old words, hard things

I am trying to be more vulnerable, trying to share more. It's hard...even when you know that no one is watching.

I wrote this post three-ish years ago. I wanted to share it but I couldn't. Sometimes words cut deep and sometimes they're just too real and too harsh to share right away.

A lot has changed since I wrote this: I've moved, I've changed jobs, I've healed and grown. Yet, these words still sting. I can still feel their intensity - so much so that it scares me.

But here's to sharing the hard things. Here's to feeling the hard things, too. 

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There is a knock on my door, feet shuffling outside. Boots banging off snow and ice.

My heater rages. The tractor runs outside because this is my life: surrounded by noise. Stifled by scurry.

Never alone and yet always alone. When you live where you work and work where you live, there is no life apart from work and no work more difficult than life.

And my boss is a good man, a good friend. He cares about me so much and that’s all I can feel as I bite my lip and blink back tears because I refuse to let him know how bad it really is.

“I just don’t want to you get discouraged…”

I see the pain in his eyes because he has been there and felt the sting, the deep, grinding pain sliding through your live like a carving knife. He wrestles with himself to try to cover the scars.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s much worse than discouraged. That discouraged was eleven months. This month, this season is called depression.

I am not discouraged. I am breaking, broken, in a million pieces on the kitchen floor.

Our eyes dart to all corners of the room. We are both hurting too much to share.

“I can see how it’s affecting you.”

I’m shaking off his attempts to talk deep. I am shrugging my shoulders and crossing my arms and
muttering, “I know.” I sound like the people that I hate.

If only there could be truth. If only I could bleed out all of this misery that I’ve been trapping inside. If only I could uncork this always-bubbling chaos inside of me.

If only what I wanted to say wouldn’t send him reeling, wouldn’t level him to the place where I am.

If only it wouldn’t leave him breaking, broken, in a million pieces on the kitchen floor.

Because I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.

I am ready for change and I am waiting on what that means.

waiting, but why? // psalm 25

As I waited for a friend in a coffee shop, Americano & journal in front of me, I began to scribble words. I had been feeling them for weeks but they urged out of me in that moment so I put pen to paper. And then, at church the next week, Psalm 25. This. A response to my cry! An "I hear you!" to my plea!

I read these words this morning. I love how Scripture roots deeply in us, surprises us, ministers to us:

Let the [spoken] word of Christ have its home within you [dwelling in your heart and mind—permeating every aspect of your being] as you teach [spiritual things] and admonish and train one another with all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs with thankfulness in your hearts to God. - Colossians 3:16

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Waiting, but why?

Wounded, but how?

Wanting, but what?

You say that your thoughts are not my thoughts...

But I want to know.

But I want to understand.

But I want a heart that follows.

You say that Your ways are not my ways…

Open my eyes.

Unblock my ears.

Let me know Your ways.

---

Let me know Your ways, O Lord;

Teach me Your paths.

Guide me in Your truth and teach me,

For You are the God of my salvation;

For You [and only You] I wait [expectantly] all the day long.

Remember, O Lord, Your [tender] compassion and Your lovingkindnesses,

For they have been from of old.

Do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions;

According to Your lovingkindness remember me,

For Your goodness’ sake, O Lord.

Good and upright is the Lord;

Therefore He instructs sinners in the way.

He leads the humble in justice,

And He teaches the humble His way.

All the paths of the Lord are lovingkindness and goodness and truth and faithfulness

To those who keep His covenant and His testimonies. - Psalm 25:4-10, AMP

two years ago

Two years ago, I sat in my parents’ basement and wrote a blog post. I had just moved out of my first apartment, left my first job in ministry, and I felt like I was falling apart. I was 27 going on 28.

I was embarrassed, feeling like I couldn’t hack it, like I’d failed. Feeling like What kind of a person moves back in with their parents on 27? I was terrified, not really sure where or what God was going to call me to next. I was exhausted from ministry, from life, and from my unmet expectations.

