How to write about things that aren’t only Yours

15
Jan

This has been a LONG year. No, Smartie Pants, not 2015, but the whole of 2014 and particularly the time since this summer. Many of you know that my dad got sick and then got rapidly sicker, and then the worst happened in June. Or was it July. Or was it a million years ago. Or was it yesterday.

I have a bit of a problem with time.

That’s not the point.

The point is, when my dad was sick, my natural form of processing is writing. It became even more important that I write about it when possible, because it helped me release some of my terrible sadness. It didn’t diminish the amount of sadness, but it made it bearable.

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Ever since I began blogging, I’ve had a weird hang-up with privacy. I like it. I like being able to know WHO knows what about me and when. I don’t spill my personal bidness with everyone, and especially when it comes to my kids and my family, I’m extra-specially protective. I try to keep their names out of my writing, try to never write something that could embarrass them, and try to consider whether I’d feel comfortable with them reading what I wrote. It’s a little bit of the same checks-and-balances as deciding if sharing a story about someone is gossip. Would they tell the same story? Would the person be in on the joke if they walked up and joined me, mid-conversation? Would it reveal something about them that wasn’t flattering and they wouldn’t want shared?

When it comes to writing, this is something that is murky. One can’t help but have her life intersect the lives of others. Are all those intersections fair game? Should friends and family of mine need to worry that any of our interactions are fodder for various writing projects?

Add to this already foggy question the element of parent/child privilege, whether the person you want to write about is your parent OR your child, and you’ve got yourself a downright quandary.

Anne Lamott has a great quote about this. She wrote in her book, Bird by Bird, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” To a large degree, I agree with her. Your story is your own. You own the rights to it. It’s not a matter of “your truth” as being somehow untrue to someone else; it’s a matter of perspective and what was revealed to us at a given time. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances that made someone behave a certain way during a certain period. That’s fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that they behaved that way towards you, and you were not given all the facts at that time. The facts don’t always excuse the behavior.

That’s all coming at this from a negative angle, presuming that the things being written about are potentially offensive because they portray someone in an unflattering light. However, what if the angle is something that’s NOT negative, but still could be seen as “oversharing” because they’re your Near and Dear?

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I must admit, I haven’t come to a clear answer. I know that I try to protect the privacy of the people around me, and try to never write something about them that I wouldn’t want them to read. (Okay, a couple years ago I MIGHT have tried to create a secret identity so I could blog in anonymity, but I’m just not good at keeping secrets, so it was short-lived.) I try to write the same way I try to live, with authenticity and honesty, both about the struggles and the beauty.

Maybe that’s the key to how to write about stories that aren’t fully your own: write with authenticity and honesty about the struggles AND the beauty.

How do you walk the line between disclosure and privacy, whether that’s in your writing or in your walking around interacting with others?

Worship and Adore

19
Dec

I’m going to say something that’s going to get me in trouble.

Don’t stress out, it’s not total heresy or anything, I don’t think. We can still be friends. Maybe you’ll even decide that you agree with me.

It’s just that sometimes it feels safer to worship Jesus than to adore him.

Whaaa?

See? Not total blasphemy or anything, but still might make you raise your eyebrow at me. It’s okay, I’m getting used to that reaction. Let me tell you what I’m thinking.

Sometimes — many times — it feels tenable to go through the required acts of contrition and penitence, offer the correct sacrifices, do the right acts of goodwill, all to a far-away God, because those are external acts that I perform rather than allowing anything uncontrollable happen to my heart. It’s brain work — performance enhancing brain work.

That’s not all up in my business the same way as the baby Jesus come to earth. Baby Jesus is closer. Baby Jesus is so soft, smells sweet like a baby should, and melts your hard heart when you hold him snuggled in your arms. It’s difficult to keep Baby Jesus at arm’s length.

Then there’s snaggle-toothed Jesus, who still has mostly baby teeth, and who’s front teeth are growing in way too big for his head and at a slightly alarming angle you just hope will straighten out once he looses the other teeth. He’s got such a tenderness to him, even as he’s trying to learn how to do things on his own and sometimes gets frustrated.

