T.S. Tuesday: A Whirl of Words

Today's T.S. Tuesday tongue twister is taken from the talented teller of tales' text titled Ash Wednesday:

“And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.” T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

Typical Eliot,writing in circles around my brain. But I love the alliteration, the paradox, the wordplay (it's not really appropriate to write Wordplay, is it?) and the reminder that Love is the center of it all.

Also, I just learned that in Spanish The Word--as in Jesus--is translated as El Verbo.  Literally, The Verb. Turns out Spanish speakers knew a thing or two about "Love does" before Bob Goff came on the scene. 

In Debt to Doubt

Today's post is the last in a series of stories and reflections from my time spent studying abroad in Central America. These are excerpts from my memoir in progress; stories that have shaped me, shattered my pretenses and preset beliefs, and sculpted the way I live and love and encounter God today. I hope in some small way, you can relate and be challenged to reflect more deeply on the experiences that have influenced you and your faith.

***

In Debt to Doubt

“Most early ‘God talk’—without self-knowledge and inner journey—is largely a sincere pretense, even to the person who consciously believes the language. The miracle of grace and true prayer is that they invade the unconscious heart and mind (where our real truth lies)—and thus really change us!” ~Adapted from Richard Rohr, Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality

When I came back from study abroad, I didn’t know how to be me anymore. I didn’t know how to be anything real, except real angry.

At first I told everyone I knew about the things I had learned: the poverty and desperation, the culpability of the United States and the ambivalence of the church, the overwhelming consumerist culture and apathy of Americans. Since I hadn’t been eased into these new ideas in my study abroad program, I didn’t know how to lace my discoveries with grace. The time I used to spend confessing and listening to others, turned into a time of full-fledged assaults on anyone who would listen. I discovered that no one wanted to hear about garbage dumps and international trade agreements. They wanted to hear that I had learned a lot Spanish, visited a lot of places, and, most importantly, had a lot of fun. At first I was angry that no one cared. Small talk conversations with people from church and school left my cheeks flushed and burning, and my heart empty.

I eventually stopped talking. Stopped sharing. Stopped trying.

I meticulously planned my insurrection. I would go to chapel and Bible study, so no one would catch on that I didn’t give a shit. I would share just enough to allow my friends to believe that they were getting the whole story. I lied. I lived selfishly. I imploded.

I used to view this time as a rebellion. As a conscious choice to screw the world and do whatever the hell I wanted. Since then, I’ve been heartbroken for the pain I caused and relationships I fractured with my biting words and calculated lies.

But despite the heartache, I still find myself grateful for this time. Recently a friend called my reaction to my study abroad program as not so much a rebellion, but a rational rejection of two faulty ideologies: that either God only cares about me living up to a certain set of rules so that he can bless me or God only cares about the poor and hates me if I don’t sell everything I have and live in poverty, too. Ideologically, I’ve found a middle ground, which has allowed me to keep more friends and lose less sleep. But the real value of my “rebellion,” of this rejection of all I had known and known myself to be, was that in this darkness, in this absence of pretense and preset rules, I experienced God.

The Living, All-Powerful God.

My semester abroad abolished all pretenses for me in relationship with God, in my faith, in my identity and my role in the world. My rejection of the known started me on a journey of self-knowledge and brought me to grace and true prayer. I am grateful for the questions I was encouraged to ask. For the anger that sparked honesty. For the breakdown that allowed Love to build me back up.

I’m still shaky on my exact theology and Bible interpretations. But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Love is something I’ve experienced. I have a hard time celebrating Jesus’ work on the cross. I don’t really get why we glorify something so gruesome, so awful. I don’t really understand the atonement or who’s supposed to be going to heaven or hell.

But I can celebrate Jesus’ work in my own life. I can celebrate the grace I’ve been given. The freedom I’ve found.

And for this experience of Love, I owe a debt to doubt and to the One who taught me He can more than handle my questions. 

***

Have you ever gone through a period of extreme doubt or rebellion in your life? How did you handle it? What did you learn from it? Do you feel comfortable with your doubts now?

The Same Old Hang-ups, The Same Powerful God

Every time I try something new, go somewhere new, I am convinced that I will be different. I won't be scared or shy. I won't find myself burrowing into a book in terror or feigning invisible in social situations. Miraculously, I will love meeting new people and suddenly I will become an outgoing, hospitable, social butterfly.

Yet again, this is not the case. Here in Guatemala, in this new place where I want to invest and plant roots and share life, I find myself stuck on the same old hang ups, the same old fears. In this quest for hope, this challenge to find the bright spots, I've found the greatest obstacle is not cynicism or doubt, but my own desire to withdraw, to be comfortable, to remain untouched, unchallenged, and unchanged.

I say I want to know their story, but more often than not, I haven't even asked them how they're doing, much less invited them to share their story. 

