Thoughts on faith reconstructed, being alcohol-free, dealing with disability,and living transparently (and somehow keeping a sense of humor)
Good morning, readers!
I’m working for a piece for The Beggar’s Bakery today. But in the meantime, I wanted to share a link to another site that I blog for (Redemption Feast @ wilmingtonfavs.com) and the piece published there today. If you have time, don’t miss the video attached to the link. – about redemption from addiction, about grace and about contentment. God bless you today!
http://wilmingtonfavs.com/blogs/jana-greene/i-am-second-happily
Thank you so much for your readership! Just a note: you can “like” The Beggars Bakery on my facebook page for the blog here:
http://www.facebook.com/thebeggarsbakery?ref=hl and follow me at Twitter @janagreene
Thank you! I love my readers 🙂
By: Jana Greene
“Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” – Phillipians 2:3-4 (NIV)
The need is so great.
Yesterday I took my youngest daughter to the pet store to purchase a pet fish. First, she chose a fishbowl, colorful gravel, and a sad little plastic plant to “furnish” the habitat. It was then time to choose an actual pet.
The Betas were stacked in individual cups, each with barely enough space to swim in a circle. There were dozens of them, stacked end-to-end in what looked like a rack for giant test-tubes. To really see each fish, my daughter had to lift every cup out and bring it into the light. She would study the creatures one-by-one and return them gently to the rack, noting the special attributes of each. One had long, flowy, red tail-fins, another was a sapphire blue. One of the fishes was the color and sheen of a pearl. They were all incredibly different, and there were so many! She had to make sure she got the “right” one.
“Please pick a fish!” I implored, after what seemed an eternity of her inspecting them.
“I’m trying,” she laughed. And I knew she was trying. There were so many fish, and every single one was distinctly beautiful. Every single one needed a home.
My girl finally did choose a fish. It was a smaller one, hidden behind the cups of the bolder, fancier ones. He has nice red fins and perfect, opalescent scales, and he seems happy in his new home with the sad plastic plant. He is a little different from all the rest of the fish, which makes him perfect for our family.
In a small way, it reminded me of making a commitment to minister to those in need – because “those in need” encompasses everyone. Many times I get paralyzed by the vastness of the need – people who are suffering from addiction, poverty and other ills -and fail to do anything at all. It begins with the one person, of course. Instead of becoming intimidated by the sheer numbers of people needing care (they are all so different, and there are so many!), step out for the “one”. Not must telling God, “I’m trying!” but meeting a need and bring it out into the light. Out of the darkness.
The need is so great.
By: Jana Greene
Terminal uniqueness.
The first time I heard the term bantered around in an AA meeting, I was personally offended. After all, I was at a meeting because I couldn’t drink like normally like “everyone else” and by attending, I was spotlighting a weakness that had resulted from my unique set of circumstances. And I had stayed sober for weeks by then – in spite of very challenging things: My unhappy home life. My health issues. My negative thought patterns. Of course I am special!
Just like everyone else in the room.
Nowadays, I don’t bristle at the suggestion of feeling terminally unique. It makes me chuckle a bit because I know how terminally unique I am, as are you and each other person whom God has created. For years, I used it as an excuse to keep from getting sober. Easy for her, I would think of someone in recovery. She doesn’t walk in my shoes.
We are all incredibly unique, endowed with a one-of-a-kind skill set of coping, growing, thinking, feeling and choosing….our weirdness, perhaps. Our unique weirdness, combined with life experience, is terminal – there is no chance of being born one soul and dying entirely another.
Even as we are born again in the spirit, that soul still exhibits some quirkiness on occasion.
I used to believe that if I were doing it “right”, being a Christian cause me to have it all together. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself evolving into an entirely different creature: Poised, reverent, polished and wise, the Christian Me would be emotionally available, sane at all times, selfless and serene.
Just like everyone else seems to be!
Except that no-one is all of those lovely things all of the time. Only Jesus could manage to pull that off. God is teaching me that my addictions and behaviors are not weakness born of my terminal uniqueness, but of my humanity. They were born for one unique purpose: to bring his name glory. The weaker times in my life – when I couldn’t cope, grow, think or feel like anyone could pull me out of my troubles, I chose to ask God to help me up. And despite my being so terminally unique, he answered my prayers and advised me to tell others that he can use weirdoes like me. And you.
What about the very unique circumstances that challenged me? My home life, my health issues, my negative thought patterns? Perhaps allowed by God to share hope with those in similar circumstances, walking in similar shoes.
Not the least bit “all together”, terminally unique, and saved by Christ.
By: Jana Greene
Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world. – John Milton
I don’t know what I would do without everyday epiphanies.
In recovery circles, they are called “aha!” moments…those times when things suddenly make sense just a little bit. My favorite brand of “aha!” moments are the ones of reverent, intentional gratitude.
Yesterday, my husband and I visited with some old friends at the beach. It was – at the risk of sounding dramatic – as perfect a day as I’ve ever had. We hoisted beach chairs to the water’s edge and talked for hours about how fast our babies grew up, about all of the things that surprised us about parenting (a lot!) We swam in the salty sea and snacked on chips with homemade salsa. And spent the evening having dinner on the back porch, which overlooked the marshes. We shared so much laughter, our cheeks ached.
Several times, I reached over to touch my good friend, because I felt so blessed by her that I wanted to make sure she was real! God loves on us through his other children….Aha!
On the drive home, I held my husband’s hand, which is not at all unusual. But we locked fingers like we have a thousand times before and I thanked the Lord for this perfect fit. And that prayer led to gratitude for all of the other ways I love my husband. I can’t count all of my blessings if I don’t start with “one” ….Aha!