I spent the next six months watching a beautiful little baby (who subsequently taught me everything that I know about babies). We walked every day, we journaled, we worshipped, we baked a lot of banana bread. We sat in quiet and relished in all of the not doing happening in my life.

Two friends and I dreamed Conversations Around the Table into existence, lovingly called it CAT, and poured ourselves into creating community.

Six months being ministered to, healing my soul, and learning to live with empty hands. And then God said, “Leave.”

Now, two years later, here I am. Sitting in my parents’ guestroom, the room that was my bedroom for a dozen years and then for another six months, still trying to figure all of this out.

I used to think that life was a puzzle. I assumed that my life was just a single, thousand piece puzzle and I had to work to piece it together, adding pieces as they came, shuffling them around as life evolved. As life changed, as people came and went, as obscure details became more clear, I assumed that the pieces would start to fit together. I assumed that once I found one piece that worked, all of the others would start to fall into their place.

I assumed that if I obeyed Jesus everything would be easy.

I assumed that if I took a job that seemed perfect, every day would be rewarding and fulfilling.

I assumed that if I took a job in New Hampshire, finding a church would be easy.

I assumed that if I moved out of the Valley, I’d finally meet a boy.

I assumed that if I left all of my friends, I’d meet a million more to fill the void.

These days, I feel like I’ve been handed a new puzzle. I had worked so long to try to make the other one work, to try to make the pieces fit together and now I am starting from scratch. This puzzle has been slow, oftentimes lonely, to piece together - even as I’ve just tried to form the outer frame.

But at least once a week, I remember something that God taught me during that six months. Things about sabbath and purpose and how my loveliness and dearness to Him is not because of my rule-following or ministry-doing. Things about myself and my brokenness and my sin-nature and yet also about the gifted parts of me. Sometimes these are things that don’t seem new, lessons I’ve learned times ten, but sometimes, even these 18 months later, they storm in and break down walls with their newness.

My life has been ravaged by the goodness of God.

Even in the calling away.

Even in the taking away.

Even in the walking away.

Obedience is not glamourous, this I know. I have flailed and failed and fallen on my face. I have doubted and regretted and wanted to take it all back but His providence is not dependant upon my obedience. What is, is my ability to see all of His goodness.

I’ve been reading through My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers for the first time and every day, after several paragraphs of very self-centered journaling, it absolutely wrecks me.

Ministering in everyday opportunities that surround us does not mean that we select our own surroundings— it means being God’s very special choice to be available for use in any of the seemingly random surroundings which He has engineered for us. The very character we exhibit in our present surroundings is an indication of what we will be like in other surroundings.

The things Jesus did were the most menial of everyday tasks, and this is an indication that it takes all of God’s power in me to accomplish even the most common tasks in His way. Can I use a towel as He did? Towels, dishes, sandals, and all the other ordinary things in our lives reveal what we are made of more quickly than anything else. It takes God Almighty Incarnate in us to do the most menial duty as it ought to be done.

Life is still pretty confusing and so not how I imagined it would be, even as I watch the days before my thirtieth birthday tick away. But some days, I catch a quick glimpse of all that I get to do, all the people that I get to meet, all of the gospel I get to share, through this simple, boring life - moments that I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t moved back in with mom and dad or if I hadn’t moved to New Hampshire or had not said, “Yes, Jesus. I want to follow You - even though it’s hard, even when it's hard.”

heart racing

For the last couple of days, I’ve felt like my heart has been racing. So I hold two fingers to my neck, push hard, counting to the rhythm of my heart. Sixty beats in one minute. That’s completely normal. Why does it feel so strange?

I don’t know where this anxiety has come from, where it was hiding until now, and how I let it out. All I know is that it is creeping in, all around me.

So I nervously clean.

So I nervously journal.

So I nervously pick at my cuticles.

So I nervously obsess about details that do not matter.

So I nervously lay awake at night, unable to sleep.