And teen-age Jesus — well, don’t even get me started. It tenderizes my heart, the way his body is outgrowing his maturity and he keeps knocking things over because he’s not used to being so big.

Come further up, come further in! ~C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle

To adore Jesus is to be invited to know him as you’d know another living person, not only some carved statue of him, to come further up and further in to interacting with him. To adore Jesus is to allow your gaze to land on him and remain there, taking in who he is, what makes him special. It’s to appreciate his acts of kindness, selflessness, gentleness, his wisdom and inclusion, his perfect humanness that makes us aspire to be the best versions of ourselves. It’s gushy love stuff, the stuff like when mom and dad share a smooch, and it sends kids running from the room, then makes them peek back around the corner.

It’s not that worship and adoration have to be mutually exclusive. And I’m using “worship” in a specific sense, which isn’t always the most accurate interpretation of the word. That aside, adoring Jesus brings him closer to us, doesn’t allow us to keep him at some high and lofty distance. And depending on your perspective, that can be either exhilarating or intimidating.

Today’s post is a linkup with Kate Motaung and Five Minute Friday. It’s fun to see what other people come up with in five minutes using the given word prompt. If you’re here for the first time, thank you for coming by! I hope you’ll consider checking in again to see what’s cookin’.

Question for you: Do you think about “oh come let us adore him” at any other time of the year other than Christmas? What do you think about adoration and worship and their relationship?

Hope alongside loss this Advent

16
Dec

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be focused on the coming of Baby Jesus. I’m supposed to be engaged in anticipation, preparing my heart for His arrival in a stable long ago.

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be festive and bright, reliving the wonder of childhood, all twinkle lights and icicles and hot chocolate with marshmallows and wrapping-papered mysteries under the tree.

It’s Christmastime, and the focus is supposed to be joy, love, peace on earth, goodwill to all. I still hold onto these, but they are several layers underneath right now, harder to retrieve. These are the liturgy I rely on, out of habit, out of the hope that if I continue moving forward I will one day walk to where I genuinely feel these things again.

Left to my own resources, without others depending on me or without commitments to maintain, I’d admit my landscape is more reflected in a windswept tundra than in the cozy abundant glow of a hearth hung with patchwork stockings that bulge with promises.

While the tundra may be the condition of my heart right now, I hope the edges can melt by small degrees. One morning I’ll step out and the air will smell different, a warmer breeze will blow. This must be true. How could someone drag themselves along if this weren’t true? Things must alleviate with time, morph into a different form that is better addressable in an organizable time frame, rather than intruding into everything. Time will make it less all-encompassing, less raw. That part’s already becoming true for me. I can gingerly touch on the subject of my dad without losing my composure now, whereas I couldn’t a short time ago.

So maybe those flashes of warmth I feel, those moments when I am caught up in something or forgetful of the loss for a moment, maybe those are flashes of hope for another year that’s yet to come. Look too closely at it and it will dart away. But keep your eyes straight ahead, and you might begin to sense its presence alongside the sadness. Catch a glimpse of it in your peripheral vision, this hope that can coexist with loss and mourning.

This is a new thing I’m learning: hope existing alongside loss.

But I’d rather have the hope without the loss.

We probably all know someone for whom holidays are challenging because of a loss or a broken relationship. How can we make space for these friends and family members in the midst of our holiday patterns and traditions? How have you faced your own loss during significant holiday seasons?

There’s something stinky in my Fridge

12
Dec

http://mrg.bz/y096dh

Every time I open my refrigerator, a nasty smell wafts out.

No, this isn’t some strange weight-loss psychological trick. There’s something wrong in there.

Problem is, I thought I had thrown out any old leftovers: the bowl of leftover oatmeal I was sure someone would want to eat later, the steak that was so good I was sure I’d find a dish that would only need the one piece we didn’t use for supper, some random individual serving containers of dipping sauces that came inside the Styrofoam takeout container. All gone.

