
For Better or worse,
In sickness and health?
By letter and verse!
We’ve blended a family –
All girls, no less…
We’ve lived through the drama, the triumphs, the stess.
At the end of the day, there ‘s just you and me,
And our wonky, blended-up family,
God at the most honored place,
At the top of the triangle,
Showing us grace….
And laughter,
And love,
and a place to belong,
To keep our momentum going strong.
May our PDAs always gross-out our kids,
And remain the stuff of lore,
May we always find the humor in things,
And learn to laugh even more.
May we always be the best of friends
Growing closer as we grow in age,
Hand-in-hand walking as one –
Not two –
Through every life chapter and stage.
Six years ago, how can that be….?
It seems like yesterday to me,
Beloved, I love you forever and more –
I can’t wait to see what else is in store!
Thank you, Baby, for marrying me –
Oh,
Happy Anniversary!
I have a friend. I know, I know…don’t we all? Sometimes I even have more than one at a time! Sometimes, friendships evolve as a result of “a God Thing,” which is the circumstance I found myself in by ‘friending’ a ‘friend’ of a friend on Facebook. Yeah, that old chestnut.
But wait! This friend grew to be an actual friend, on account of the fact that he is a gifted writer/blogger AND loves Jesus. He just came out with a new book, Ruminations.
I am plugging it here, because it is an excellent collection of essays on faith (and surrender) and also – because that’s what friends DO. I believe in his work wholeheartedly.
May it bless you as it blessed me. My review of the book is below, and here is the link on Amazon, if you are so inclined:
Author Chris Canuel writes in his latest book, Ruminations, that if he had to sum up Christianity in two words, they would be surrender, and Jesus (no necessarily in that order.) He shares his heart transparently about each of those subjects, and his struggles to do the first in order to get to know the second.
Canuel addresses the foibles of faulty human nature, when it comes to learning to be content (no matter what the circumstance) as the Apostle Paul addressed in Phillipians. In his ruminating, the author shares, “When things are going great, when I have plenty, when life just doesn’t seem like it can get much better, I get prideful. My mind tends to wander from God. Even in my Spiritual Life, it seems that even as I am focusing on God, there is a strong ‘me’ element that I am seeking to show off … Look how blessed I am! Look how much I love the Lord! Check out how awesome my life is! … this, in itself, is not bad, but most times I think I am doing it in order to puff myself up, rather than glorify God.”
That’s so relatable. I understand that low-grade discontent so well.
In these essays, Canuel shares intimate details of his life, in order to know Jesus more intimately – and to share with a hurting world that there is hope. The transparency of his ruminations inspire, because they so often made me think, “Whew! I thought I was the only Christian who has felt like that!”
That’s the great thing about believers who are willing to be honest about their faith, their walk … their true ruminations. They chisel away at the boulder of Christian Perfectness in their own lives until they separate the rubble from their true likeness. After all the chiseling, the world might recognize the face of Jesus in what was formerly pretty stone-like.
In the end, Canuel reminds us that we have an antidote to discontent; we just have to remember to pick it up continually.
“Go back to this truth,” he writes, of the Word. “Go back to these passages, these pages, this glorious book that we call the Bible. Go back to it often. Reflect on it, pray over it, and let us always remember … the answer is Christ.”
There’s that surrender thing again. And always, there’s Jesus. – Jana Greene
By: Jana Greene
The office was silent, except for the gentle clicking of keys and an occasional throat clearing. I took a bite of the carrot I’d brought for a snack.
CRRHHRUNCH. The sound echoed through the open space filled with short-walled cubicles. I had no choice but to finish chewing, each bite resonating.
“This is one crunchy-ass carrot,” I said awkwardly, without thinking – and to no-one in particular.
And then I felt guilty. The whole office knows I’m a Christian, and Christians don’t curse, right? Real Christians don’t.
It’s difficult to exist in a work environment 40 hours per week without saying a naughty word. And….is “ass” a naughty word? Any fourth-grader can tell you that the words “ass” and “hell” are in the Bible. I suppose it depends on the context, since carrots don’t have asses, per se.
I’m a wordsmith. Sometimes, when I weave words, a strand of metallic thread makes its way into the fabric of a story. It can get pretty shiny, what with all those threads.
Sometimes, it is just pure laziness when I resort to the four-letter-genre. The societal standard for what constitutes a curse word is always changing.
Curse words are fuzzy territory to me, as a Christian – I know they shouldn’t be fuzzy. We aren’t supposed to say offensive words, period. But what is offensive, and to whom? The Bible also warns against saying, “by heaven or earth….,” but every translation of this verse is slightly different.
I have a slightly salty tounge, which I try to tame on occasion. Hey, I’m working on it.