Washing my sandy feet in the tub before bed, I considered the events of the day. I thought about friendship – and said a quick prayer to let the Father know I appreciated his orchestrating those relationships. I smiled, thinking of the ocean and complimented Him on His handiwork. I couldn’t remember a day in recent history in which I’d felt so humbled by blessing, so full of gratitude. It isn’t because I’m not blessed; it’s just that worry has been renting the space in my head that joy rightfully owns. Worry is a destructive tenant, opposite of thankfulness in every way.
God is always bestowing gifts big and small to us, but sometimes I don’t encounter grateful-ness because life is full of not-so-wonderful days, chock full of them. Things seem to go wrong more often than right, and days are not often even close to perfect.
I know that we are not here to be blessed, but to bless. But I also think God gets tickled when we notice the things that we, ourselves, cannot take credit for – the things we shouldn’t take credit for that change forever how we experience life and the world. It takes almost no time at all to say “thank you” but it can change the whole trajectory of mind-set.
Being truly thankful makes sense of things, I think.
Aha!
One of the first things that one is encouraged to do in Alcoholics Anonymous is to get a sponsor. Webster’s dictionary describes a sponsor as:
a) A person who vouches or is responsible for a person or thing. Or…
b) A person who makes a pledge or promise on behalf of another.
Although I attended many meetings, I never did find a sponsor in the halls of AA. It wasn’t that I didn’t want one initially, but asking someone to sponsor me seemed a cruel thing to ask of anyone in those early days. Kind of like asking a stranger to donate a kidney. And I surely didn’t want to sponsor someone else, even after some time in recovery, because I am a messy and flawed human being. Being responsible for myself is about all I can handle (and some days that’s a stretch).
At one of the first meetings I went to, one member told the group that your “higher power” could be just about anything.
“It could be a lampshade,” she said, nodding toward the light in the corner of the room. “As long as you admit that believing in it can restore you to sanity.”
I looked at the lampshade, which admittedly appeared to be more sane than I at that moment. But it was not a “higher power” and I didn’t believe in its holiness. I didn’t believe that I could save myself, or that Buddha could save me or nature or another person. I believed in Jesus Christ and His power to get me through this thing called sobriety. It would have to be an act of God for me to stop drinking.
You see, for three days prior I had been on my knees, sick and begging for help. Three days of detoxifying sweats, shakes, and hallucinations – the penalty of denying my body alcohol. In my weak and lonely state, I had called out to Jesus Christ. A fill-in-the-blank deity did not carry me through that – it was nothing short of supernatural.
When I was at my worst, sprawled out on the bathroom floor heaving and shaking, I screamed at the Lord and called him to the mat.
“You said your grace is sufficient,” I yelled, fist punching at air. “Well, where are you? Help me!”
Help me. Help me. Please help me. You SAID you WOULD!
And he did, moment by moment, bit by bit, comforting my sick body and tortured mind. In that dark time, he became my closest friend. The kind of friend you would give you a kidney. The kind of friend that would give up his life for me. Because you see, he did that, too.
Ever since that day, I have felt that I HAVE to tell other people about him, that he is still in the miracle business. I have to show other “beggars” where I found bread.
I love the 12-steps and believe in the practicality that they offer. I pull them out of the “toolbox” constantly, because they help me to do life on life’s terms instead of my own. In the rooms of AA meetings and Celebrate Recovery gatherings, I have met the bravest people on earth. Every person in recovery has something to bring to the table that another person in recovery needs to know or hear. But for me, the program itself and the wonderful people I met at the meetings were just not enough to maintain sobriety. They could not save my soul.
Life kept happening…the good and the bad, and all along, Jesus stayed. Jesus made the pledge, the promise – and he is still vouching for me today. Any sanity I have had restored in these past eleven years of sobriety?
Given to me by my Sponsor, Jesus Christ. He is the Highest Power of all.
By: Jana Greene
Fear is a big, fat bully – the kind that steals our spiritual lunch money. It is lurking in the nooks and crannies of our being, waiting to lunge out and take our provision. And give a big ol’ soul wedgie so we don’t even THINK of ignoring it later.
At first, fear is just trash talk: You can’t do it. You aren’t qualified. You don’t have the smarts/degree/credentials to do it.
But then it becomes a paralyzing barrage of blows.
You’re a failure. You’ve had a failed marriage, failed relationships, failed careers.
You’re too old to start this project. You’re too boring/plain/ordinary.
Fear can result in so many bugaboos: depression, addiction, self-loathing. Inaction.
The bully sounds a lot like the devil, because fear is more tactical than random. Sometimes the strategy is not to destroy, but to distract. God aims to fellowship with us, to feed us on his love and purpose. If we get too distracted by the lies, we never get where we were meant to go.
We never get to enjoy the feast in fulfilling His greater purpose in us.
There are hundreds of verses in the Bible reminding us to “fear not”, but this is one of my favorites:
“People who don’t know God and the way he works fuss over these things, but you know both God and how he works. Steep yourself in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met. Don’t be afraid of missing out. You’re my dearest friends! The Father wants to give you the very kingdom itself.” – Luke 12:32 (MSG)
My perception is that I don’t have the means to follow God’s purpose for me, but in my heart – where no bully can steal it – is the Holy Spirit. That is truth, fear’s greatest nemesis.
I belong to Christ – why worry for my everyday human concerns? As his Spirit leads me to purpose, I cannot lose. God doesn’t need my success, he longs for my surrender. His will is that I walk past the fear, even when it’s difficult. Even when the bully is loud, he is still a liar.
Expect me at the table, Father God. And thanks for the provision.