So why does my fridge still pollute the kitchen any time someone uses it?

I have to look further inside.

I forgot to check the deli drawer, where there was some old cheese and some questionable lunchmeat. (Do other people’s kids only want peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in their lunches? Do they not get sick of that? Why won’t my kids eat this lunchmeat? I’m not talking about sending them a cold hot dog or some bologna. I mean nicer lunchmeat, fewer preservatives, fresh. I can rarely get them to eat the stuff. I wonder what they’d do if I DID send them a cold hot dog. Probably eat it. Gross.)

This smell problem has gone on for about a week. Two nights ago my husband texted me from home: “This fridge smells nasty!!!” It’s gotten to the point where it’s made me wonder about a dead mouse underneath it, or under a nearby floorboard. We’ve discovered a few likely culprits but not the direct source…

…until today.

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The thing about a deep-rooted stink is that it can sneak up on you. It’s possible for a smell to develop in strength and pungency if left unattended. If you’re around it long enough you can acclimate to it until the only time you notice it is when you’ve been away from it (ever notice the scent of someone else’s home as you arrive and wonder if other people think YOUR house has a smell that you can’t smell?).

How similar this is to our spiritual and interpersonal health.

We can have certain habits or ingrained ways of thinking which can be less than aromatic. This ain’t no sweet scent of incense, people, no offering of praise here. Interact with other people long enough and you’ll discover that, in ourselves and in others, there are some messed up ways of dealing with life. These unhealthy strategies are built up over time, and as they come more solidified, it can be harder to recognize them in ourselves without doing the often hard work of introspection.

Along the same lines, many of us have some unhealthy ways of relating to God. Sometimes we put onto God some of our own junk, or we have decided that He demands certain things from us because we demand them from ourselves or others. Sometimes we assume that our own motivations are also God’s motivations, or we take things from our experience base and use these to inform and determine our view of God.

It can end up being as gross and stinky as what I found way at the back of my refrigerator.

Gross disgusting-ness hidden deep in my fridge

Be glad you can’t smell whatever is featured in the photo above.

All of this makes me wonder if I’ve been coming at many things all wrong.

Maybe I can sit in sadness without having to look for a silver lining or something positive to come out of it.

Maybe I need to take a look at my short attention span and evaluate what areas of my life might benefit from a longer amount of time given for those areas to develop.

Maybe I should think about the things I communicate to my family about my acceptance of their personalities regardless of how similar or dissimilar they are to my own personality and way of relating to the world around me.

Noticing and being mindful of the different way someone else relates can also be useful since it might not occur to me to relate any other way.

Ultimately, in order to know, I have to take a look — take out the deli drawer, the veggie drawer, the fruit drawer, the shelves, the glass out of the shelves — I have to take things apart and inspect them. I might have to take a look at the habits I’ve formed, the opinions I hold, the knee-jerk reactions I have. I might have to evaluate how well those are serving me, if they need tidying up, if they might (in some circumstances) need to be tossed out.

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In the end, it took warm water, soap, a washcloth, lots of scrubbing, and scraping with a butter knife to get rid of the stinky, sticky ooze in my refrigerator. I never did identify exactly what it was. But in the process of getting down to the source of the smell, I cleaned out many other areas of my fridge (no, I did NOT wipe down every single inch of the fridge. Another of my tragic personality flaws, I’m afraid). I learned things about my fridge that I never knew before. And I learned things I should be mindful of in the future.

As I apply these same strategies into the realm of personal and spiritual development, my hope is that it will strengthen my relationships and ability to interact with the world around me. Maybe then I’ll smell of more of a fragrant offering and less of bad habits or unhelpful ways of thinking.

How about you? How do you smell these days — er — in other words, do you have areas of your life that could use some attending to or tidying up? How do you address things in your life that may be less than beneficial to you or the people around you?

They’re your best Friends

6
Dec

The whole time I was growing up, my parents had a mantra. I’m one of four kids, and my parents tried to convince us that we were best friends. It was a tough sell, especially since I’m the oldest by four years, and growing up my attitude was that my next closest sibling was a smart aleck boy, and the other two were big babies.