Once, while trying to reign in my language, I tried substitute a particularly virulent word (said mostly in frustrating situations) with “mercy.” For a two-week period, I refrained from said Big Daddy Curse Word, and instead, said “mercy. …until my husband remarked that I sounded a lot like his aunt, whose most favorite word in the universe is “mercy.” This aunt is a lovely Christian woman, 80 years old, and I’m sure she has never said either “ass” or “hell,” even in passing, unless reading scripture. (If “by heaven and earth” is not biblically acceptable, what about “mercy?” I mean, if we are going to be legalistic.)
But I am not a lovely 80-year old Christian. I am a 40-something recovering alcoholic with three daughters, a full-time job, a passion for Jesus and recovery, a red-headed temper, and an occasionally salty tongue.
All of this wondering about potty words reminded me of a post I’d read by favorite blogger, Jon Acuff, about the subject. He is much more astute in his observations (and much funnier, I might add.)
“Christians occasionally swear. They don’t do it a lot. I’m not talking about thirty-second tirades laced with profanity. I just mean that every few days they’ll say a swear in the middle of a conversation. Why do we do it? I think we want you to know that we know those words exist. We want you to be aware that we are aware they are out there and we know what they mean. Plus, everyone knows that swears are nineteen times more powerful coming out of the mouth of a Christian. That’s a scientific fact right there. If you’re a nonbeliever and swear a ton, it’s just not that big of a deal. If you’re a Christian though and you swear, birds fall out of the sky. Trees shake to their roots. Magma gets fourteen degrees cooler under the crust of the Earth. Wielding that kind of power is too tempting to ignore.”
Mercy! Jon Acuff is one funny-ass writer.
And I mean that with the utmost respect.
“Sometimes the light is shining on me, other times, I can barely see” – The Grateful Dead
Can I just be honest?
I hate change.
The past several months have been one change after another for me, and I resent it. I’m ready for some normalcy, but I no longer believe it exists. I’ve decided that believing in “normal” is for suckers.
What do I hate about change? I hate that good things go away, and bad things come around – before the good things come back.
I hate that change seems to happen at the precise moment that I seem to find my groove. Change often feels like having the rug yanked out from under me. You know that rug….the one that can feel like a genuine magic flying carpet, before it gets yanked.
I like riding on the high of good times. I cling on to the good times as if they are The New Normal. I like the exuberance of feeling ‘normal.’ Normal seems, for all the world, to have a rhythm, a steadiness. But changes keep rolling in.
Peace sometimes gets disrupted, and chaos ensues – it is lost, before it can be found again.
Jobs, weight, weather – all forever rising and falling – and getting on my ever-loving nerves.
Fresh things get stale.
Income comes in, and becomes “out-go” in the blink of an eye. Bills go up, the market goes down.
Kids outgrow their childhoods, but don’t leave when you are ready for them to fly. Then they grow up, and leave before you’re ready.
Relationships grow and change, morphing in uneven spurts.
Feelings in a footrace with facts, boundaries built and crumbled.
The world is a mess – just look at the news! Nothing stays stable – nothing on this earth.
Pets grow old and sick., and pass away (we lost two beloved animals in a two month span.)
We – and our circumstances – change unevenly.
Don’t even get me started on hormones… Oy vey!
Lately it occurs to me….what a long, strange, interesting trip it’s been
And the hardest changes? Spirits get bound and released, and broken and mended. (Why can’t they just stay mended?)
I suppose because….It just wouldn’t be “normal.”
Jesus said, “In this life, you will have trouble,” and He wasn’t whistling Dixie. I think he was saying, in a way: “In this life you will have change.”
In this life, you will lack for normal….if you’re “normal.”
So, is it normal to hate change?
I decided to look up synonyms for “normal” in the thesaurus – to see if Webster could define what I cannot. Interestingly, “normal” is synonymous with ordinary. Its meaning is the same as “ uniformity, average, common, and routine.”
I cannot relate to any of those words. They are not words I would claim over my life. I do not ask God for average, common. Where is the interestingness? Where is the exuberance?
The antonyms –exact opposites of “normal” are magic-carpet words: buoyant, eager, exciting, vigorous, vital, and zesty. (Zesty!)
I am learning to “go with the flow,” really. I’m trying. Since change seems to be the order of the day, I really need to enjoy the ride. My hatred of so many changes doesn’t seem to be preventing any of it, anyway.
Circumstances will never stop evolving, but eventually …
New, fresh things come to pass with change. Buoyant, vital things. Change means the change in seasons just when you are sick and tired of the current one. It means new babies. Sunrises. Music you’ve never heard before. Laughing about something that you have the frame of reference to appreciate now – because of all the changes.
Relationships deepen and broaden, and become more enlightened – if not ‘normal.’
Kids do grow up, and have their own kids to contend with (ahhhh, a sweet consideration!)
And God still loves this messy, messy world – made up of so many lives that will have trouble. So many lives who will have change.