By: Jana Greene
“To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, kindly, cheerful, and reverent–that is to triumph over old age.”– Thomas Bailey Aldrich
There was a time in my life when I would have bought this magazine, but now, waiting in the grocery store check-out, I don’t even pick it up. A celebrity in her late 40’s, looking freakishly young and thin, smiles through the thick glossy cover. Her name, known the world over, is boldly printed over an italicized quote that proclaims that she is finally at peace with her middle-aged self.
She is at peace with her (surgically enhanced) body.
At peace with the (airbrushed) wrinkles.
She is at peace with her “real” self these days.
How inspiring.
Although I’ve never read this edition of the magazine, I’ve read the essence of it a thousand times. Full of articles imploring other women in mid-life to embrace the REAL you! sandwiched between ads and columns featuring pictures of women who’ve been photo-shopped within an inch of their likenesses.
Real.
Some days I struggle with this aging thing. It’s hard to sign a peace treaty with something as it marches across your face and forms dimples your thighs while you sleep. I have to constantly remind myself that getting older is actually a gift; more time to make a difference to someone, more time to love and laugh and serve.
God says that “Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life. (Proverbs 16:31, NIV) but that’s not what society says.
Society says to color the gray out, because we are worth it….to cover our faces with makeup to “take the years off” and to Spanx-corset our mid-sections. To tan, moisturize, condition and bind. To dye, tweeze, pluck and lift.
Because if you are 45 but look 25, you might find “peace”?
Peace wasn’t a real hallmark of my 20’s. The best thing about them was not a tight jaw-line or flat abs (although yes, they were nice if I recall). The best thing about being 20-something was the belief that the best was yet to come. The hopefulness.
Every woman I know over 25 struggles with the insecurity that whispers “Look in the mirror! Step on the scale! Your best has already been…..”
But that isn’t what God says at all.
Ironic… that the same forces marching across my face, dimpling my thighs – are the ones bringing the crown of splendor. The experiences that bring “hopeful, kindly, cheerful and reverent” are often the same experiences that precede wrinkles, gray hair, a few extra pounds.
I’m learning that a heart unwrinkled is what really inspires me.
And the peace-treaty with my wrinkles and thighs? Yeah. That’s a work in progress, too.
By: Jana Greene
Years ago, a friend had given me a gift certificate for a pedicure at a local nail salon. Andrew, a nice gentleman from Vietnam, would do the dirty work – my feet were a mess. First he ran a very warm foot bath and instructed me to relax while enjoying the gentle jets.
But I was not relaxed; I became more nervous as he lined up the implements of pedicures by the side of the tub: lotions and oils, pumice stones and cuticle sticks. After a while, he lifted one foot at a time and placed it on a towel on his knee.
I’d never had a pedicure, and it was a humbling experience so far. I was so embarrassed.
Living near the beach, I had become accustomed to staying either barefoot, or in a pair of well-worn leather sandals, and the soles of my feet were calloused and cracked from not wearing shoes. As Andrew rubbed oil into each foot, I began apologizing.
“I know my feet are in bad shape,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry they are so rough.”
To which he replied bluntly in a clipped Vietnamese accent: “That’s why you come here! Why would you come if feet were perfect?” He scrubbed with the pumice until my heels were smooth and painted my nails a warm sunset orange. By the time he was done, I felt restored and (dare I say?) relaxed.
And a little silly that I apologized about my feet during a pedicure!
Walking out of the salon on “new feet”, I thought about Jesus’s washing the feet of his disciples. I love that story:
“So, he (Jesus) got up from the supper table, set aside his robe, and put on an apron. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the feet of the disciples, drying them with his apron.” – John 13:5-6 (MSG)
If it were embarrassing for Andrew to wash my feet, I cannot imagine the Son of God bending down to do the task! God incarnate, serving! So that we would learn how to serve. He even washed the feet of Judas, whom he knew would betray him in a matter of hours. So humbling.
Humbling doesn’t usually feel restorative, but it often is.
There is a young lady I know who is struggling with coming to church, wrestling with believing in God at all. She wants badly to stop hurting but asserts that she is just not there yet, not quite ready to make herself vulnerable enough to allow Jesus in.
She says she has done a lot of bad things, and that she is in rough shape. A part of her still likes those bad things, I suspect – and she isn’t sure she wants the calluses pumiced down by “religion”, because of the tenderness under the surface. It’s so much easier to throw a coat of paint on something and make it look alright. Religion can be superficial; a relationship with the God who bends down to where you are? That is deep and powerful.
I want to say, like Andrew the Pedicurist, “Why would you come if you were perfect?” Being in bad shape, rough around the edges, makes you the perfect candidate for Jesus to wash your feet!
To wash your soul and to restore you, right where you are.
That’s why you are here.
By: Jana Greene
Many years ago, my family enjoyed taking a vacation to Walt Disney World about every two years. After a few trips, I came to learn the” lay of the land” and decided that I would create an itinerary in advance of each vacation in order that we might enjoy the maximum amount of fun mathematically possible in ten or so exhausting hours in the parks.
Never mind that my children (and budget) were small; there were exciting adventures happening everywhere in that place and dadgummit – we weren’t going to miss a thing!
Crafting each itinerary in advance was a lot of work, what with the hours of research spent analyzing the historical crowd levels, taking our favorite restaurants into account and studying the parade schedules
I am not an analytical person normally, but I’m very prone to addictive behavior, and I took each Pilgrimage seriously. My itineraries became so neurotically detailed (each activity on each day down to a half-hour margin of error) that my family became unwilling to follow my plans.
One day on vacation, we walked into the Magic Kingdom at 9:00 a.m. as scheduled and my family informed me that they would not be following the plan for today. Even though the plan clearly indicated that we would visit Tomorrowland first, they started to head to Adventureland, dragging me by the hand. The itinerary ended up in a wastebasket somewhere near Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
My family’s mutinous rebellion resulted in two things: everyone had a much better time when NOT following a strict schedule and it became apparent that I am a CONTROL FREAK.