Six years ago when I studied abroad in Costa Rica, I wrote the thoughts below, and today I echo this desire to connect with others despite my battle with fear and complacency.

I say I want to know your story, but I haven't even asked. 

When I look into your eyes, I can see your story.

But that's as far as I get.

What is love?

What is kindness?

Where does my story stop and your story begin?

I've spent my whole life writing my own story.

I haven't had time to listen to yours.

Why am I paralyzed in fear?

Why is it so hard to look past my story for one minute?

What is it that I'm scared of?

Am I scared that your story will be different, or do I fear that it will be the same?

I say I want to know your story,

but I haven't even asked.

I can live with you for a semester and not even know you.

I can live with you for a lifetime and never even know your dreams.

I want to know you, I really do.

What story do I believe in?

That this is it, this is all?

Is there a heaven or a God?

Why haven't I learned that your story is my story?

That when I ignore you, I discount myself.

When I'm scared of you, it's really me that I'm afraid of.

If I really knew His love, would I be scared?

His love is supposed to drive out fear.

Today, I resonate with this ache to see past myself, with this thirst to witness the power of God. But, unlike six years ago, I am now confident that Love will drive out fear.  I have seen Him do it. In my life and in the lives of those around me. I have experienced freedom from fear, from self-loathing, from bondage to rules. I have experienced Love and Joy and Peace and the wondrous re-creation of the Holy Spirit on my behalf.

I have learned and am still learning to see past fear. To push past my normal limits. I am learning that I am loved and that I can turn to Him when I am scared. I am learning to trust Him. I am learning to love Him.

Today I ask this God of Love, the God who is Love, to allow His love to be my story so that my heart may be opened to others' stories. 

T.S. Tuesday: Experiencing God Together

“What life have you, if you have not life together?”

T. S. Eliot (The Rock, 1934)

This weekend, Love drove out fear.

My fears. Of moving to another country. Of leaving everything I know behind.

Fear had begun to fester. Worry set in. Then disengagement, disconnection, isolation.

I don’t do well when I can’t name things, explain things, write it all out and flourish it with a pretty little bow.

I don’t do well with in-betweens. And right now I’m in between jobs, in between countries, in between lives.

To put it mildly, I’ve been shutting down. Not an earth shattering break down, just a slow dulling of emotions, tamping down of fear, tuning out of daily life to be lulled by the constant hum of doubt and second guessing.

My prayers of gratitude shifted to pleas for peace.

And on Saturday morning, God answered my plea.

My friends and roommates threw me an incredible “Brunch Voyage” going away party complete with every delicious brunch food imaginable and all of my favorite people in San Diego.

Not only did my gooey pancakes topped with Nutella, raspberries, and chocolate sprinkles fill my belly, the company was sustenance for my soul.

I don’t write about my friends very often because I haven’t really figured out a way to talk about them without sounding like every other social media user who writes “my hubbie is the BEST <3” or “FAB weekend with my girlz.”

Of course most people think their friends are the best ever. But I really do think I’ve got a unique thing going.

My friends from college have become my family. They have been the most shaping influence on my life. They daily challenge me and encourage me and draw out my hideous witch cackle laugh like nobody’s business.

And this weekend God used them. He used them to remind me of who I am.

A speaker at my church once said, “The people we love the most reveal our God-given identities,” and I’ve found that to be exactly right.

On Saturday my San Diego family joined together to remind me of who and whose I am.

When my own prayers had fallen flat, when I’d become caught in a cyclone of burnout and apathy, when I began to doubt my own ability to experience God, my friends showed up.

With their words and pancake toppings and hugs and prayers, they breathed life back into me.

They reminded me that I am not alone. That I don’t have to hear from God alone. That I was created for community. 

The most meaningful and humbling part for me was when they spoke words of affirmation. They affirmed my character and my dreams, reminding me of who I am and who I want to be. They recounted the promises God has spoken to me. They told stories of the shifts and triumphs I’ve already experienced.

More than just offering reassuring words (everyone likes to hear good things about themselves), my friends’ words revealed the thread of God’s presence and purpose and love in my life.

And it was this Love that drove out my fears. My friends’ love for me. Their love for God. Their reminders that Love is with me and goes before me, even all the way to Guatemala.

When everyone finally cleared out of our living room and the final plates were scrubbed of maple and boysenberry syrup, I found myself stunned.

Overwhelmed by their words and overwhelmed by God’s grace. And in awe of the transformation that had taken place in my heart in just a few hours’ time.

Numbness had given way to a full array of emotions. Weeping had turned to laughing. Sadness to joy.

And, like most meaningful times in my life, all I can say is Thank You.

To my friends I say thank you for your prayers for safety and purpose and community and vision.

Thank you for your cards and quotes and books and letters. They are more meaningful than you know.

