Last week, I was in the middle of a training, when it happened. I asked the volunteers to do a simple listening exercise, where they were supposed to address an inconsequential problem in their lives. Uncomfortable with the assignment, it was the first time I heard them say:
No.
They didn’t want to do it. Five minutes was too long. They already knew everything about each other in two sessions. They asked for it to be modified to fit their comfort.
I have rolled the incident in my mind over and over in the last week. Unfortunately, it still takes power away from me. Every time I open my mouth to speak, I am so afraid that the next thing I say will be met with the same opposition. No. And underneath that “no” is that fear that says that if someone else asked, they would do it. That they’re opposing because it’s me.
I forget who I am in those moments. I am a teenager again, and I do not have a voice. Or I am a child, being scolded for something I didn’t do. Yes, the woman who opposed me was my mother’s age, or older, and the other one that echoed her was at least ten years older than my father. I can understand that in their eyes, I am a young girl, copying the work of others. And I begin to believe I am that.
I wish I didn’t have to give power away. That I grew up knowing who I was, and that I amounted to more than what I was told. Now, when I speak, I stutter violently, afraid at what will come out next. I have spoken in front of crowds and conferences. I have spoken my fear into submission. But it is coming back with a vengeance, and its determined to take me down.
It’s amazing how “No” can be so powerful. And when I wait to invite the Lord into that moment. And how, as the facilitator, or leader, of the group, can I hold onto the power that I have? Perhaps by acknowledging that power consists of more than speaking well, or not speaking well? What that woman shattered was the facade that I was relying on to look impressive.
What is power, then?
The hardest thing about being here is combating the illusion of safety.
“it may sound strange to consider grief a way to compassion. But it is. Grief asks me to allow the sins of the world-my own included-to pierce my heart and make me shed tears, many tears, for them. There is no compassion without many tears…grief is the discipline of the heart that sees the sin of the world, and knows itself to be the sorrowful price of freedom without which love cannot bloom.”
- Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son
It’s a year later, since Toujon and Kevin found me having a seizure. And as the anniversary arrives, I am trying to find meaning in what happened.
Grief has shifted me. So often, walking the tightrope of pain, I was afraid I would fall into the pit of bitterness. Grief is a strange world. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery writes in The Little Prince, “it is such a strange place, the land of tears.” It is painful and redemptive, but securely private. It can be the cure for people who have deemed themselves dependent on others.
I grew up the “family clown”, breaking the dense tension with ridiculous pranks and witty remarks. This skill has followed me into adulthood, and I found myself in desperate times, seeking out non-verbal cues of those around me, to see if I was doing a good enough job. When I was diagnosed with epilepsy, I became aware I was the family shame. I understood that just as my role was to lighten the load, I was also the heavy burden. I saw myself based on my reputation, as well as my secret shame. And I couldn’t break even.
In ministry, I was good when I was told I was good. And when I was attacked, I never recovered, thinking that is who I truly was. In grief, I couldn’t define myself based on the world, because I was alone in it. I traveled alone through fatigue and indifference, anger and bitterness, and finally incredibly joy. The shell of bitterness and insecurity flaked away, and I was able to believe myself and allow friends to know me genuinely. My relationships have become real, because I’m learning to love, not people-please.
In the last year, I have seen God work in a person that is free from the ropes that tie her to others. Since my seizure, I directed Epic Conference, ran a 5K, applied to grad school, moved in with amazing community and got a social work job. On top of what appears to be too many blessings, Kevin just moved down to LA for work, and we’re exploring young single life together for the first time. I am beginning to internalize self-differentiation, rather than co-dependency, and this is the first steps in a long journey toward growth. One day, I won’t have to worry about epilepsy, and I will be completely healed. I look forward to that day. Until then, I would never wish epilepsy on others. But the grief allowed me to see who I really am in Christ, as well as wash away the lens of co-dependency.
Tonight is my last night at the Mountain St house. I am oddly calm.
I often recall my first memory of LA. After I was in awe of the beautiful city lights (that actually turned out to be just the light sculptures as LAX), and the confusion of so many Koreans in K-town, I arrived at this house in Pasadena with one large suitcase that was supposed to contain my entire life. I unpacked hastily, to furnish these while walls as my own, and delighted in what I called the “french windows, just like the Sound of Music.” I was reluctant to explore the area too much, because of the reality that when I found something, I would have no one to share it with.