It took the intervention of a cartoon mouse to make me see it.
Knowing the “next cool thing” we were going to do actually had the opposite effect on the Fun Factor. It was hard to get excited about the next activity when you already knew what to expect. There was no room for the wonderment of what delightful thing you might just happen across.
As a general rule, I like knowing what is going to happen ahead of time, and I’m happy to help the process along by making lists/itineraries when applicable. This season in my life is no exception.
This might be especially true when it comes to time and money – the two things that seem to run out the fastest. I am all too happy to make suggestions to God about what might be the next big step (with subtlety, of course) but I suspect He sees right through me and knows that my suggestions are really just prayerful efforts to control. I don’t know what is going to happen next, and anytime I think I do – it turns out to have been pure delusion.
But delusion trumps uncertainty in my primal brain quite frequently. So I pray. “Help me, God….whatever is next! And help me to stop trying to help you decide what that is!”
This morning I read something in the Bible that stopped my worry-wart, hand-wringing prayer time today with its simplicity.
“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a child-like “What’s next, Papa?” God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us – an unbelievable inheritance. If we go through the hard times with him, then we’re certainly going to go through the good times with him!” – Romans 8 15:17 (MSG)
Could it be that I am missing the wonderment of delightful things because I’m too busy tending to the “grave” thoughts? Tending to the thoughts of an empty grave at that? Time, money, the actions of other people – all out of my control, all distractions from the rich destiny intended for me. What about the Fun Factor?
I’m starting to figure out that it isn’t knowing the next cool thing that’s important; it is trusting that God has my best interests in His plan. It’s “What’s next, Papa?” in genuine adventurous expectancy.
Without knowing the “lay of the land”, without making suggestions to my Father.
And without missing a thing, except for the illusion of control.
By: Jana Greene
There is something holy about old dogs. I can’t quote scripture to prove it, but I can see the sacredness in the eyes of my old dog, Emmie. And I know God sees it in her too, that He placed it there.
I’m finding that God often places the holy and pure things where we least expect them. I know that He uses my dog to make me a better person, to teach me things.
Emmie has been a good and faithful friend to me for more than fourteen years. A Golden Retriever (with a bit of Chow-Chow) she never knew the first thing about retrieving. But being kind and loving, joyful and true? She knows everything about that.
When I call to her, she comes to me – even though she is old and creaky probably has a million good doggie reasons why she would rather not. She might be on her soft bed, having the dream in which she is jumping the chain-link fence like she used to. Or a dream in which she finally catches that tormenting cat. But, she always comes to me when I call, tail in full-wag….. counting it all joy. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds.” – James 1:2
She enjoys her life, with little concern for the future. Although it’s not easy for her to get into the back seat these days, she loves car rides. Groaning a little as I help her hoist her achy haunches up, she seems to say, Mom, roll down the window already! We might be going to the park, or to the vet’s office; she knows either one is a possibility. No matter! On the road she is just a smiling doggie in my rearview mirror, her coat an explosion of golden fur in the wind, her slobber forming a snail-like trail down the side of my car, anxious for nothing. “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” – Matthew 6:25 -27 (NIV)
Emmie is an expert on affection, both the giving and receiving of. She hasn’t yet learned that she doesn’t need to sit on top of me to be with me. She simply cannot get close enough, even when I am trying to get things done. Her tail wagging furiously, she is conveying that she loves me too much to contain it in a lady-like, reserved manner. It reminds me of times that I raise my hands at church during worship, unfettered by rules, overcome with gratitude…when I just cannot get close enough, love/grace/gratitude bubbling over. “This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of God’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God.” – 2 Corinthians 9:12 (NIV)
But the holiest attribute that Emmie displays might also be the most subtle. It is the way she humbly seeks my face. When offered a treat, her gaze is not on my hand (or the delicious bone I’m holding) … No, she is staring at the acceptance in my expression, her big, chocolate drop eyes searching to read my face. Interestingly, the Bible reminds us to seek the face of God, not his hand and what he can offer us in the way of treats. “Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.” – 1 Chron. 16:11
My sweet Emmie may not know about retrieving. But she knows all about love, unconditionally.
Over the years….
In times of sorrow, I have buried my face in her uber-floofy coat and cried buckets of tears, and she didn’t seem to mind. She lay perfectly still, only moving to lick my face. Always compassionate.
In times of great joy, she has skipped circles around me, pouncing up and down as if she had a single clue as to what the celebration was all about. Joyous oblivion.
In times of sickness or pain, she is my shadow, following me to the kitchen, the mailbox, even to the bathroom. Endlessly loyal.
Yesterday, I bent down to kiss the top of her cone-y head like I have hundreds of times before. I held her face up in my hands and looked into her eyes. Heart melting, a feeling came over me of sweet reverence. It took my breath away a little. I’ve felt just this way before……
Where have I felt this feeling before?
And then I remembered: standing in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City. I, as a tourist from North Carolina, standing in the sanctuary of the church, having never seen so regal a place, in the presence of magnificence….. awed and humbled. How odd that the countenance of a loving, loyal animal would remind me of such a holy place. The same sensation of being close to what His hand had fashioned flooded me in this realization: Where God’s glory is manifest in the great majesty of architecture and art, it is also manifest in the eyes of an old dog.
Holy and sacred – right where God placed it.
By: Jana Greene
“There’s trouble ahead when you live only for the approval of others, saying what flatters them, doing what indulges them. Popularity contests are not truth contests – look how many scoundrel preachers were approved by your ancestors! Your task is to be true, not popular.” – Luke 6:26 (The Message)
It was the first day of fifth grade at Quail Valley Elementary School. First and second period had been rough already; none of my friends were in my class.