Thank you for your time given up on a Saturday morning.

Thank you for your tears and emotion shed for me.

Thank you for speaking to my God-given identity.

The day was life giving.

The day was hope bringing.

The day was from God.

And to God I say Thank You as well.

Thank you for speaking through my community to remind me of your goodness, to remind me of who I am, to point me to who you are calling me to be by reminding me of your promises and your work in my life.

Thank you for loving me and shaping me and speaking to my heart. Thank you for this life we have together.

Amen. 

Burnout Feels Like

Drowning

Like flinging and flailing and gasping for breath. Some days it feels like I’m floating facedown in the water. Waiting for rescue or waiting for death.

I can’t even remember what it felt like to swim.

Defeat

Burnout tells me leaving my job and moving to Guatemala is the ultimate failure, not a dream fulfilled. 

Like I’ve fought the battle and lost.

Like I’ve given up on getting better.

Not that I have failed, but that I am failure, will always be a failure.

Depression

Like not sleeping, not hoping, not caring.

Like laziness and anxiety, lethargy and restlessness, all rolled into one.

And crying, lots and lots of crying.

Loss

Like losing my dream job.

Losing my identity.

Losing my passion.

Losing my joy.

Losing my self-efficacy.

Losing my mind.

Burnout feels like I’ve turned into a drama queen. 

Writing this I know I sound melodramatic, but that’s what burnout has done to me. It really feels like this, and most days I can’t see past it. Most days it’s the only story I believe. The only story I have energy to believe.

It’s why I started this blog—to share a different story, a better story. To share the story of God’s transforming love. To share a story that doesn’t end in the burnout and the failing and the flailing. To remind myself that, as hard as it is to see past all of this, I can hope for the future. That the God who opened the doors for my dream job for a time will again plant the seed of hope and joy and passion in my heart. That He is not done with me. That He does not fail. That He does not flounder. That He will not give up on me.

That He will restore my joy.

Before Jesus started his ministry, God said of him: “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3:17

Before Jesus performed miracles. Before he raised the dead. Before he called out the Pharisees. Before he fed the 5,000. Before he died on the cross. God was well pleased.

I know I’m no Jesus, but today I’d like to hope that God feels this way about all of his children. That God feels this way about me.

As I reflect on the poisons of burnout, I write in the antidote. I remember the Love. And I paste it on my mirror, write it in my journal, replace the endless word loop of criticism with this declaration of love. This is the story I will choose to believe. 

“This is my daughter, Aly, whom I love; with her I am well pleased.”

For the Love of Mom

Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there!

My beautiful mother. 

In honor of my own sweet, empathetic, creative, intelligent, inquisitive, and grace-filled mother, Susan Lewis, I'm reposting a piece about the power of my mother's words and love to transcend depression and bring life to the full.

Thank you, mom, for believing in me. Thank you for living out your beliefs in such real and tangible ways. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for teaching me to ask the question, What if I am worth loving?

***

I circled the small space in my on-campus apartment bedroom, talking to my mom on the phone. Again my mom was asking if I had gone to church. Again the answer was no.

It was a conversation like hundreds of others we had entertained that year when I spiraled in post-study-abroad-the-world-is-an-unjust-and-awful-place-depression. The conversation consisted of mostly silence, deep breaths, and occasional grunts on my part.

I thought my mom would launch into another tirade about going to church, seeking help, doing anything to get out of the pit I was in.

Instead she told me something that I've never forgotten.

She said, “I want you to feel better about yourself, not just because you should, but because it’s a reality.”

For the first time in probably my whole life, I entertained that thought for real, like really for real. What if I really am lovable? What if that is the reality? What if the guilt and shame and anger I'd placed on myself for not measuring up to whatever impossible standards I'd created was just that, something I myself had created and entrapped myself in?

What if love was the reality?

Within the next few months my depression and self-hatred hit an all-time high and I hit an all-time low, and I realized that I either needed to live like I mattered and life mattered or life would be unbearable. And my mom’s words echoed in my mind.

"You are worth loving."

With the idea that love and acceptance could maybe come from something bigger than and outside of myself, I decided to live what my mom had believed about me all along. Suspending my doubts, I launched my own Love Aly campaign in which I radically rejected any thoughts of self-hatred and did my best to "fake it till you make it," choosing to live like I loved myself even if I didn't feel it.

And it was this experience of unconditional love for myself that brought me back to church, to faith in God, to life.

Thank you seems like the understatement of a lifetime, but I'll say it anyway. Thank you, mom. I love you.

Happy Mother's Day!

***

Readers, I'd love to hear about your mom--What have your learned from your mom? What qualities do you most admire in her? How are celebrating Mother's Day?

What Are You Wearing?

This weekend, it poured love in my house. 