Normalcy is for suckers, honestly. I’m sure of it.
By: Jana Greene
One little snapshot. That’s how I remember the moment. Every time I hear the trendy expression, “I love you to the moon and back,” I think about it.
My firstborn was only fourteen months old. We had just come in from a full afternoon of story time at the library and playtime at the park, our tote full of toddler books. She still had sand in the baby-crevices in her arms, and under her neck, all the cracks in her tan little body that the sun couldn’t reach but the sand always did.
She was whining and going limp, the kind of tired that she couldn’t identify, and neither could I.
When you’re a mom, you think you should be able to identify all of the cries.
I sank into the living room couch and patted my lap for her to come sit with me. Opening the canvas tote full of hard board books, I started to read from the Very Hungry Caterpillar aloud.
She collapsed to the floor, shaking her head ‘no’ for a moment, and then toddled climbed up into my lap. She took the book from my hand, dropped it to the floor, and dug into the tote for her very favorite book. It was a book by Margaret Wise Brown that we’d checked out from the library every week, even though we owned it.
“Goodnight Moon.”
She wanted to nurse, and I wanted her to be quiet. So, we made a deal.
Breastfeeding is the purest thing in the whole world. How it became more unnatural to the bottle, I will never understand. It nourishes both child and mother, and strengthens the bond. That bond comes in handy often.
With one arm I cradled her as she nursed, and with the other I flipped the cardboard pages.
“”In the great green room , there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of….” she pulled away in anticipation of the dramatic line.
“The cow jumping over the moon!” All smiles, she got her pointing finger ready.
“Can you find the bunny?” I whispered. In every picture in the story, there is a little bunny in striped pajamas, hiding among the room lit by moonrise. We had read this book a hundred times. She found the bunny with her tiny finger and smiled before going back to the breast.
“Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.”
She went back to nursing and reached her hand up to my face. And she patted my cheek gently, just as she patted the bunny in her other favorite book (title spoiler: “Pat the Bunny.”)
We were content in that moment….my little girl in her bright pink Osh-Kosh B’Gosh overalls and oversized bow in her hair. You’d better remember this moment, I told myself, for some odd reason. Remember it. You will need it when she is a teenager.
I tousled the hair at the nape of her neck, which curled up in a tiny blonde duck-tail when she played hard enough to get sweaty. She was so tiny and perfect. Neither of us had made many mistakes, but we would.
And I loved her to that big old moon and back.
Holding her tighter, I vowed that I would not forget that single unremarkable moment.
Now, twenty years later, the moon seems a paltry distance to shoot for. I get tired in ways I cannot identify, and I do a lot of whining. Sometimes I just go limp from the worry that comes with motherhood and never, ever goes away.
My Firstborn doesn’t always find the “bunny” even when I point it out to her. She has to look for it on her own. I think I knew back in that moment, that finding the bunny was the least of it. I’m so glad I have that moment burned in my mind like a star. I cannot tell you how often the bonding we did when she was a baby has come in handy!
Today, she attended church with me. When we worshipped hand-in-hand, I looked over at her and had that same spasm of love . She is taller than me now, with raven hair and those same great, green eyes. I’ve long ago accepted that I cannot identify all of her cries (nor all of my own, for that matter.)
I reached over to her and patted her cheek, very gently. Remember this, I thought.
I hope my not-so-little girl looks for God, even when He seems to be, hiding somewhere under the moonrise. He can seem as elusive as a bunny in striped pajamas, or as big and clear as a full moon.
Even when contentment doesn’t come in the cardboard pages of a toddler’s book, but in the paper-thin pages of mystical scripture. I want the Son to reach all of her, but I know she has to look for Him.
I want to remember this moment forever. One little snapshot.
Goodnight stars,
Goodnight air.
Goodnight noises everywhere…..
Above the heavens, beyond the sun,
At the end of the universe,
I’ve just begun!
I love you to the moon and back,
And a million, trillion more miles than that.
And we were content in that moment, my girl and I.
By: Jana Greene
“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:2
Too much noise.
The world is just full of too much noise. The past few months have simply overwhelmed me, good things and bad things, both. Graduations, illnesses, a new job, family issues, children leaving the nest, new pets entering the nest….a reorganization of priorities made necessary because of that creeping, wonderful, awful thing called “change.”
Getting used to the “new normal” is hard when “normal” won’t stay static long enough to catch my breath. I’m really struggling with a bit of depression lately, low-level sadness and a feeling of being overwhelmed.
You know what used to really help me unwind? A glass of wine. It’s hard to believe its been nearly thirteen years since I’ve had a glass of wine. Of course, its been twenty since a drink actually relaxed me; there, toward the end, it nearly killed me. I am glad it doesn’t control me anymore.
