When I look at this photo, I see my 42-year old life.
A journal for every year but one. Spiral bound, real leather, and everything in between. Beauty passed on to me through hands of dear friends and family. Some years fanned out with order, others piled up, more than a few still trying to find a place. Places. I see those too. The beach with the rising January sun, where I spoke my wedding vows straight from the plain little brown journal whose cover I always intended to decorate. Our first home in a small town in Washington, a humble spot in which some of the most formative stories of my life were written.
When I look at this photo, I see prayers. Writing to God was the only thing that felt right for so many years. In these pages, I asked and thanked. Apologized. Asked and thanked again. These pages are where I promised to do all sorts of things better and parroted scripture in letters to God that said all the faithful, hope-filled things. It was the only way I knew.
When I look at this photo, I feel compassion. For the girl who didn’t know God could hear the hardest things – the most un-Christian thoughts and hopeless feelings. For the twenty-something young woman who thought knowing God was different than knowing herself. For the thirty-one year old trying to fix her broken heart by doing things better.
And I want to tell her how, five months ago, I sat at my kitchen island, looked up at the orange blown glass pendant light and told God I was mad at him. I want her to know that, as I listened to my two daughters singing in the playroom, I slammed my pen down on the counter and, just as my fingers let it go, said – right to God’s face, with a full-on teenage tone – I am Sick. Of. Feeling. Stuck. Done.
Most importantly, I would tell the girl who filled these journals how God did – and didn’t- answer. He didn’t criticize me or leave. I didn’t hear any “should” or “shouldn’ts.” No, God answered with a gift, a project with a purpose. It came in the form of a six-week class to help women learn to trust themselves through meditation and writing. The whole thing flowed out of me in ninety minutes, while Lion King music blared and my girls sang and danced in the adjacent room. I felt as if my self and God were one. Holiness in real time, in the middle of a messy kitchen on a weekday afternoon.
On that day in May, I had no idea what would become of the six-week class. (So far, I’ve taught it in half-day workshop form – an incredible experience!) But on that day, I knew this: God responds to authenticity by coming close. Really close.
When I look at this photo, I understand how where I’ve been has brought me to where I am. I have a sense that growing in faith isn’t about having more trust or less doubt, but pretending less. I want to fill new journals with stories of how God comes close when I give him my broken, ugly parts. Like when I mocked Hosanna the poet’s words, “I am free, free indeed!” and told God I didn’t feel free, or when I told God I felt rejected and, in the most compassionate way, He said “Me too.” Because God gives me gifts, stories, love, guidance, compassion and freedom – yes, even that! – when I give Him the real me.