One of my best friends is getting married this summer, and we celebrated her bridal shower with mini-cupcakes and mega-balloons. We put out flowers and pom-poms and put on our fancy spring dresses and biggest smiles for the makeshift photo booth.  

 

From all outward appearances (you can confirm this on Instagram and Facebook), the shower was truly Pinterest-worthy. But that wasn't the praise-worthy part in my mind. 

For me, the beauty of the day appeared in a different fashion--a fashion that doesn't change to suit hipster whims and never fades or fails or goes out of style. 

For me, the beauty of the day came from the community. In the generosity of each of the women who attended. In the outpouring of love I witnessed. 

Even before gifts were opened or the greens with goat cheese, cranberries, and walnuts were enjoyed (told you it was Pinterest inspired), we chose a passage from Colossians 3 to share as a theme verse for the shower and as a prayer for the future bride and her husband.

  

"Since God chose you to be the holy people he loves, you must clothe yourselves with tenderhearted mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds us all together in perfect harmony. And let the peace that comes from Christ rule in your hearts. For as members of one body you are called to live in peace. And always be thankful. (Colossians 3: 12-17 NLT)

As one of the bridesmaids, I had the honor of helping devise our love-showering strategy. 

What could have been a stress-filled, Bride and Bridemaid-zilla event, was anything but. 

Instead, this day was a day that was decked out in love. 

Instead of entitlement, I saw mercy.

Instead of cattiness, kindness.

Instead of arrogance, humility. 

Instead of demands, gentleness. 

Instead of irritation and eye-rolling, patience. 

And instead of comparisons and tearing down, I saw love. 

I was reminded of the rare gift it is to have a group of girlfriends who love each other, encourage each other, and support each other without a hint of mean girl drama. I met most of these women during my first state-your-name-hometown-and-major-in-one-breath week of college, and they have been like sisters ever since. 

And, like sisters, they have been teaching me and molding me and loving me ever since. 

This was just one day of many that they have shown me what it looks like for Love to put on clothes. And I can only hope their sense of fashion wears off on me. 

***

So what are you wearing? Who in your life would you like to influence the types of character you put on? 

Vulnerability Is the Spice of Life

My favorite writing teacher and dear friend just shared this Ted Talk with me. And I am going to share it with you. It's a wonderful recounting of what makes us human, the importance of vulnerability, and how we can't love others if we don't first love and accept ourselves (sound familiar?).  And for the record, Brené Brown is much better on camera than I am.



What are your thoughts on Brené's fight and surrender to vulnerability?

Gripped in Green

I do not love my neighbor.

In fact, my interactions with my neighbors looks a little more like this:

“For not only am I unable to lay down my life for his sake (according to the gospel), but I do not even sacrifice my happiness, well-being, and peace for the good of my neighbor. If I did love him as myself, as the gospel bids, his misfortune would distress me also, his happiness would bring delight to me too. But on the contrary, I listen to curious, unhappy stories about my neighbor and I am not distressed; I remain quite undisturbed, or what is worse still, I find a sort of pleasure in them…. His well-being, honor and happiness do not delight me as my own…What is more, they subtly arouse in me feelings of envy or contempt.” ThePilgrim Continues His Way

It’s a game that I’ve perfected: the comparison contest. More often than not, when I look at someone I compare myself to how they reflect on me. Am I prettier, smarter, more exciting? If I am, then my pride is bolstered and I continue on my merry way. If I don't measure up, jealousy, envy, and self-loathing take hold, gripped in green.

There’s something keeping me from connecting their well-being with my own. Their victories with my own.  I can only see darkly. I can only see me.

When I look at others, I see my own junk and problems and preconceptions reflected back. The focus is on myself. Not what they're really going through, not who they really are. Just who I've made them to be, someone to pity or someone to envy, when compared against myself. That's dehumanizing. That is not life-giving or loving. I've commodified them and myself. I've made coming out on top of this shallow ranking the ultimate goal. Not real connection. Not love.

We all know the feeling to some extent. We all know the strivings and grasping of our egos, our possessions, our time. The selfishness that keeps us from loving our neighbors. The reason we need to have discussions about what it means to be in solidarity with the poor. The reason, I believe, we even have poor in this world.

A while ago I read an essay analyzing the infamous-wedding-love passage in 1^st Corinthians. You know the verses I’m talking about, the clanging cymbals, love is patient, love is kind one that ends with faith, hope, love, and “I do.”

In these verses, there is a chunk of text that talks about the incompleteness of the love we experience now.

It says, “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13: 11-12

I always thought this verse was about seeing God face to face. Or seeing ourselves as we truly are—a reflection of God’s grace and love and beauty.

But, as Madison Smartt Bell pointed out in his marvelous essay, A Love Supreme in the book Joyful Noise, this is a passage about loving others. Love doesn’t happen in a vacuum. These exhortations to serve in love, to prophecy in love, to teach in love are for the benefit of our neighbors. We are called to be patient and kind and slow to anger with EACH OTHER.