I had chosen the all-important “first day of school” outfit carefully. I wore the very latest Jordache jeans (win) but had paired them with a shirt that featured an American flag on gold, metallic fabric (fail). I loved it, felt unique in it. But the snickers and glares of my “friends” at my choice of clothing conveyed disapproval in the extreme.
My attempt to shine just ended up shining a big, twirling 1979 disco light on my awkwardness.
And now….the lunch bell. The. Lunch. Bell!
I’d brought my lunch in a new K.C. and the Sunshine Band lunch box, and all of the other fifth graders brought brown bags (lunch boxes were for babies and I hadn’t gotten the memo).
When we entered the cafeteria, all of my classmates fell into some kind of socially pre-determined seating arrangement as if they had rehearsed it – which of course, they had. I circled the table like a lost, pubescent Solid Gold reject for what seemed like an eternity.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. My teacher gently touched me and whispered “Why don’t you come sit with me? We can eat lunch together.”
If my social fate hadn’t been sealed by that moment, it was done then. Eating with the teacher.
Many days during fifth grade, I ate lunch with Mrs. Sewell. But the funny thing was that I came to enjoy it, to choose sitting with her. She planted little seeds of affirmation into my spirit with offhand comments at the table: I’m glad you’re in my class. I like the story you wrote about the leprechaun. Gold is my favorite color, too. I like eating lunch with you. Don’t believe the junk other kids say about you – none of it matters! Words carry such power.
I vowed that next year, Junior High School would be different! I had no idea how true that statement would be, nor how exponentially more awkward it would prove.
Middle school is its own special kind of adolescent hell. It was when our peers started the process of labeling others in earnest, and all it took to become that labeled entity was for enough people to say you were, believe you were – that thing: Prep, Jock, Nerd, Loser, Slut, Prude, Stoner –all sub-headings for “Popular” or “Unpopular”.
I guess you realize by now, I was not popular.
By early adulthood, long after high school, I came to realize that all of the socially tormented moments growing up did not destroy you but only (warning: cliché ahead) made you a stronger person. I tried to tell my daughters that same thing all throughout their middle and high school years.
“You will not even remember the people whom you are giving this power to!” I would say.
But of course – they responded as if their mother were telling them something clichéd.
We adults figure out that the approval of others isn’t important.
Right?
Until someone says something to us or excludes us in a school or workplace function.
Or criticizes a project we’ve poured our heart into.
Until somebody spreads a rumor about us, and we are hurt by it.
Until society demands that accept a certain set of beliefs, lest we be labeled intolerant.
Until we cannot afford to keep up with the neighbors, or the standards we used to consider “comfortable”.
Or until we feel out of place at church, God forbid.
Until someone makes us feel “less than” or labels us with their incomplete assessment of our talent or time or ability.
Or worse, until we label ourselves.
Fifth grade lunch table all over again.
In Author Joyce Meyer’s book Approval Addiction, she concludes:
“We suffer much agony because we try to get from people what only God can give us, which is a sense of worth and value. Look to God for what you need, not to people.”
People will always, always disappoint you. I tell my kids that, too, but I’m not sure they believe me yet.
Because other people don’t have the answer about what is true about us. They don’t know what God sees in us.
Jesus chose the crowd He ran with during his ministry here on earth, and the “in” crowd of His day had a lot to say about his choices. He saw beyond the labels that society had so generously doled out on his followers and gave them a new label altogether: HIS.
I am still a little socially awkward, messy, and well….unique. But I am His.
Regardless of whom we are or what we’ve done, no matter what we have or what we don’t have, Jesus says, “Why don’t you come sit with me? You’re welcome at my table.”
In His love letter, the Bible, He affirms:
I’m glad you’re my follower. I love that you’re using your gifts and talents in fellowship with my other kids. If I had any use for a refrigerator, your picture would be on it. I like spending time with you. You are mine forever. Don’t believe the junk others say about you – it doesn’t matter! Your task is to be true, not popular.
Words carry such power.
“CUTTY SARK” painting by Paul M. Kruemcke (my beloved grandfather “Papa”)
circa 1966
By: Jana Greene
“And I’m bleeding, and I’m bleeding, and I’m bleeding
Right before the Lord
All the words are gonna bleed from me
And I will think no more” – The White Stripes, Seven Nation Army
Words
like the ocean when you are standing at the end of the world
right about to fall off the edge.
Just when you think you’ve run out of sea
the world becomes round and look!
Endless more!
More to say.
More to think.
More to write.
Units of communication,
Words,
transfused into us by our Creator.
On the waters of written language
The world takes passage in order to think.
Thought-provoking words inspire
ignite and set into motion
Kingdoms, governments and laws.
I write in order to unthink.
Unable (unwilling) to tourniquet the thoughts
with substance or busy-ness or logic,
the flow commences with a single prayer,
“Lord, give me the words.
And lend me Your strength to bleed them.”
Words, woven together
one pitifully weak and thin thread at a time.
One narrow thread of thought,
meaningless by itself,
white with a memory of bliss until it bleeds from the loom pink,
and then red with heartache.
Keep weaving until the thread changes to the blues of struggle
and the yellows of rejoicing,
and a million shades in between.
My history
thread by thread
word by word
becomes a sail.
Patched when torn
woven with those glorious words
for which God gives us with generous abundance.
Which God reminds us to use carefully.
To choose carefully.
To bleed wisely and weave gloriously.
Under the wind of His grace…
To sail upon.