But still, after all this time – and a life so blessed it is virtually unrecognizable from pre-sobriety days – my mind still sometimes thinks that “one glass of wine” would do the trick! It parrots the same garbage that made me so sick years ago.
I’m on to it, though. In the recovery world, it is the soundtrack of “Stinking Thinking” (or stinkin’ thinkin’, if you are from the South.) I know what it looks, feels, smells and tastes like. And this is it.
1) That one drink would just help me unwind….
Never, ever have I had one drink. Or one of anything else, for that matter; unless it is one pint of Häagen-Dazs ice cream*. Because eating more than one pint at one sitting is just gluttony!
Sometimes, and I’m just being honest, I just want all the noise and anxiety to stop. For five minutes. The five minutes a drink afforded me cost me hours and days of spiraling, and the occasional blackout. The parroting stinking thinking soundtrack forgets about that little detail. Hardly worth it.
2) Its been over a dozen years! Maybe I’m cured ….
This is a sneaky one because it adds pride to the already-convoluted mix, as if the length of my sobriety insures against future alcohol abuse. Danger! Danger!
I have known people with extraordinary “”time” relapse, and instantly be transported back to the depths of despair afforded by addiction, or worse. There is no cure for alcoholism. Not taking the first drink is the best insurance there is.
There was a time I could not imagine going 24 hours without a drink. It is not ‘living in the past’ to remember what that was like. It is essential that I remember that.
The fact that I still – when really struggling with life on life’s terms – obsess about drinking as a relaxation technique, confirms that I am, in fact, an alcoholic. I will never be able to drink normally. And to try could very likely be the death of me (and very nearly was.)
3) It wasn’t that bad, my drinking…
Except that it was; it was awful. Again, remembering the reality is key. I did not have a fun, rosy, Nicolas Sparks-type romance with alcohol. I had a dysfunctional, co-dependent, Stephen King-type relationship with alcohol.
It’s best to remember that it made me a person I really don’t like at all. Not to mention I turned yellow and became very sick. The self-loathing was worse than any other symptom.
4) I shouldn’t have admitted to the world that I am an alcoholic…
Well, the proverbial cat is out of the bag now! It jumped out of the bag back on January 3rd of 2001.
At my lowest – when my thinking is the most stinking, I have actually wished that I’d never told a soul about my secret, because if nobody knew – I could just resume having the “one” glass of wine or random margarita and be like everybody else. See? Doesn’t that make perfect sense?
Lather, rinse, repeat…(see # 1) This is why it is called the “Cycle of Addiction.”
5) I REALLY shouldn’t have blogged about it…
Ah, the blogosphere. Nobody forces anyone to blog, of course. But having a passion for writing and recovery, I found that a Force was compelling me to do it anyway.
With the miracle of technology via The Blog, not only is the cat out of the bag, but it is circling the globe on a uni-cycle.
In the beginning, writing a recovery blog was very difficult, because it required such rigorous honesty. I wanted to become involved in recovery ministry and share my experience, faith and hope openly. And because living life in open-book format makes for vulnerability.
Ironically, vulnerability contributes to accountability. More than once, that accountability has kept me from relapsing.
6) I will never “get there”…
This one is true. I will never have it all together, because then I would have nothing to learn. And this recovery thing is all about learning. Boy howdy….is it ever about learning. When I’ve learned all that God intends for me to learn, He will take me home.
Until then, I will depend on Him to help me navigate the noise. When I’m overwhelmed, I will go ahead and feel it, and acknowledge that change is inevitable. Sometimes, my mind is wrong about things, squawking when it should be listening. I’m going to try extra-hard to take that into consideration when depression creeps in.
I’ll write about that wonderful, awful thing called “change” when it happens (which is constantly), spending every thought generously on paper. You know, since its already out there. I’ll own my crazy, ask for Divine help with my anxiety, and let the guilt of the past go.
Change is what brings the good stuff, too…the stuff I don’t want to be too numbed out to feel. Because stinking thinking kept under wraps only rots and festers. Change is what brings all that is good and acceptable and perfect.
And a life so blessed deserves to be truly lived, transformed by the renewal of my mind…noise and all.
*I would totally eat more than one pint of Häagen-Dazs in one sitting if nobody were watching and it wasn’t so expensive.
By: Jana Greene
God,
This letter is difficult for me to write…not because You will know what it says before I get the words onto the page, but because some of your followers will read it.
You’ve placed upon me the burden of a writer’s mind, and I feel compelled to share this prayer instead of hiding it. I’ve hidden them under a bushel before, and when the storms kick up, the winds lay all the broken pieces bare.
“God, save us from your followers!” Have you ever heard that expression? Of course, it is prayed to you – if only tounge-in-cheek.
We humans have made Your Church about us. I am reminded today that the enemy hasn’t hijacked your church entirely. That the church as You intended was your broken disciples gathered around at your feet, wanting to learn how to love.