So why would this future face-to-face exclude our neighbors? What if it’s our neighbors, not just God or ourselves, who we will one day see so clearly?

"When a glass is perfectly transparent it does not reflect at all; it leaves one openly face-to-face with those on the other side." Madison Smartt Bell, Joyful Noise

Those on the other side are the people all around us. The people we do a pretty lousy job at loving and sacrificing our happiness, privacy, peace, time, money, or parking spaces for.

People say that humility is not thinking less of yourself but thinking of yourself less. I believe that is what Paul is describing in 1 Corinthians 13. A love and attention that does not reflect back to ourselves. One day we will see each other with God's eyes. We won't just see ourselves.

But right now, this hour, this minute, this life, I’m trapped in it. This dark self-prison. These comparisons.

It gets worse with body image for me, but that's not it. It's everything. Am I more athletic? Do I have a better sounding job? Did I make a better joke? And all of this is going in my head instead of LISTENING to whomever it is I'm talking to. It's sick. I am trapped in this prison of myself.

But I want FREEDOM from this self-obsession. One of my favorite quotes comes from Rumi, who says, "You become bewildered; then suddenly Love comes saying, 'I will deliver you this instant from yourself.'"

Love, deliver me from myself. I believe that is what you promise, Jesus. Living water. Forgiveness. A place where strivings cease.

That is true salvation. Freedom and forgiveness of sins, but also deliverance from ourselves.

Please open my eyes to others. Their hopes and dreams and pain that is completely unrelated to me. Break the scale. The measurement. The comparison. Be my true hope and portion.

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror, gripped in green; but one day we shall see face-to-face in His Kingdom, gripped with grace.

T.S. Tuesday: The Lost and Found Pile of My Faith

“There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again.” T.S. Eliot, East Coker*

God answers prayer. Sometimes I forget this. Sometimes I lose this. Sometimes I find this. Then I lose it again. Daily I fight to recover what has been lost.

Today, this post, is a fight to recover and reaffirm my childlike faith.

As Ann Voskamp said in the chapter in One Thousand Gifts that I just read, “I confess, even after all that I’ve seen and tasted and touched, I do scoff.”

After I, Aly Lewis, have seen and tasted and touched and felt that the Lord is good, I still scoff. I scoff at my cheesiness in writing “childlike faith,” I scoff at this blog and my prayers seeking answers, I scoff at my lists of gifts and my love letters to myself.

But I have seen and tasted and touched and felt that the Lord is good. And I will not let my scoffing get the best of me. Instead I will keep writing, keep praying, and keep saying, 'Thank you, Love, for being good.'

***

*I promise I will one day venture out of the Four Quartets, but as long as I keep rediscovering nuggets of wisdom within these four pieces, Four Quartets it is. Please show your discontent by sending me wonderfully aged, used copies of additional T.S. Eliot compilations. Otherwise, I will take your silence as consent.

The Unwelcome Elephant

This feeling only comes in two sizes: regular, can’t shake this vexing sensation but still able to function, and extra large, paralyzing, life-stopping, all-consuming. If you allow this unwanted guest to sneak past the bouncer of extra large you can pretty much say hello to an eternity of bumping and grinding with this guy in the nightclub of hell. When he comes looking for you in your modest skirt and smoothed hair, assuming invincibility because you don’t flaunt yourself around like a floozy, you need to stop, drop, and roll off the bus leading you down the one-way highway to the danger zone . Trust me, you do not want to let this guy anywhere near you, your hopes, your future, your children, even your dog. He will squash your dreams and eat your confidence for breakfast after he ravages your body and your sanity all through the night. He steals your identity and transforms you into a small, frightened child. His presence prickles your hair and dries your mouth. With your heart beating like a conga drum, he wraps his icy fingers around your tender throat, daring you to call out his name. But you can’t reveal his identity. Like the metaphorical, rough-skinned, plain-as-day elephant in the room, your friends know of his presence, but remain silent. The responsibility lies in you, not them. You don’t make decisions anymore; he does. Left to fend for yourself, with your ever increasing insecurity, doubt, and self-loathing, you may never make it out alive, or at least as a healthy, fully functioning adult.

The only antidote—confidence, compassion, dare I say love. Acknowledge your attacker and move on. Don’t think that you must show him compassion; don’t let your guilt trip you into giving him an inch. Have compassion on yourself instead because he won’t just take an inch—he’ll take a foot, your leg, your whole body and mind. If you do feel guilty or like you have suddenly diminished to the size of a pinhead, feel guilty that you don’t love yourself enough. Then take a deep breath, give yourself a good once over in the mirror, slam the door on that greedy little monster’s face, and go (or rather skip) on your merry way, bidding farewell to this unwelcome elephant, unencumbered and free.