So I nervously wonder if I need to see a counselor.

So I nervously wonder if I need to be medicated.

So I nervously wonder what this mental state says about me as a Christ-follower.

So I remind myself, again and again, about all that is wrong with me - this anxiety being number one.

So I nervously try to fix myself. Someone once told me that I come off as emotionally unavailable so I Google, “How to be emotionally available” in hopes of a cure. I’m just trying to understand myself, my brain. I end up taking an Enneagram test and it says everything that I don’t want to say: I am anxious and loyal. I fear being abandoned or left alone and simply desire security and support.

Maybe it’s because I feel like I’ve been living my last 20-ish months without much security or support. Maybe it’s because this getting older thing, man, they undersold how difficult it would be.

These days, I worry less about the pain the comes with physical aging and more about the wounds I wear from my nearly thirty years of human life. The rejection. The disappointment. The harsh words and harsh looks. The shame. The guilt. My slavery to things that I hate.

I’m going home soon and for the first time in a long time, I am anxious about it. Maybe it’s because I think I won’t want to come back. Maybe it’s because I have to emotionally pry myself out of the Pioneer Valley every time that I pack up my car and drive away from supportive family and friends I’ve known for decades.

Putting words on pages has always been a salve for me, a way to press back a bit of pain. I feel like I’ve been uniquely aware, these last few weeks, of the importance of mental health. I’ve been able to carve through some hard thoughts, write down some hard truths. It’s been healing but it’s also been unnerving. Pointing fingers at moments passed or words said or decisions made can feel that way.

I haven’t written much for other people to see in this season. I am far too afraid and far too aware of the power of written words.  I am far too fragile to be vulnerable...but I’m trying.

Trying not to “be strong.”

Trying not to be cold.

Trying not to believe the lies that I tell myself.

Trying to cling to Truth.

who told you?

Who told you?

Who told you that you had to be beautiful to be valuable?

That you can’t have a beautiful life until…?

That you had to be beautiful to receive good things?

I often wonder, my mind wandering. What are the things that I don’t have simply because I believe that I don’t deserve? That because I haven’t arrived at the places I want to be, in one way or another, I can’t have beautiful things. That I can’t find love, can’t feel content. That I must be this, that I can’t be that.

Because I’m too much, not enough, not beautiful, undeserving.

But Truth comes timely, my Abba speaks softly.

Sweet Daughter, you don’t have to be beautiful to receive good things.

No amount of makeup or perfectly messy hair or cute tops or pounds lost will make your life full, make your life beautiful.

Your life is beautiful because I give you beauty, because I paint your days with grace, fill your dark spaces with light.

You are My image - your face beams with Me.

You are already beauty-full.

tiny victories

I didn't want to go. I told myself over and over again that I didn't HAVE to go. I am an adult now, after all. I call the shots. I could just forfeit the $15 and say that something came up.

But I did it. I walked into a sports bar and shook hands, hugged awkwardly, people that I hadn't seen in ten years.

Probably the hardest part about all of this growing up, getting older stuff is that I don't feel like I'm growing up...I just feel like I'm getting older. So many of my old classmates had stories about living outside of Boston and working for a law firm, investment firm, publisher. They are married with condos and houses and some even have babies.

And none of the things which I have chosen for myself makes any sense to them.

What are you doing now, Alyssa?

Well, I'm living in central New Hampshire working for a ministry based up there. There's not much to do but I really like my job and I like the people that I work with. I have a really cute dog and a whole lot of roommates.

On my way to the bar, I started a list in my head, a list of tiny victories. Little reminders of the things that I have accomplished, the adulting that I've done, the spaces where I've grown to remind myself that I have done things, I have gone places, I have changed in the last ten years.

I bought my own car. I signed my own name on that dotted line...and didn't even need my parents as co-signers. That MUST count for something, right?!

I moved. I packed up my always has been life for a new state, new church, new job, new community. My body shook, my eyes welled with tears but I freaking did it. 