By: Jana Greene
At the end of a long alleyway in my city’s otherwise very lovely downtown district there is a dumpster, a metal landing that leads to nowhere and an incongruous automated teller machine. Or at least it advertises itself as such, what with the bold-font red printed “ATM” lettering. When my husband and I passed it while strolling around, I burst out laughing.
“Looks legit,” I said. He laughed too. I took a picture of it, which really doesn’t represent the shady-factor, since I had to zoom in a good bit in order to see the “ATM: letters. The machine is far, far down the alley.
Who would go down that path? I suppose you might be tempted to use it if you really needed cash and had no other way to get it. But there are teller machines at nationally-known banks fifty feet away in either direction.
I don’t know if it is a legitimate machine or not, because it didn’t feel safe to venture down the alley, much less withdraw cash and have to venture back out. It seemed very sketchy.
Going into dangerous places often feels “sketchy”.
When I first became sober, I acutely felt temptation everywhere. The first time I made a run to the grocery store as a person in active recovery, I barely made it through one aisle before having a panic attack, because I knew that a mere six aisles away was the wine section. By the time I passed the wine en route to the frozen foods, I finished my shopping while quietly sobbing, grieving. It has been eleven years since that day and I have grocery shopped without incident for years – passing the wine section like someone with a fatal addiction passes the peanut products – they are perfectly safe for most people, but not for me.
But I still don’t go into a liquor store. It’s just a dangerous place for me. Why risk temptation?
Another dangerous place can be my own mindset. Sometimes in my anxiety, I allow my mind to wander around, consulting my experience instead of my chaperone (and sponsor) Jesus. Who would go down that path? Me. But in truth, my past mistakes have never held the key to coping with life on life’s terms. So when those dark-alley thoughts appear, Jesus reins me back by reminding me that temptation never comes from Him.
Don’t let anyone under pressure to give in to evil say, “God is trying to trip me up”. God is impervious to evil, and puts evil in no one’s way. The temptation to give in to evil comes from us and only us.” – James 1:13-14
My mind is not always the best judge of what is dangerous, sometimes temptation doesn’t feel dangerous – just tempting. What I need is never in the sketchy place; God never tries to trip me up. It is in Him, and His good and perfect will.
The most legit place there is.
No article today (after all – it is Sunday, the day of REST!) But I’d like to invite you to check out the Wilmington FAVS website, which explores religion news – regionally, nationally and globally. 🙂
http://wilmingtonfavs.com/culture/social-issues/meet-jana-greene-our-addiction-recovery-writer
By: Jana Greene
Over a dozen years ago, I became friends with a woman in California who got sober a few years before I did. We met on an internet support board for women alcoholics. In retrospect, the venue for our support group sounds a little cheesy but there’s nothing cheesy about lives being saved, which is what happened there for some of us.
My Cali friend and I spoke on the phone regularly, and our bond that spanned the confines of dial-up internet and many miles. In Malibu, she could literally be sticking a toe into the Pacific Ocean as I, on the coast of North Carolina, could be sticking a toe in the Atlantic.
She is Reiki where I am Massage Envy and she knows her way around auras and energies the way I know my way around town to find something deep-fried (equally good for the soul). You might not think we have much in common, if you were to look on the surface – but addiction and recovery are not skin-deep endeavors. I love her and I respect her immensely, we are family – kindred spirits in recovery, One Day at a Time, all glory to God.
There were a number of women in our little support group who did not remain sober. Some still attempt sobriety, only to relapse time and time again. For them, recovery hasn’t “stuck” yet, and I don’t know why. I wish I understood why some people stay sober and some don’t, but taking my own recovery “inventory” is enough of a job for me – it’s plenty.
Not everyone survives active addiction. That’s what people often forget about alcoholism…it can kill you.
For the first couple of years of my recovery, I had this awful, knee-jerk reaction to these friends who picked up the drink again after some period of sobriety. Not angry with them, exactly – but angry at them, resentful and threatened. What do you mean you got drunk last night? You’ve been sober for the eternity of two weeks!
I resented relapsers because I myself had been one for years. It terrified me that I could lose all of my “time” just like that. I knew it was possible – that it is still possible, if I don’t give recovery the attention that I once gave the drink. We alcoholics, in the midst of having a disease for which there is no cure, can only manage it by implementing 12-steps for living, and not picking up the poison.
Of course, it is the disease that tries to convince you that the poison is the medicine for your condition.
So when a friend on our support board would fall off of the proverbial wagon, it had seemed to me that she had gotten to enjoy a nice buzz for a while scot-free. That she would get to start sobriety over again like nothing ever happened.
Except for something always happened. Not once did a relapse lead to enlightenment, to repaired relationships….to healing. Not once would the relapser even mention the buzz, so eclipsed was it by her self-loathing. She would never claim the episode was anything but miserable and harrowing. I knew that because each time I had relapsed, it had gotten harder to get back in the game. To survive.
Alcoholism is a deadly disease with no respect for the length of previous sobriety; if I picked back up, I start wherever I left off before the relapse. It is also no respecter of sex, age, faith, wealth or beauty; it is an equal opportunity killer.
Still, it demands that I must respect it – the disease. Simply put: If you can’t swim, the best way to avoid drowning is to stay out of the water. Don’t even put a toe in.
My heart breaks for those in relapse-mode. It is a terrible place to be.
A few weeks ago, I spoke to my Cali girl on the phone and we remembered our friends whom are still – all these years later – struggling like crazy. We talked about not taking our disease for granted. When you have recovery in common, you have everything in common.
No one ever regretted having stayed sober. A life in sobriety is a life saved for an addict.
It is its own sweet, undeserved and precious reward.
By: Jana Greene
Yesterday wasn’t one of my best days.