Basking: The Remix

All last week I was planning to write about how I came to bask in God’s love. But I couldn’t.

I felt silly. I felt like the stories I wanted to share were silly examples of positive self-talk and self-absorption.

I talked myself out of their importance. I started to doubt if I'd really made any progress. I started to doubt if learning to love myself has really helped me love others better.

As I sought to write about these fits of unwarranted compassion, these moments where God spoke to me and set me free, I realized I am not yet fully free.

As I seek to set others free, I am realizing just how trapped I still am.

Am I really better off? The accuser mocks my progress. I've done nothing. I'm no good. Can I really love and serve others better now?

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of freedom and seasons of basking. It doesn’t mean God isn’t calling me to share these stories of freedom I’ve experienced.

I have heard God. He has spoken to me through words and images, friends and strangers.

And it turns out he’s pretty kind. His words are life-giving. His words are Love.

But this last week I’ve been hearing words that aren’t so kind, that aren’t from Love. Faced with a fear of leading a new book club at my church to share and grow with women struggling with eating disorders, this voice tells me I don’t need to lead because I’m ill equipped. I’m too shy. I’m too busy. I’m too scared.

God must be crazy to want me to lead this book club because I am the least qualified of anyone I know. My friends are friendlier, kinder, more hospitable, more empathetic, better suited to this ministry.

I feel ill equipped to love people, to lead people, and to make an impact.

It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: I don’t lead, I don’t try, I don’t engage, and then I’ve proven that I was ill equipped in the first place.

As soon as these thoughts flood my brain, I’ve abdicated my responsibility. I’ve lost out on the gift that I am and the gifts that God has for me.

Another thought that’s been plaguing me is that I’m being selfish for starting a ministry within my church community. I feel like I’m taking the easy way out. That somehow this ministry is second rate because I’m not directly serving the poor.

I absolutely believe that God has called me to this ministry. And I still feel guilty.

Where’s the freedom in that?

I’m not so different than I was three years ago when I scoffed at the idea of basking in God’s love. I’m still tempted to base my worth on my actions and efforts. On my poverty reduction and social justice scale. I’m still tempted to earn God’s love.

But I can’t.

I am loved. Period. That is the reality of who I am.

Henri Nouwen said, “Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection. Success, popularity, and power can indeed present a great temptation, but their seductive quality often comes from the way they are part of the much larger temptation to self-rejection. When we have come to believe in the voices that call us worthless and unlovable, then success, popularity, and power are easily perceived as attractive solutions. The real trap, however, is self-rejection. As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, "Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody." ... [My dark side says,] I am no good... I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned. Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the "Beloved."’

As a response he says, “The great spiritual task facing me is to so fully trust that I belong to God that I can be free in the world--free to speak even when my words are not received; free to act even when my actions are criticized, ridiculed, or considered useless.... I am convinced that I will truly be able to love the world when I fully believe that I am loved far beyond its boundaries.”

This week I will share the silly stories of positive self-talk and revelations that have speckled my journey of learning to bask in God’s love. I really do believe this basking, this experience I've had with God's unconditional, unconventional, unfathomable love, has shaped and formed me to love others better.

Let the basking begin.

What if I am worth hating?

When my racing thoughts stop and the productivity and acclaim and noise quiets down, my deepest fear surfaces: what if I am worth hating?

For a long time I didn’t answer that question because I feared the reply.

I lived in a shut-off, tamped-down, disengagement. A low grade depression. A low grade life.

I grew up believing that God’s grace was enough, is enough, and should always be enough. But I wasn’t happy. There was no sense of fulfillment, peace, or “enough” in my life. I thought that made me a bad Christian. I had accepted Jesus into my heart, my sins were forgiven, I was supposed to be happy. I should have been happy. I believed Christians had a duty—a responsibility—to be joyful. Christians had the hope of heaven and the relief of forgiveness, a built in best friend and Savior. Non-Christians had Darwin and Nietzsche, chaos and meaninglessness. I had no idea how they even got up in the morning.

But instead of joy and security I lived in depression and guilt.

When I was little, I was not only a rule follower, I made up my own elaborate rules. There was a right way to do everything from the order I ate my food (from least favorite to favorite, vegetables first) to the right way to be a Christian. I thought God wanted me to do everything perfectly and was constantly afraid of failure. I repeatedly missed my own mark, failed to measure up to rules of my own design.

I carried this into adulthood.

I burdened myself with unrealistic rules and expectations to the point that fear of failure paralyzed me. Then I’d feel guilty. Then I’d feel guilty about feeling guilty. You get the idea.

I wrote last week about the transformative power of asking the flipside to my life’s haunting question. What if I asked not if I’m worth hating, but if I’m worth loving?

When I began to live my life as a Yes to the second question, everything changed.