I adopted a dog. I house trained her, slept beside her on the ground after surgeries that prohibited snuggling. I've been faithful to my promise to take care of her. I think I'm a pretty good dog mama. 

I've learned to ask for help. I know that I can't do this, any of this, alone and I'm not afraid to admit it. 

I've learned to rest...the hard way. I know what it's like to work multiple jobs to make ends meet, to carry the weight of so many things at one. I've know exhaustion and I've learned to rest. 

I've carried the cross of leadership. I've made hard decisions, tossed and turned trying to figure it all out. I've felt the crushing weight of responsibility for something much bigger, greater than myself. It's changed me and hardened me.

I've learned humility. I've learned the people won't understand the choices that I make in pursuing a call into ministry. I've learned that I can't chase the nods of the masses, that I will never be able to make everyone happy or make everyone like me.

I guess I've done more, seen more, grown more than I thought. I guess that I have more to show for the last ten years then I let on. 

Dear Sarah

I wrote this wordy letter this week for a friend in the midst of a big decision. What I wanted to be in the form of a conversation made its way into the form of a letter that she'll never read. She beat my letter by making her decision :)

That's okay though. 

As I typed out these words, I shed a few tears. Tears of freedom and provision and joy and fear. Tears of a woman who, a year later, sees just a sliver of what God was doing with her when she felt completely broken.

So, Sarah: this letter is for you.

So, Alyssa: this letter is for you.

So, anyone: this letter is for you.

---

Sarah,

Hey! What’s up? I really wanted to be able to take you out to dinner this week - maybe even get a drink - but I totally get that you have a lot going on.

Family in town. Rec department to manage. Big decisions to make.

I get it. I just wanted to share a little bit of my story, of how I ended up at Berea...and some of the wise words that other people shared with me as I tossed and turned over my decision.

Last May, I was miserable. (Well, honestly, it started back in December of 2014 but we’ll pick the story up in May.) I was miserable doing my work, I was depressed. I was angry at four million things that had happened over the last several years with the camp that I was working at. I felt unappreciated, taken advantage of, and completely unheard.

So, in May, I sat down with the director and his wife and cried as I told them that it was time for me to go. I handed in my letter of resignation and I had no future prospects, no ideas or leads. The only thing I knew is that I wasn’t supposed to be there any more.

The month before this, I had lunch with Andy at Noodles and Company. I told him that I wanted to leave and I didn’t know what was next but that I loved Greenhouse and wouldn’t hesitate for a second to do it full-time. We dreamed about the team we’d have and the ministry that we would do. It was sweet but impossible.

And then, sometime in late June, Andy texted me and wanted to talk. I called him on my lunch break from my front steps and he told me about Greenhouse and Berea and how he’d be joining staff, how it seemed like this little-big dream might come true.

And then he told me that Nate was interested in hiring me. Which, like, no way. That is impossible. Also, New Hampshire? I mean. I don’t know.

So, I started dreaming and praying and journaling. I talked with Nate on the phone, asked him a million questions after he asked me a trillion questions. And then I decided to come and visit. Did you know that I was here last summer? It was just over a year ago. I know because it came up in my TimeHop. I drove up and my prayers shifted from, “God, if this is what you want…” to “God, if this is not what you want…”

I sat in on a Counselor’s Meeting, I walked around during Quest times. I sat down with Nate and talked in his office. We talked about my skills and my personality and I felt like I didn’t have any of the answers to his questions. We talked about moving to New Hampshire and he asked if I was ready for that. I wasn’t.

Nate and I talked for a while. Afterwards, Veronica and I walked to the hexagon and sat down to talk. At this point, my heart was racing and my mind was spinning and all I could think was, “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.”

No, I’m not ready.

No, I don’t know that I want this.

No, I don’t know that I want to stay in camping.

No, Jesus, please.