Ripped my painstakingly crafted paper flowers. “That’s your brother. You are best friends.”

Followed me around copying everything I did. “That’s your sister. You are best friends.”

Threw a temper tantrum and wouldn’t stop knocking into stuff in the basement family room. “That’s your brother. You are best friends.”

Their point was to instill in us an appreciation for each other. We weren’t going to get out of interacting with one another, and there was a long-range vision at work — they wanted us to see that we would be in each other’s lives for just that — our entire lives — and we should see one another for our fun individual personalities.

This may seem an obvious truth, but the idea of being friends rather than only siblings widens the scope of interactions. It creates an expectation of enjoyment and of knowing each other more than just an obligatory way (“We’ve got to see them at Thanksgiving…hrumph, huff, puff.”). You trust in friends, you rely on friends, you like your friends. And planting the idea that siblings can be friends as well as brother and sister, it communicates something about the kind of relationship my parents had with their siblings, as well as what they hoped for their own children.

Happily, they were right, and my brothers and my sister and I are friends. We do enjoy each other’s company and especially in this season of learning how to live without our Dad, we are the only ones who truly “get it” about how hard this is. They are dear to me.

Now that we all have children of our own, I wonder how that “you’re best friends” mantra will play out for them. Looks like I’ve got a way to go to help my own kids to appreciate one another…

Child 1 to Child 2: I love you.
Child 2 to Child 1: I sort of like you.

Today’s post is a link up with Five Minute Friday and Kate Motaung. Write for five minutes, no editing, no worrying, then link it up. You can read more posts at her site.

Question for you: do you get along with your siblings? Nobody’s perfect, of course, but if you desire a closer relationship with a sibling, is there one step you could take to foster that friendship? Can’t wait to hear from you in the comments!

I do not think “Brave” means what you think it Means

17
Nov

A week ago I was trying to describe to someone how I was trying to be brave about facing into grief and loss. When she started her reply, it was clear she hadn’t understood what I meant.

She went on about the negatives of ignoring the pain of mourning and then we got onto another topic, something about how I didn’t want to inconvenience others by sharing my sadness with them, and how that seems at odds with the less than rigid personality I usually seem to have. You know, minor stuff.

Afterwards, I circled around our miscommunication concerning the word brave. I couldn’t understand how she could have missed what I meant.

See, the word “brave” used to mean being stoic, stuffing feelings down and putting on a “brave face” for the world to see.

It doesn’t mean that anymore, at least not to me. I’m not sure it ever held those connotations as deeply for people my age as it might have for Baby Boomers and those who came prior to that era. For them, I think there was an emphasis on keeping up appearances, not airing dirty laundry, etc. For goodness sakes, women vacuumed the house in high-heeled pumps. There was a different requirement for deep privacy, privacy even between spouses, friends, siblings, etc.

To a small degree, I understand that. For whatever reason, there are times when I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing my “bidness” (said the blogger with a public blog that contains words and thoughts that are read by the public). There’s a hesitancy in me in sharing too deeply with those I might not know as well or not sharing on my own terms.

However, there is a strength that comes with being open. The things we guard are shown to be less powerful when we share them with others. The secrets we keep shrivel when exposed to the light.

Leaning tower of Pisa black white architecture classic light arch

http://mrg.bz/ouV3Sp

Brave means to be willing to be open about heartbreak, hurt or sadness. Brave used to be about concealment, but now it is about a willingness to shine light on those areas we try most to protect. So when I said I’d been trying to be brave, I meant the opposite of what was understood (hello Communication 101: intended message vs. received message). I meant that it was hard work being brave, hard work to press in to the pain, to acknowledge the loss and the absence and how that impacts the interactions and rhythms of a whole family group.