I began to love myself. I began to believe that God might love me.

I found the true meaning of mercy: a compassion that forbears punishment even when justice demands it. Even when justice demands it.

I found a God that loves me even when I deserve punishment and smiting and consequences.

In my weaker moments, that question still haunts me. Am I worth hating?

But I’ve found that it no longer matters what that answer is. That answer is not the reality of who I am.

Regardless of where I’ve failed, God invites me into a new reality of love and being loved and loving others.

The answer no longer matters because I know that I am loved, even when I am worth hating.

Helpless to Helpful, One Block at Time

As an empowered, white young woman with a college degree and healthy dose of idealism, the world is my oyster. But instead of embracing this freedom, I love to feign displeasure at all of the overwhelming choices I have to make on a daily basis:

Paper or plastic or BYObag? Grad school or work experience? Skinny jeans or jeggings?

(Don’t worry, I only have one pair of jeggings and I only wear them on casual Fridays #FirstWorldProblems.)

As much as I pretend to get all flustered and overwhelmed and indignant that I am “too empowered,” the truth is, I love being in control. What I don’t love is not knowing what to do with this control. I want quick answers and color coded set of instructions.

I was a meticulous organizer even as a child. I numbered all of my toy blocks and could only build up in numerical order (childhood OCD, anyone?). It was my way of constricting the overwhelming world of construction possibilities into manageable chunks—one block on top of another.

But outside the protected walls of kindergarten and playtime, these manageable chunks are hard to come by and after a guilt-ridden semester abroad I found myself completely paralyzed, unable to determine block number one.

In the midst of depression and guilt, Love began to speak to me, to urge me out of my shell of shame. I discovered that regardless of my circumstances or how I felt about a situation or all of the million and one factors that conspired to render me frozen and hopeless, I could still choose love. You probably all realized this years ago and I'm just a bit of late bloomer, but I found (and still find) it incredibly empowering to know that I can choose my response. I can’t choose whether or not the world is fair or children die of starvation in Nicaragua (well, not as directly as I’d like), but I can choose my attitude and my next steps.

Instead of watching helplessly as my guilt spun out of control, I stopped doing the things that made me feel guilty. Shopping made me feel sick and guilty after a semester of living out of a backpack, so I decided not to buy clothes for the rest of the year. My roommates teased me and tempted me with shopping excursions and confounded looks, but I found peace in the fact that my actions were beginning to match my beliefs.

I discovered there were many ways I could help the poor, live more sustainably, and incorporate the ideals I had learned about in Costa Rica. But instead of knowing what I should do, but remaining ensnared in guilt, anger, and despair, I actually started to change, to act, to live. I volunteered my time. I began to let my mom and my friends back into my life. I was more intentional about what I bought and how I spent my money. I started going to church again not because I felt guilty or thought it was something I was supposed to do, but because I missed the community. And I didn’t fight every word the pastor said. In small ways, I found I could make a difference.

It was these manageable chunks—one step at a time, one foot in front of the other—that helped me climb reluctantly out of my post-study abroad poverty stupor.

Regardless of what phase of life you’re in, from complacent to content to contrite, I think these manageable chunks of love are the best way to bring about lasting change, the best way to learn to choose love. And I guess this isn’t so much of a new epiphany for me, but more of an addendum to my early days of block numbering.

It’s these baby, baby steps of selflessness and compassion that spur us toward becoming more loving, more compassionate, and more fully engaged in our world.

The knowledge that I can choose to love and empower and give through my thoughts and actions is has been incredibly redemptive for me. I can make a difference little by little. I can learn and grow little by little. I can love little by little.

Hound me later if you think I’m being trite, but welcome to my favorite obsession: “manageable chunks of love.”

*PS I couldn't resist the urge to post a pic of baby, block numbering Aly with my brothers decked out for Halloween.

When "I Love You" Comes Alive

As much as I viewed Praying to Love as a new revelation in my life, it was really more of a continuation of the Love I was already experiencing, not as an idea or a belief or a piece of information, but as a reality. In fits and starts, this Love began to come alive not only in my thoughts and reasonings, but in heart and in my life. In Margaret Feinberg's book, The Sacred Echo, she explains this transforming power of love better than I ever could. She says,

"When God echoes I love you, it’s not a slice of information but a feast of transformation. I am invited to experience the fullness of God’s love in my life, heart, and spirit. The holy metamorphosis is designed to ring so genuine and true that others can’t help but notice. When I love you is alive in my heart, I become freer to love others. When I love you is alive in my mind, I become better at expressing that love. When I love you is alive in my life, I become a smidgen closer to being who God has called and created me to be."

I've had this quote posted on my bathroom wall for the past two years as a reminder of the transformation that has already taken place in my heart, mind, and life. I started experiencing this 'I Love You' long before I could mentally package it as piece of information, and this quote serves as a daily call to actively surrender the notion that 'I Love You' is a just a sentimental fact to file away.