What made them the Apple of your Eye, even with all their foibles, denials and betrayals, was that they were gathered at your feet looking to you, not around at each other.
Oh how we like to look around at each other!
Today, I called a member of Your Church, in the gathering of Your followers that I call home. I seem to be going through a challenging season in my life, and was ashamed at first that I’m caught so overwhelmed by it. Afraid to share it, even to fellow believers!
Even though it should be the first place broken people run for support in You….the church.
For the hundredth time in this very challenging season, I’m overwhelmed with angst and gratitude, both. My church family didn’t scatter and run from me, because I’m in a struggle. They are running toward me, in love!
I wish this running-to was what the world associated with “churchiness,” but how could it be?
The world has not always seen your church as a running-to. They have a lot of bad history with which to define “church, and so the run from it. Sometimes, in churches:
We’ve pointed fingers at each other in smug satisfaction that our micro-management is an efficient way to follow You … in rules, divisions, regulations. (We’ve perfected, it, God – your church – You’re welcome!) What we’ve really perfected is a way to distract us from You.
We’ve built stunning cathedrals in which to bring Your worship, but we’ve left our praises to echo in stone after Sunday service.
We’ve marketed Your “brand” with slick campaigns, and watered down your message in the effort to offend no-one.
We’ve called attention to the “specks” in the eyes of others, while blinded by the “planks” in our own eyes.
We’ve called You “Pal,” and lost our reverence of Your Diety.
We’ve revered Your Diety, and lost sight of Your intimate friendship.
We’ve decided that “those” people (addicts, adulterers, swindlers, cheats, fill-in-the-blank however You wish) are only a product of their own poor choices, deserving to suffer… while every last one of us is guilty of some similar infraction far worse.
God, You know that I am guilty of most of these things myself. I constantly need your help not to be.
For the hundredth time, I’ve been ashamed of my struggles because I’m afraid people will judge my “churchiness.” I make no bones about being a part of your church, and many people make no bones about judging churchy people.
Perhaps because so many churchy people have judged them harshly.
What would happen if we – the modern church – made “churchiness” synonymous with running to others? What if we just gathered around your feet to hear what you had to say, so that we could learn how to love? I so long to do this; to be this church.
Forgive us, Father, that we don’t know how. God, save us – Your followers -from ourselves! Let us look to you. By YOUR grace we are saved. By YOUR grace, we are Your Church.
I thank you for a church family that gathers their own, even when their own are bona-fide humans. We are Yours, worth redeeming.
You have no need for the empty, gem-encrusted artifacts that the world has come to brand as “churchiness.” You just want all the broken pieces, gathered at your feet.
I am signed,
A broken disciple. Yours.
By: Jana Greene
She doesn’t know it, I’ve pulled a muscle, and it’s all her fault.
I am lacing up the back of her dress, the periwinkle blue ribbons weave in and out of the stays, corset-style. I have to lift the tendrils of red hair out of the way as I work, and I worry it will be too tight -I can tell she is sucking it all in.
Her dress has all of the elements of girly-ness that she guffawed only a few years ago: sparkles, lace and taffeta. All the pretty things she used to think were silly. It is strapless ballerina-style, showing off her young curves and fair skin. As I pull the last of the ribbon through and tie it into a bow, the muscle that is my heart lurches.
“There,” I say. “all done.”
Like Scarlett O’Hara she arches an eyebrow, and eyes herself in the mirror. Sunlight just so happens to be coming through the window at the perfect angle, setting the on fire. So many rhinestones! The perfect amount to be glitzy, without being tacky. They are sprinkled throughout her dress and in her hair – even on her shoes. Just to be certain she sparkles enough, she slides on a bracelet chock-full of them, and clips on dazzling earrings to match.
The lurching again, in the heart. The pulling.
The heart is a muscle, and if it’s working properly it is always in motion. Lurch and soar, lurch and soar.
My daughter is always in motion, too. How can this be? I am wondering how this moment came to pass, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her slip on ridiculously high heels. The reel of her growing up sped through my mind.
Don’t panic over time lost, I tell myself. And don’t rush into thoughts of the future. It’s a struggle to live in the moment sometimes. Even when the moment is beautiful.
Not very long ago, this girl hid herself away. Not very long ago, she didn’t want anyone to notice her at all. But now …
She cannot wait to see her boyfriend, to assault his senses with her girly-ness -sparkles, lace and taffeta. He is wearing a suit with a vest to match her dress, and she swoons when she sees him. He is utterly handsome. I want to think that they look like two kids playing grown-up, but no. They really are growing up.
She beams while her date ties a corsage around her wrist. It is a lovely, delicate gathering of white flowers, and it’s perfect. It had bloomed just the right amount to be perfect in time for the evening – just like her.