I thought it would be like living in some romantic comedy where clueless girl comes to the big city and finds love as well as a quirky sidekick to live life with, and then at they end they sing a song (I may be loosely basing this off of Coyote Ugly). And after three months, I thought, where’s my quirky, loyal friend? Where’s the love of my life? Why aren’t we singing?
I need to be honest that LA has not been easy for me. It has turned my black and white life- the clean lines of the young Christian experience- into shades of gray and left me desolate for a few years. What I saw as purity, I now acknowledge as immaturity. There have been moments where I wanted to pack up my suitcase, cut off all ties and buy a one-way ticket home. I am immeasurably grateful that I didn’t.
This room has been my refuge in so many ways. It’s been the barrier between myself and the outside world, however harsh it appeared. The walls have cheered with me and absorbed my grief. In everything, I’m leaving this same room, and my life is exploding with abundance. Box after box of material things and rich with relationships and emotional growth.
All the trials have been consistently asking me to beg God for Kingdom perspective.
I thought that my life would be complete once I lived with good friends and had a job doing what I love, and it’s surreal that in a few weeks, I will have both. When I came here, I was Jonah, kicking and screaming, and all angry. And God allowed a plant to grow to save him from discomfort, and Jonah was glad. I am so blessed for the last three years, no matter how difficult. I came here thinking success meant my happiness, being even in a time of abundance I am stunned, undeserving and humbled by its presence and of God’s grace.
“Now the Lord God appointed a plant and made it come up over Jonah, that it might be a shade over his head, to save him from his discomfort. So Jonah was exceedingly glad because of the plant. ” Jonah 4:6
Summer has been easy, but unsure. As I finish my year with Epic and begin seeking out a full-time job, I am often times consumed with the tasks to following my dreams of being a therapist. It’s nice, actually, not to have to be introspective for awhile. Yet, I can feel the confusion boiling inside of me, and I am denying the presence of another transition.
I had hoped that transition would end a few years after college. After I’d worked for a few years and settled down, the pestering presence of transition would finally leave me alone. I’m finding that difficult passages in life can pass and beautiful chapters unfortunately come to an end. And my life right now is a strange medley of both.
This August will be three years in LA. Three years since I unpacked my suitcase and sat alone in this hollow white room, wondering how I could ever fill it. Now, I can’t seem to find room for any of my shoes or stuffed animals. Much like that, my life has filled out from a mist and a calling to a demonstration of the Lord’s faithfulness. I recall those first few months, and the helplessness I endured being here with no relationships or keep me warm. I am so afraid that it will be like those first month, and transition will leave me vulnerable to failure. I find myself clinging to the way things are, rather than looking forward to what they could become.
After My words of praise sound forced, iced with the sin that if I praise Him, He will give me everything I desire, including what may be outside His will, I wait. I recall wise words I once heard- that the only thing to remember in transition is not to lose your identity. As I think about this past year, with the seizure and all that has come with it, I’m amazed at how the Lord used my identity- even something as terrible as sickness- to bless myself and those around me. The Lord’s plan was intricate and unique, more so than I could ever work on in my head. And as I recall what He has done in me, I am excited for what He can do in my life. Again, knowing I may lose some things I hold close, but that He will fill my life with His presence and His joy.
How have you handled transition? Especially when it’s difficult?
The Gospel, I’ve learned, is more than a Bible verse to be memorized. But the Gospel was useless to me, as it was to many people from confusing backgrounds. Because at the end of the day, I can pray and read the Bible and ask God for forgiveness. But what do I do with all this anger?
I think of injustice at the shelter when I hold a chubby toddler in my arms who, at best will grow up never knowing his daddy, the abuser. I can imagine his journey to becoming a man and how disjointed church may seem from what he’s experienced in life. His anger may resonate in his life as mine has. When no one dared to explain why it had to happen to him.
The world tells us to exploit our anger for power. (You have your choice of passive aggression or stubborn confrontation!) The church tells me to hide it. But this ball of anger, it has nowhere to go. Church, I concluded years ago, was not the answer for this anger. So I spilled it on the pages of poetry, and became quite practiced at artfully conveying several different types of frustration, confusion and awkwardness through writing. I could recreate anger. But I could never destroy it.
When I came to know the Lord, my anger felt different. For the first time, I didn’t feel like stuffing it away, but I felt free to be honest about it. To feel deeply for injustice and love those who had felt such sin. To empathize for those who had dealt with loss and pain.