I hope Love and 'I Love You' comes alive a little more in your heart, mind, and life today.

T.S. Tuesday: A grace of sense and a conversation with Love

[To be shouted in Oxiclean infomercial fashion:]

"Praying to Love offers all the benefits of a life-giving relationship with the Creator of the universe, without any of the pesky “religious” baggage of traditional Christian language. Try it today, no money down. What have you got to lose but your pride?"

I've thought a lot about how to write this blog post. I wanted it to be witty and pithy, angry and abrupt.

I wanted to compare my new age, religious wordplay to the golden-tongued trickery of used car salesmen, excuse me, I mean certified pre-owned vehicles sales associates.

I wanted to reference linguistic terms and demonstrate the sheer magnitude of this revelation in my life through my impressive diction and impeccable metaphors.

But it’s been four years since my last linguistics class, and as much as I’d like to think I was smart enough to market God to myself, the truth is that it happened not by my own intelligence or trickery or marketing skills, but in yet another Fit of Unwarranted Compassion that I can neither explain or claim as my own.

In my memoir, this story will appear in the section after I tell my well meaning Christian friends that, no, I would not like them to pray for me thank you very much and before I, to my own astonishment, began praying myself.

In fact, this was the revelation that first loosed the chains of my dogged dependence on doubt and anger.

On May 31, 2009, I had a revelation, which I wrote in my journal as thus:

May 31, 2009

I have had a revelation: I can now say that I am not completely opposed to maybe someday admitting that I could possibly believe that ...dun, da, da,da...God is Love.

At the time I wrote this entry, I couldn't pray or open the Bible. I could barely go to church without fuming inside.

After a whirlwind semester abroad on what I like to call the “Poverty Tour of Central America,” my faith was ravaged. I had visited multiple city dumps and met with displaced farmers crammed into barrio after barrio filled with burning trash, bloated bellies, and pleading eyes. I stayed with families without electricity or running water in Nicaragua. I daily heard rants and cries from blind and crippled beggars calling out to me on the narrow streets of San Jose, Costa Rica. I listened to mothers and sisters and sons talk about their husbands and fathers and friends that went missing during the Guatemalan civil war. I heard horror stories of violence and desperation. I saw the devastating effects of globalization on small farmers.

I met a lot of people and heard a lot of stories that collided with my squeaky clean and comfortable view of God and the world.

Three years later, I still couldn't reconcile how to pray to a God that allowed children to starve and ignorant consumers to participate in modern day slavery, oppression, and environmental degradation.

I had come to a mental place where I couldn't under any circumstances pray without it meaning in my mind that I didn't care. If I prayed to this God, it would mean the people I met and the stories I heard while abroad were meaningless. It would mean I was a liar and a hypocrite.

But one day in church—don’t ask me why I was still going to church because even now I can’t explain it—I began to think about a God not associated with white, wealthy Americans or prosperity or politics, but a God of Love.

Well, more accurately, out of the jumble of thoughts and ideas and emotions swirling in my mind while I scowled in my seat as an act of willful unparticipation in worship, this revelation popped into my head:

GOD IS LOVE.

A couple weeks earlier I had explained to a friend that I had been experiencing these “fits of unwarranted compassion” that I couldn’t explain. And I told him that “those fits of unwarranted compassion are what I now call God—if I had to put a name to it.”

At church I discovered an even better name for this compassion: love. And isn’t there a verse in the Bible (that I wasn’t reading) that talks about God being love?

I realized I had experienced this compassion, this love, in my life; I just couldn’t call it God.

So what if I changed the name?

What if I prayed not to the God who allows suffering, but to the God who allows joy, who offers hope, and who redeems the pain of his children?

What if I prayed to the God of Love? The God who IS love? What if I prayed to Love?

This momentary revelation literally changed my life; it’s the closest thing I have to a conversion experience.

This revelation meant not only that I could begin to have a conversation with Love (code for ‘begin to pray again’), but also that I could choose Love at any time. And, thinking back, I realized that I had always had the choice to Love. Which meant that Love had always been with me. Even in the dark night of my love story. Even in my questioning of poverty and injustice. Even in my rebellion. Even in my fear that I would never, ever find God again. Love was with me.

And somehow that brought me the freedom and comfort I desperately needed but didn’t think I deserved as an affluent American.

One of my favorite T.S. Eliot phrases (don’t think I forgot the T.S. tie in!) is the term “a grace of sense” from the poem “Burnt Norton.” Not a sense of grace, but a grace of sense. I believe that this revelation was one of those moments.

That day at Coast Vineyard, I was graced with the sense to stop quibbling with semantics and start living and following this Love I’d experienced, that I could no longer deny.

Because, seriously, what did I have to lose but my pride?