Boys were “gross” just a few years ago…weren’t they? The memory of her chiding her older sister for liking a boy is still clanking around in my mind when we drop them off at the venue.
When we drive away, I look behind me, and they are kissing. The rhinestones in her dress are glittering, and she has one ridiculously high-heeled foot slightly lifted – just like in the movies.
Lurch, goes the heart.
My hand goes over my chest involuntarily, but my husband takes my other hand and squeezes. This daughter is my youngest child; I will not go this way again. My husband knows that the stays are loosening, even as my heart tightens.
I surprise myself that think of my girl only several times – and not several hundred times – during the course of the evening. The occasion is making me feel a million things – old amongst them, to be honest. But mostly I am blissed-out that my daughter has come out of her shell in so dazzling a way. It is her turn to have young curves and fair skin and wear so many rhinestones. I hope she wears all the pretty, sparkly things every chance she gets.
When she comes home, she is barefoot and luminescent. She sits on the edge of my bed to share the details, even though its late.
Prom was wonderful. Her hands are fiddling with the edge of the periwinkle taffeta, just as girly as you please, as she rushes to tell me the details.
“Swedish meatballs were the best, and I ate lots of them. The courtyard was decorated with these candles and white lights, and linens and tablecloths… There was dancing, of course, and we slow danced, too, but I had to take my shoes off right away, because I couldn’t really walk in them, and all my friends loved my dress…..”
When I unlace her dress and her remind her to put away all of the sparkly things, she leans in for a hug. I take it, and hug her a little longer than usual, just because – like my daughter – the moment is beautiful.
And my heart soars.
Today, I am sharing the Redemption Feast blog post I wrote today for WilmingtonFAVS.com. It is a sensitive subject, but one that the world – and the church – cannot afford to ignore.
http://wilmingtonfavs.com/blogs/jana-greene/starving-the-stigma-in-the-church-mental-illness
By: Jana Greene
A man walks into a bar.
No, wait. That’s the wrong story.
A man walks out of a bar. The establishment has been his “safe place” for years. He knows the owners and they keep a seat waiting for him on the end, where the bartender can lean in to listen when he talks without knocking over the high-ball glasses. They know his story and keep pouring, and those two things have always made him feel understood. Loved. He went to the bar every day because he wanted to be cared about and he wanted to just be left alone. Drinking is a funny thing – it makes both seem possible simultaneously.
He was incredibly brave, he thought, to work so hard and provide for his family, to deal with all the drama and dealings of life. Wasn’t he due this time? Didn’t he have it coming to him?
Until very recently, when it became obvious that his safe place was a dangerous place, he thought he would keep drinking. As his wife was leaving for the last time, and he had not been willing to follow her. He had not been willing to ask for help. The path to help was a rocky, treacherous road. The way to the bar was paved with familiarity.
As he slowly became more lost, lost, lost, it became increasingly clear that pouring did not equal understanding; that having someone lean into you and listen did not always equal love. Over the years, he chose this seat over relationships, over passions. Everybody knew his name here, but not a single soul knew his heart.
He is sick, in mind, body and in spirit.
He doesn’t know how to stop. How do you stop? Someone somewhere has to know how.
There must be magic pill to stop the drinking, and there was. There were lots of pills, all supposed to make him better, but they only made him worse in time. Perhaps he needed another diversion? A few days without drinking made possible by strange women and dirty, secret deeds. And then drinking again. What about sheer willpower? Alone, in his room, shaking and sorry, he had no one but himself for company. Nothing is working. He asks God for help, if God is real….if he exists at all.
“Love me and leave me alone,” he wanted to tell God. But instead, he searched for a support meeting nearby. Because, at the end of himself, he had no other choice.
Before the first meeting, he sat in his car, debating with himself about going in at all. Because the rooms are full of “those people” and once you walk in, you are one of them…no turning back. But he knew that he already was.
He thought of the bar, but he made another choice. And stepped into a new place.
Inside the building, worship music filled the space. He filed past others – men, women of all ages, all races. The stereotype represented was very specific: The Human Race. As he took his seat and the speaker began to share her experience with substance abuse and recovery, he leaned in.
I am lost, lost, lost, he said in his spirit.
In that most-alone place, God made his presence known.
There were relationships among hurting people in those rooms. There was a passion for living. He took small glances around the room as the meeting wrapped up. Over cups of coffee, there were tears, but laughter, too. There was palpable joy, something he’d forgotten existed.
And nobody knew his name. Nobody knew it until the men gathered alone for small group.. There, in a small circle, he shared his name. He told a little of his story, when it was his turn.
At the end of the meeting, all of the others knew why he was there, and why he didn’t want to be there anymore. And no-one turned away from him. His eyes met with love.
There was a pouring-out of himself and all of his drama and dealings, and he filled up that space with hope for a future, because here, “those people” have one – a future.