Here I was, weeks away from one job ending and this was it. My only prospect (and it was a really good one) and I wanted to say no. I wanted to say no but I felt like I needed to say yes...and I couldn’t bring myself to say yes.

I left Berea not long after and drove home in tears.

Why was I so confused?

Why didn’t I have peace about anything?

Why wasn’t God providing for me?

Wasn’t I being obedient to let something go?

Driving home, I knew that I wasn’t ready for Berea.  I wasn’t really ready for anything. I needed a break (which seems ridiculous to say at 27). So I called my good friend who was heading back to work after a six month maternity leave and said, “Hey, I know that I have no childcare experience...but maybe I can watch your baby for a while?”

She said, “I don’t know why but this just feels right!”

I called Nate to tell him that I was taking a break and he said, “I think that is a very wise thing,” and agreed to leave me alone until December.

So, thus began my stint as a nanny. Mostly it was just a six month period that I spent snuggling that cute little baby and snuggling with Olive when she went down for a nap. It was so, so wonderful.

In October, I saw Nate again at Simply Worship. We talked and I told him that I was leaning towards no. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to do the camp thing again. I tried to explain the reasons and honestly couldn’t because none of it made sense.

I cried the whole way home because I knew that I wanted what Jesus wanted but only if it meant having everything that I wanted. That hurt in a soul shaking kind of way, in a terrifying way.

I emailed Nate a few days later:

Hey Nate!

It was so nice to see you (and Jonathan and Amanda!) at Simply Worship this weekend. This whole Greenhouse and Berea merger is so exciting!

Thank you for inviting me to be real with you and for just being an all around awesome guy. Seriously. I wanted to let you know that my mind has been running a million miles a minute since we talked briefly on Saturday.

I've realized that so many of my feelings about beginning a new adventure are totally clouded with fear, completely irrational fear. I want to live a faithful life, not a comfortable one. I want to serve Jesus and His Church. I want to serve Him with my gifts...and I see Berea as an amazing place to serve, grow, and walk out that calling.

Anyways, I wanted to just say thank you for your patience with me and my crazy. (I swear that I am not always like this!) I really am continuing to pray and seek the Lord about this-- the last several days have been "yes to Berea!" days.

Let's talk soon!

I had a decision to make: follow the path put before me by the Lord or choose something else. Would that choice be sin? No, probably not.

I had coffee with Andy sometime after that to talk about all of this craziness. He told me, “If you’re 75% sure, that’s enough. Every decision is a risk.”

I was 75% sure so I jumped in...and here I am.

I will not tell you that this decision or transition has been easy. My life feels full, in a way, but it also feels super weird and somewhat vacant without my friends and my family here. But I know that I am where I’m supposed to be. Do I think that Berea is forever? No, probably not. But I am here until God calls me away.

I hope that this helps you in some way. I just felt like I needed to share it. Mostly I want you to know that this is a big decision but it isn’t the ultimate decision. Whatever choice you make will be a good one, just don’t let your fear make decisions for you.

moving and moving on

It seems that things never meet my expectations. I never meet my expectations.

All the intentions of writing and sharing and not. a. thing. to show for it.

Five months have come and gone. Five months, five hundred diapers, five million itty-bitty decisions leading up to here and now:

New job

New home

New (sort of) life

There came a time, during this whole sabbatical-ish thing, where I realized how hard and fast that I'd been running, still am running.

So I took a job. So I signed a lease. So I moved away from my life to do something new.

So I'm here and I'm lonely.

So I'm here and I'm lost.

So I'm here and not sure that I know at all what I'm doing.

I miss my family and my friends and my church and the baby and the familiar hum of the pellet stove. I miss having my people.

This changing thing, it hurts. It pulls to the point of tearing. It pushes to the point of breaking. 

I am tired, exhausted, from the newness of it all. New grocery store, new roads to drive, new people to understand. 

I drove home today, inching closer and closer to tears as I came closer and closer to the front door. I just want to be home, really home.