When I found out about the Gospel’s implication of propitiation, I was rejoicing of what others may find disturbing- the appeasement or satisfaction of God’s wrath so that we may be free! When Christ died on the cross, the wrath of God was satisfied through His death. The ultimate justice was paid, and we could finally be right with God. That speaks to me, because of the deep satisfaction to know that God’s wrath means He cares. He’s seen the injustice of sin in the world and He is angry. I felt as if the emotion I thought was not applicable to the church was actually real in Christ. God got mad. He was angry against our sin. The anger I feel can now go on the cross- of the sin others cast on me, because of this broken world. I am not responsible for holding it any longer. God is angry, too, and His anger is cast on the cross.
I have not fully digested what this means, except that I am freer than I imagined. To embrace this reality means full forgiveness, even to those I don’t feel can be rightly forgiven without Christ. And to myself, who has fallen so short with my constant sin, that His anger is cast on the Cross so He may welcome me with open arms.
” But he was wounded for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his stripes we are healed.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
we have turned—every one—to his own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.”
Isaiah 53:5-6
“.. 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.” Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our existence.”
-Henri Nouwen
“The house sits stale, it lets you roam
Inside it just don’t feel like home now…”
I am encouraged by what the Lord is doing in my family, but it doesn’t mean I’m content with it.
I’m hit in the face with the reality of the darkness of my family’s past and the brokenness of the direction of our future. Each time the Lord moves, I’m learning that there is not a quick answer- a proclamation of love and affection that ends with a big hug and everyone is happy. We love each other- more than anyone in the world. That’s the most difficult part- when the wounds are out of love, misdirected.
The light is that the Lord is finally blessing my relationships with some kind of honesty. Instead of hiding behind thinly veiled lies, we are beginning to tell at least half-truths. But as the light shines and reveals who we are, I’m seeing just how dark and broken everything really is.
Growing up, I heard that if we had any sin against the Lord He wouldn’t answer any of our prayer requests. In fact, mom has threatened us that if we don’t love her the way she wants us to (succumb to her control), God won’t answer our prayers. My child-like instinct is telling me to just be good- good enough that I can use my goodness as leverage to gain God’s power.
How wrong that is.
I wait, knowing that Grace will abound. I wait, knowing my family may still be in pieces for a very long time, that our brokenness will be left in the dark, that our reputation will still be perfect, that the church people will praise us. I wait, knowing my mother’s shame if she knew I have stood in front of 100 students to share of my dad’s abuse and our repaired relationship. I wait, seeing clearly the layers upon layers of narcissism, greed, anger, control and sin we will have to go through to even begin to consider our need for Christ as a family. But I wait, knowing that the Lord is good, that He conquers, that His will be done.
So I wait.
“The house sits stale, it lets you roam
Inside it just don’t feel like home now
I promise hope will pull you out
For that’s love is all about
Close your eyes this time
Cause trust is all we have tonight
But trust will be forever
Safe your dreams will be
Cause trust will be the light tonight
So close your eyes this time”
-Future of Forestry, Close Your Eyes
Recently, I’ve been asking the Lord for a kingdom perspective in life. So many times, I pray His will be done, and many more I pray for mine to be. Yet, in the midst of His Kingdom, what is important? I have been asking the Lord that it be close to my heart, and it has given me such a deep imprint of the Gospel in everyday life.
Today, I picked my sister up from the airport. I was nervous at what was to come. My recent interactions with my family has brought me to a desperation of how messed up and far away “things should be.” Yet, today, I was surprised. She expressed genuine humility that I hadn’t seen of her in years. For the first time in my life, I saw tears of joy in her eyes as she described a relationship in her life that was good. It wasn’t the Lord, but it was totally of the Lord. Come to think of it, I had never been witness to any emotion besides anger and anxiety from anyone in my family, to the point where those two emotions were the only justified genuine emotions we were allowed to feel. To see her tears of joy was like a premonition that the Lord is breaking down the hard walls.
I thought redemption for my family would come like a torrent that would shake them all awake. But I’m seeing it as a soft wind, in small moments like seeing those tears of joy. It is not over, we are not safe. My heart has broken many times over my family, and will most likely break many more times.
But I know one day, they will be so overwhelmed by the message of the Gospel that no reputation or stability or performance or idols of love or perfection can keep them from the Love of Christ.
“O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time forth and forevermore.”
Psalm 131