The God he had doubted helped him to stop drinking when he couldn’t do it himself, and gave him people who loved his heart when he was at the end of himself. He had been incredibly brave to walk through the door. He was due this time, he had it coming – this life raft. This safe place.
Keep coming back, they said. Your seat will be waiting for you.
A man walks out of a bar……and into a meeting. He keeps coming to meetings because he feels cared about there, and he knows he cannot be left alone to his own devices. The road he is on – to recovering his life – is well-worn by others.
It is paved by hope.
“If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.
Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.- Alcoholics Anonymous
By: Jana Greene
Who do you say that he is?
Jesus, I mean.
He asked me to ask you…..who do you say that He is? He is quite concerned about what you think of Him.
Do you say that He is Historical Figure, criminal, prophet or ordinary man? Would you say that He is the Son of the living God?
Writer and scholar C.S. Lewis, who was an avowed (and very vocal) atheist for many years before accepting Christ described him this way: “Either this was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us.”
This Jesus, who so radically changed the world, was brought up on bogus criminal charges at the end of his earthly life. He was the first and only completely perfect human being to have walked the earth. His reward? Death by brutal crucifixion, burial in a tomb from which He would rise in splendor three days later.
But what does that have to do with you? Why would it matter what one man did over two-thousand years ago?
You and I can never live as perfect human beings. I’ve tried, and it was the hardest seven minutes of my life! We need God’s help to secure our place in eternity. Jesus was the sacrifice that makes this possible. But God is not only interested in the “forever”; He is sincerely invested in the ‘here and now’.
Who do I say that Jesus is? He is my
Debt Settler: Jesus is not a debt collection agency, reminding you of every mistake. He is not in the business of setting up payment plans for all of your sin, either. He settles the debt of all you have accrued in the past (and I mean ALL of it!) and cancels it entirely when you ask Him to be your savior. When asking His forgiveness, no sin debt is too big or too small. He is waiting to set you free!
Game Changer: Your rules? The way you’ve always handled challenges on your own…He doesn’t even need to see the playbook. He wrote a better one! He changes the trajectory of your life in ways you cannot imagine….in ways you will be so humbled by.
Name Changer: When you accept Jesus, your name is written in permanence in God’s book of life. It isn’t penciled in, jotted down hurriedly. It is written in Spiritual Sharpie, bold and eternal. Your name, and your life, becomes His as you are adopted into His family. The name He remembers you by when He thinks of you? “Mine.”
Life-Giver: I want the kind of life that is eternal, but let’s be honest…I’d like it to be pretty awesome here, too. Jesus doesn’t want us trudging through each day with just enough energy to survive until we get to heaven. Here’s what Life-Giver Jesus has to say about that in scripture: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” John 10:10.
Friend: Why the Creator of the universe would want to hang out with me, I have no idea. But for some reason, He does. If he were a great human teacher, that would be humbling enough; but no. Jesus, in dying on the cross and raising to life, bridged the gap between the Holiest of Holy Ones and puny, neurotic, recovering alcoholic, generally-all-around misfit and master of mistakes – ME. His Holy Spirit never leaves my side and calls me “friend”. And that’s a miracle.
Who do you say that He is? It matters very much.
My name is Jana Greene, and I say He is also the Savior of the world.
By: Jana Greene
I haven’t written a blog post for over a week, because it has such an odd, difficult, wonderful, sad, exciting time in my life – just over the last week. Today is Saturday and it is 7:00, and I am still in my pajamas. I guess I should mention that it is 7:00 P.M. and I am still in my pajamas. I had scheduled a minor nervous breakdown for today and was hoping it would have resulted in enough crying to snot through at least two boxes of Puffs Plus (the lotion in the tissue makes them extra soft, and if you are having a half-way decent nervous breakdown, you’ll need at least one box). But no. Now that I’m home and have the time to grieve, all I can manage is not getting out of my pajamas. I don’t have the energy to cry.
I was thinking about what a weird week it’s been, and figured that if I can’t muster a nervy-b (as my daughter calls it) maybe I can write about it. Oh yeah. I have a blog….such a distant memory, my blog. But it’s only been a week – an eternity – since I’ve written in it. I thought maybe opening the door to my thoughts might lubricate the gates of my release, so I can get these pent-up feelings out.
As a matter of fact, if I had to choose a word to describe the past week, it would be “gates”.
In the span on one week, the gates of opportunity swung open in a most unexpected manner, so that I could start work in my (WARNING: cliché use ahead) “Dream Job”. Starting any job is stressful and at least a little difficult, what with learning new things and faces and protocol in the office. I worked hard and long and with great enthusiasm because I want this to work so very much.