Being an adult is hard-- saying yes to things that aren't always easy, saying no to things that you wish you could give your yes.

under pressure

I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure since this whole sabbatical-ish thing happened. I say happened because I feel blissfully powerless against it all.

There is this pressure to figure things out. This pressure to rush through life, through this time. This pressure to say yes. This pressure to say no. This pressure to blog and be super spiritual. This pressure to heal. To say and feel the hard things. This pressure to have it all together.

I do not have it all together. I’m continuing to unravel-- a spool of thread rolling, rolling, and unrolling.

This pressure, it is not calling or drawing of the Spirit, this is me-- plowing through life, head down, eyes fixed ahead and not around. This is Alyssa-- a tightly wound spool of thread.

I set a reminder on my phone that says Blog post, please, as if being polite could dredge up motivation or desire or inspiration to write. That little red bubble, haunting me, taunting me, pressuring me: write, feel, share, fix. Today I swiped left and deleted it. I don’t want to rush. I don’t want to force it, I don’t want to look back and say What a waste!

I’m one month in, though it’s hard to believe. Where have the last thirty days run off to? Surely they were not here. September is ending, the days are shorter, cooler. The leaves are turning. New England is beautiful in the fall. The pressure of winter is pushing in and the pressure of wanting answers is leaving my heart restless.

I have to often remind myself of the way that God has met me and revealed Himself to me in this time. It seems like daily I have to stop myself and laugh at how beautifully this whole sabbatical-ish came together, how totally other-worldly this whole thing is.

I think that God has deepened my love for my family, for my church, for my friends, for ministry to the women in my life. And He has drawn me to Himself. I am in the Word and it often feels fresh and novel. It feels like beginning a great journey, like coiling this wandering, unwinding spool of thread.

---

Reading in Ephesians 5 this morning, I stumbled upon this all too familiar passage.

““...for at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true) and try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord.” (verses 8-10)”

I guess that I have always just read this wrong. I always read, “you were in darkness” and “now you are in the light.” Just one small word but a whole world of difference. This in implies that we are powerless, that these forces are outside ourselves and that we are, in some way or another, victim to them.

But we were not merely in darkness, we were darkness. Before Christ, I was darkness and enemy and death. In Christ, I am not just in the light, I am light. The Holy Spirit is innnnnnnnnnnn me, shining out of me, rearranging soul-furniture, drawing me ever closer to the Source of Light.

Christ has not just changed our position, He has changed US-- at our core, our very substance and being. No longer darkness, now light. Emanating from within us not from around us. The Spirit shows us light but also makes us light. We are not dependent upon the lights “out there” to guide our path or give us purpose or substance.

Jesus is our light and our purpose and our path.

May I not lose that truth-- not during this sabbatical-ish, not during this lifetime. May my eyes be fixed, may my heart be centered on Jesus, the true life-breathing, purpose-giving, path-leading Light.

It’s four o’clock on a crisp is this summer or is this fall? Monday. The world is finishing up their work day, packing up briefcases, searching for jingling keys in purses and desk drawers. It’s four o’clock and I’m drawing a hot bath, trying to teach myself to slow down.

I fill the bathtub too high. I always fill it too high, too hot. My face bobs above the water. My ears listen to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

I sink my head into the water, cramming my body diagonally so that I’m completely submerged. I’m holding my breath, listening to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

Water in any form has always felt like a home. I can hold my breath for too long.

I try to open my eyes. The water is hot. It distorts my view of the shower curtain and ceiling. Nothing looks as it should from the bottom, all blurry renditions of realities.

I close my eyes again, holding my breath. My body still crammed diagonally, my ears still listening to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

I feel like I could sink for miles. I feel like I could stay here for days.

I surface for breath, right myself again and fight the urge to begin the ritualistic washing, conditioning, rinsing of hair.

Just stay. Here. A little longer. Just be. Still.

Why am I rushing through moments?

Why am I not slowing down?

Why am I running from rest?