I woke up with a headache and other tell-tale signs that it was “that time” of the month. Granted, I’ve had a hysterectomy – but the one remaining ovary I own is in total denial and tries to “keep up with the Joneses” – the Joneses being the three other young women I live with.
Grumph, I thought, getting out of bed.
Somehow, mysteriously, all of my pants and jeans had shrunk two sizes over the course of a few days, so that nothing would fasten. Pulling on sweatpants, the waistband felt tight. I would feel like the magician’s assistant all day long – the one for whom being cut in half at the midsection was a paying gig. Except for me, it isn’t.
I looked in the mirror to find that my face had become an obstacle course or sorts, with wrinkles and zits competing for the gold medal. Team Zit was winning. I dotted some foundation over them, which managed to magnify the blemishes and settle into the wrinkles. I felt myself starting to cry, but decided to be angry instead.
Sometimes you have decide to be one or another.
At lunchtime, I enjoyed a perfectly lovely meal with some ladies whom I am getting to know in a business capacity and maybe even a friend capacity. One of the topics of discussion had been meditation, which to me – is finding a Happy Place in your mind and hanging out there for a while. Ironic subject today. My Happy Place is in the presence of God, which honestly – in my mood – I didn’t think I could find on a map. I felt like God was avoiding me, and I didn’t much blame him.
Later, while driving my 20-year old daughter home from work, she started an argument, which I was happy to keep going. Living with grown kids is its own special brand of challenge, since they have had longer to become proficient at pushing buttons. Normally, I like to fancy myself a loving mama bird gently nudging my babies toward the edge of the nest, where they will spread their wings and soar into the wild blue yonder.
Today, I was more like a cranky public transportation driver who wanted to shove her out of the bus (destination: Independence) and yell – while waving my fist in a very non-nurturing way: “Oh yeah? Well you can walk the rest of the way to adulthood, Missy!”
I felt myself becoming more and more….well, unhinged.
“You act like your estrogen will never run out,” I actually said to her, menacingly. “It will, I tell you! It willlll……”
Making me even grumpier is that on some level, I realize how trivial all of these problems are. They are First World Problems. Middle-age problems. Bad economy problems. They are not the biggest issues I face, but they all conspired to storm the castle of my spirit at once and my defenses were down.
I hadn’t spent much time with God in prayer that morning; my defenses were not what they should have been. I hadn’t read his word at all – I hadn’t armored up with the belt of truth described in scripture –
Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, 15 and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. 16 In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. 17 Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. – Ephesians 6:14 (NIV)
Today, I felt armed with only The Sweatpants of Bloatedness and the Pimple of Doom. How could I fight this mood without even dressing for battle?
I had been in a rush to accomplish a dozen meaningless little things – straightening up the house, running mindless errands – to try to distract myself from myself. Thinking maybe if I ran around enough, I could outrun the little black cloud of hormones and the grumph.
At the end of the day, I finished up some work and ate some chocolate (detrimental to the waist and the face, but good for the soul). I talked to my husband for a time and did some writing and felt just a little better. And I read some scripture, because I remembered it hinges me back together.
I felt better because I gratefully remembered that God is present in my unhingedness, too. I don’t have to go looking for his presence on a map. He is omnipresent, and he gives grace big enough to handle me on my ugliest days. He doesn’t mind hanging out, even when I finally allowed myself to cry. Sometimes you have to decide to accept grace.
And that’s something to meditate on.
By: Jana Greene
“Talk and act like a person expecting to be judged by the Rule that sets us free. For if you refuse to act kindly, you can hardly expect to be treated kindly. Kind mercy wins over harsh judgment every time.” –
James 2:12-13 (Message)
I’ve heard it said that Christianity is only just “one beggar telling another beggar where to find food”, and I believe there is a lot of truth in that analogy. But if that is so, I believe it is also “one freed prisoner showing another prisoner who can make him free”.
Currently, there seems to be a spate of television shows about prison life. Filmed in actual penitentiaries, TV crews camp out in the common areas and just outside of the cells. They then report on the conditions of the facility, and go in-depth with those serving time. What must…
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By: Jana Greene / thebeggarsbakery.net
You might be a big fish
In a little pond Doesn’t mean you’ve won
‘Cause along may come
A bigger one – Coldplay, Lost
Fill in the blank: When I finally achieve ______________, I will be_____________.
Accomplishment…it is a slippery little sucker. Once you catch it, it tends to wriggle free. I think I know what success is, but the definition keeps changing. But I’m learning not to compare myself to others. If God doesn’t compare us to one another, why do I?
My “fill-in-the-blanks” have changed many times:
When I finally achieve career success, I will fit in.
In the business world, while others were striving to reach the next rung on the ladder, I was just trying to keep from tripping over myself on the ground. The message at the office is: the work world is how you measure your success – and a large portion of society confirms that it must be true. But there is very little requirement in corporate America for creativity. While others were making money and enjoying the fruits of their labor, I felt like my fruits were dying on the vine. I was such a square peg forced into a round hole even my successes weren’t really mine. They were the achievements of a round-shaped square peg, whittled down to conformity in order to fit.
When I finally achieve my ideal weight, I will be happy with myself.
This is a biggie (no pun intended) with most women I know. At different stages of my life, I have been heavy and I have been thin. Here in the middle (and middle-aged) is not where consider my body ideal, but I have to be honest with myself. In the skinny years, I found a myriad of other ways to be unhappy with my body. Fitting into size six jeans was nice, but all the while I was thinking, “Another gray hair!” while hating this feature or another. Those goals I set for myself that seem so important often fail to satisfy.
When I finally achieve organization, I will be a better writer.
Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I’ve decided that I will one day become an organized person. I will sit at my desk, which will have all of my resources handy (dictionary, thesaurus, extra printer paper, highlighters) and utilize Microsoft Outlook’s calendar and scheduling features. My desk would not appear to be the workplace of a mad scientist who decided to take up writing Haiku…..half-drunk cups of coffee, sharpies missing lids, a random cat wandering across the keyboard. But as it is, my desk is never clean and orderly. It is covered in yellow post-it notes that proclaim messages like “Next Tuesday” and “Why snails have strong faith” or “7”…things that I am sure will later jog a writing idea but usually don’t, because I’ve forgotten why I wrote them down in the first place. I’m not even sure my computer has Outlook.
So, I keep asking God, what can I achieve for you? What can I accomplish as Your child?
After all, he knows me best. He knows that I am no businesswoman. He knows that I carry a little fluff around, that I am messy and disorganized. He is ok with these and a million other personality and character attributes belonging only to me, and the defects? He is helping me work through those.
He always finds me, even under the striving to please others – even in my most vain and selfish pursuits. I sense my Creator saying often to my spirit, “Little fish….how did you get in there? No wonder you are miserable – you are in the wrong pond!”
He created me. He should know! The definition of the true measure of success in Christ is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow.
When I achieve surrender to God I will be successful. Accomplished. And most likely, covered in yellow sticky notes.
By: Jana Greene
“There are all warning markers – DANGER! – In our history books, written down so that we don’t repeat their mistakes. Our positions in the story are parallel – they at the beginning, we at the end – and we are just that capable of messing it up as they were. Don’t be so naive and self-confident. You’re not exempt. You could fall flat on your face as easily as anyone else. Forget about self-confidence, it’s useless. Cultivate God-confidence.” – 1 Corinthians 10:11 (The Message)
It is hard to wrap my mind around the Holocaust, the horror and carnage of genocide. And 9/11? The images we all watched that day as they occurred resulted as what can only be described as hell on earth. The past teaches us that human beings can inflict mind-blowing destruction onto other human beings.
History, if forgotten, repeats itself. and we all have a personal history, as well.
Recovering alcoholics have a tendency to “romance the drink”. No matter how low one became when he or she “hit bottom”, there are those memories that somehow retain a rosy glow in the mind of addict. The glass of champagne in celebration of a loved one’s wedding. The salt-rimmed margaritas enjoyed at the beach in the summertime. The warm glow experienced while drinking beer at a barbecue with family. By romancing the drink, we feel we are honoring the few snapshots of time in which we were not exhibiting addictive behavior. For the person in recovery, it is a dangerous train of thought to board. It is not accurate history.
What we human beings can do to ourselves is pretty horrific, too.
Romancing the drink doesn’t allow for the desperation to feel “other than” that preceded that rosy picture. It does not acknowledge the lack of control from the very first sip, nor the dark craving for oblivion that is the goal of each drink. Romancing it forgets about the self-demeaning actions that followed many drinking sessions, the endless slide show of ugly behavior and shameful choices made under the influence. It doesn’t reflect the sobering shame after the snapshot, nor the lives of the children and spouses left in the destructive wake of a drinking binge. Romancing the drink will not show you the bigger picture: broken relationships, self-loathing, sickness, embarrassment, loneliness, shame and death.
What to do when romancing thoughts of our drinking days creep into our minds? Sometimes they flash before us simply as memories of our lives in a different time, but other times they are a warning sign to stop and consider the trigger.
1. Stress – for an active alcoholic or addict, the drug always promised to ease the stressful times in our lives, but ultimately did NOT deliver. A glass of wine will not keep stress from affecting the mind and body…it only tricks it into thinking it will. Fifteen minutes of oblivion is never worth repeating the history that brought us to sobriety in the first place.
2. Feelings of being out of control: From my experience, addicts are often “control freaks”. We like things to happen a certain way, and we like to know when they will occur. This is one of the hardest things about recovery, because it requires constant submission to God. Any illusion we had about being in control when we drank/used was just that – an illusion. With sobriety, we can have the wherewithal to surrender that illusion to God DAILY.
3. Taking Sobriety for granted: This is perhaps the most slippery rock of all. If you are an alcoholic, you will not “outgrow” your disease. Nor will you “get well”. You have an incurable condition for which there are treatments and options for disease management. Having one drink or using on one occasion does not prove you aren’t addicted; it only sets the stage for a painful and repetitive relapse pattern. How much do I respect the parameters of my disease? One drink is all it would take for me to fall flat on my face again.
4. Putting confidence in self, rather than God. I got myself into the mess of active alcoholism, but God got me out. Having God-confidence is the difference between a successful recovery and a frustrating, self-driven relapse pattern, in my experience. Part of managing the disease of addiction is to remember the past for what it was – dysfunctional. I am just as capable of messing things up as I’ve ever been. But God is my ever present help in danger.
It helps me to imagine each deceptively idyllic picture of having romanced the drink with its ‘before’ or ‘after’ snapshot, based in reality. The glass of champagne imbibed in at a wedding? It was really the fifth or sixth drink, as I had started while getting ready for the event hours before, and had to fill a soda cup with wine to keep the buzz at a comfortable level until the ceremony started. The salt-rimmed margaritas in the summertime? My drinking them created an environment in which I took risks with myself and my children near the water, and embarrassingly passed out on the beach. Beer at family barbeques? What better venue than a family event to really get obliterated and make yourself sick because you cannot stop your drinking.
Romancing the drink honors that which does not deserve honor. Tinkling glasses, and toasts among friends and feeling a part of the normal drinker world….such a small price to pay for living life with clarity, whole and full. What I could not do for myself was no problem for our loving God when I cultivated confidence in him.
An honor he deserves.
Musings of a Gypsy Soul 