When Kris and I Skyped about me joining the team at Grace Table, we couldn’t believe how much our hearts had already been aligned. It was as though we were old friends who had been searching for the other and found home in each other’s stories. I’m so grateful and honored that I get to share the space she created and to have my first post be up today.
We go down this path a million times a day, and it takes me all those times for me to see beyond my anger, his disobedience, and what’s fair. For a heaven-sent second, everything slows down. His screaming quiets in my head, and I finally perceive what is good and profound through the loud fog of disciplining him. The generosity of his arms reaching out to me first, the relentless desire to reconnect – it’s the gospel, the hospitality of reconciliation.
I should be listening to the lecture, but I look around the room full of women and I can only focus on one thing- everyone else’s hair. Long straight hair, the typical top knot, a short bob, the classic old lady’s perm, but from my point of view no one seems to be worried about the amount of hair that sits on their head.
Except for me.
I sit there self-conscious about how much scalp is showing because these days my hair is falling out in chunks. My ponytail is so thin I’m afraid my hair tie will be too heavy for it, and throughout the day loose strands continue to find their way to the ground like leaves in the fall. Instead of a crown of glory, my hair- the little I have- has become a source of embarrassment and shame.
I’ve lost simple pleasures as my hair has thinned out more and more- being out in the sun without burning my scalp, pinning my hair in any way without exposing the white skin underneath, enjoying the luxury of a quick and easy hair style. I’d give anything to do a top knot each morning and look put together for the rest of the day. Instead I keep my hair down most of the time in hopes no one will notice how bad it really is.
Maybe that’s the reason this shame is coming back full force. We’re in the awkward stages of a new season, and I feel on display. New friendships. New church. New community. Like a balding weirdo placed under the heat of the spotlight, I dance and do my tricks to show off my best self and cross my fingers that someone passing by might be interested in letting me into their lives. Every part of me feels clumsy and out of place, and my soul feels just as exposed as my scalp.
Am I too much for some people? How do I act like a regular church attendee when I’ve been a pastor for the past 7 years? What do I do with my love and need for people when those around me are too busy to meet? How can I make new friends without looking too desperate? Can people see how hard this really is for me or am I fooling them to think I’m ok?
I put on a brave face and smile as if everything is all right, but the questions dart across my mind quicker than I can stop them and the pinging gives me a headache. I wish I could make it all go away. I wish I could fast forward to when I will have found a better rhythm for my life and new friends who will understand as old friends do. I wish I didn’t have to go through the pain of beginning again because it’s a lot more difficult than I had expected it to be. It’s lonely, it wears down my spirit, and yet I know this is where I’m supposed to be. It’s uncomfortable, and it requires a lot of intentional investment, but it’s our new normal, and I’d be a fool to try to rush through it.
Nothing is gained when I short cut the process. I know right now is about slow, about rest, about learning the unforced rhythms of grace. I don’t want to waste this painful but necessary time to grow, to learn who I am without all my doing. So I’m taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. I can’t see ahead or even plan a month in advance so I’m going to settle into our current present and keep going. Breathe in. Breathe out. One day at a time. One awkward interaction at a time. One vulnerable moment at a time. I’m going to lean in and pay attention and water the grass I’m standing on.
I started a couple dozen posts about ending our 7 years in Las Vegas and entering into this new season back in California. Phrases and sentences were jotted down, but the words fell short of the enormity of my feelings. I stayed silent, grieved, cried a million tears, and barely wrote a thing while we transitioned.
But now we’re here, and I was finally able to match the words to my feelings in this post I wrote for The Mudroom.
Coming home usually fosters feelings of comfort, peace, ease, but instead a stifling pressure rises in my chest. What am I doing here? Why did we move back? Like a wild horse being bridled, I’m frantic inside. Everything in me wants to run away till my lungs hurt and the tears fall freely…