A few days after I started work, a terrible thing happened. Our sweet, sassy, bossy dictator of a 20 pound cat, Hunter, had to be “put down” because his cancer tumor was pressing on his windpipe and he was beginning to suffer. My Beloved and his daughter took him there and held him, loved him as he passed into the pearly Gates and out of his family’s arms. He had been healthy only a month before! His tumor grew so fast, there wasn’t a lot of time to say goodbye. And now we miss him like crazy – his incessant hissing at the dog, crying for food, but also his ability to scrootch up against you while you are trying to type on the computer and put his little paws on the mouse…..you know, as if he was saying, “Hi, Mom. I’m just gonna walk across the keyboard and rewrite your document with utter nonsense, then I’m going to lay on it, because you’ve obviously been warming it up for me. And then I’ll just erase your work with a few kitty keystrokes. And you are going to think I’m adorable.”
I miss that stinkin’ cat like crazy. He died on a Tuesday, but I had no time to grieve.
Our church is kicking off a brand-spankin’-new Celebrate Recovery program at Lifepoint, which is REALLY exciting, and for which we leaders have worked and trained and sacrificed and poured ourselves into. That meeting opens up Monday nights and we are all standing right at the gates waiting for the moment to launch, waiting for the time we can finally serve others who need Christ.
But then yesterday, I got a call that a good friend of mine had passed away from cancer…after a valiant seven-year battle with it. We were such good friends that she helped me plan my wedding in 2007 and I sat though her chemo treatments many times. But suddenly, she and her family moved three states away and I never heard from her again. So its kind of a double whammy – I am grieving for her, and grieving that there is no closure between she and I. All the things that needed to be said were left unsaid, and will always be unsaid now. She got to walk through the gates of Heaven, and I was too busy learning a new job to even break down like I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. When the tears sprung up in my eyes, I chastised them, telling them they would have to wait. When I got the call about Jen’s passising, I was at work. I held it together, making a promise to myself that I would have this Nervy B today, here in my pajamas..
So much sad news.
But so much happy news, too! Like starting my job, and starting the Celebrate Recovery at church. OH – and my dear friend, Beth, who is due to give birth any minute now and has asked me to be her birth coach.
Isnt’ that just like life? Losing friends and kitties that we love, while new babies drop in to position for birth – seven and a half pounds of screaming, puking, erethral, soft and lovely evidence that God wants life to carry on. Even with all the stress, and loss and work that we must endure. I’m glad he gives us such a heaping measure of grace with which to get through all of these things.
I think I might be too exhausted to really lose it, Nervy B style. Maybe I’ll just cope with this week by eating mass quantities of chocolate and staying in my pajamas for another day or so….you know, until the gates of work open Monday Morning.
And Monday night, when our Celebrate Recovery small group shares around the circle, I will share that I ate mass quantities of chocolate, and no one will tsk tsk at me, judgementally, because they understand the particulars of a really healthy Nervy B. And then, just maybe, we will pass the Puffs Plus around and remind each other of how blessed we are. And about how grateful we are that the ministry is not a gated community and they let the likes of us in.
By: Jana Greene
Church is a community of believers in salvation through the one and only Son of God, Jesus Christ. We humans make it about other things so often. Throughout history, we have tried a thousand ways to make it about ourselves.
But what if the tide turned and God’s people made gathering for worship about our thankfulness to God. What if we would seek purely to know Him, because He has been so generous in His love for us?
There is a horticulture technique called “grafting”. Tissues from one plant are delicately combined into those of a healthier one so that the two sets of vascular tissues may join together and thrive.
What if we could become related to the God of the universe via grafting? What if we could become brothers and sisters to one another by the same technique?
Many people who grew up in churches across the globe avoid joining a body of believers because they have been hurt by “church people” in the past or made to believe that church was about money, pretending to be perfect or pot-luck dinners. These things are not what Jesus Himself intended for His church. He sought out the ones who were broken and bent, cast out and hurting. The priests in their fine robes and the elite with their feasts did not impress Him much. These “church people” had no appreciation for God Himself in their very midst.
The ones who became Christ’s beloved family on earth all had one thing in common: an imperfect but genuine love for God, and a grateful heart. Because Jesus wanted so much to count us as branches on His family tree, he hung from a tree as sacrifice to make it possible.
He tells us to gather together still today and encourage one another, grieve with one another and praise Him.
God, I worship you because you never give up on me – not even once!
God, I thank you because you gave your life up for me so that I can be called “yours” forever.
God, I magnify you because you take time to nurture my spirit, loving me when I’m not too loveable.
We are the church. Cut off from one another, we run the risk of withering. Together the way our Brother Jesus intended, we thrive. All of us saints and sinners are drawn by God’s flourishing, vascular love for us. God’s people are us, you see. It is His will that not one of us be lost. We are black and white and every glorious shade in between. We are young and old, the clean-cut and tatted up. Haphazard branches going every which way, full foliage and a strong trunk, grafted and grateful.
God’s family tree.
Musings of a Gypsy Soul 