It’s tiring to be truthful about such heaviness. Someone told me that a person can only handle a certain amount of “high emotion” (my term) and that a feeling of being numb can be a healthy part of the grieving process. It’s the person’s way of giving themselves a break, whether they plan it or not. Numbness allows a respite, but only for so long. Even in the numb, there is still a way to be brave about the reason for the numb.

It’s a matter of trying to lean into rather than away from the things that scare us or that which we’d rather avoid.

[In case you, like the person in the conversation that spurred this post, have a more traditional definition of the word brave, please let me direct you to the work of Brene Brown . Her books about vulnerability, authenticity, shame and courage have changed the way many people view those topics and the way they interact with the world around them. Seriously. Go read them.]

[I promise that we WILL talk about something else someday. Truly. And it will be grand. This is a hard season we’re entering, and I know I’m not alone in viewing “the holidays” as a little bit dangerous rather than a season of light and wonder. There will be light. There will be wonder. And there will be pieces of the patchwork quilt that are missing, making it all feel threadbare and incomplete. We’ll eventually get used to it — what else can we do? This year, however, a trip to Florida seems like a good plan. Christmas in Florida, with palm trees and sand, just doesn’t sound like you could really feel like you were celebrating the real thing. (No offense, Floridians. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to.) And something that lets us ignore the absence of one of our own? That may be worth the cost of airfare.]

Maybe not a Celebration by Definition

30
Oct

This is written in response to something I read on She Loves Magazine, an online magazine. While it wasn’t a formal prompt, it did inspire this post. If you haven’t read She Loves, they’ve got a lot of good articles, especially about faith and womanhood. Click here to visit their site.

They showed up.

In spite of busy schedules, birthdays, work commitments, sports, distance, sickness, gas money, church, homework, and

they. showed. up.

They came with soft hearts, quiet voices. They came with hugs, meals, gift cards, treats, and kind words.

I would have rather see them because of a party. I’d have preferred a happy occasion, a baby shower or girl’s night out. This was a different kind of life event, something that comes to us all eventually, but something that had come rapidly to my family and left us reeling and disoriented. And still they showed up.

They each made sacrifices. One took time away from her son’s birthday. Three drove more than an hour to be there. They bought gifts and supplies. They made phone calls and sent messages, each one opening herself up to the possibility of being ignored, saying the wrong thing, confronting her own loss, her own fears. Three showed up even though we probably hadn’t seen each other in 10 years. They brought tokens of hope, greeting cards expressing sympathy, flowers to brighten the dark place we found ourselves, hugs and shared tears to shore me up when my heart and body felt numb from trying to stand.

They made meals and delivered them to my house, things for immediately and freezable things I could save for later. When you’re the one responsible to make food for the family each night, but you can hardly muster the energy to pull on your pants, meals are a profoundly touching gift.

Some of them had been direct links of support during my dad’s sickness, some had not. Either way, whether they had known my dad personally or not, they showed up in those weeks, on that day, as an act of love, as an act that acknowledged the friendship we shared and it’s value. So while it’s not a party, per se, it has been a celebration of friendship. And to all my dear friends, near and far, who have been such a buoy to me in this hard time, thank you. In my stupor I probably haven’t said it enough. Thank you.

Thank you.

Adornment and Partytime

24
Oct

At a thrift store I found fascinator hats. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re called, or they’re in the style of a fascinator. Hang on, I’ll show you:

Not quite a hat, this one clips into your hair.

The thought of wearing one of these in public makes me happy. I don’t know if I’d actually have the guts to do it and just head over to the grocery store. You need a destination. Maybe the thing I’m drawn to is the joy of wearing something you like and not caring if other people like it. Maybe it’s the feathers, or the fact there might be an occasion associated with it, a happy reason to wear it.

For most people upon seeing someone wearing this, they might ask if it was a dare or if the person lost a bet. That’s totally understandable.

More than being caught in public with a crazy hair adornment, there’s something else that feels like a dare to me.

The idea makes my heart pound. I’m usually an extrovert, someone who enjoys meeting new people, making conversation, noise, crowds.

This idea overwhelms me and I try to make a plan for how I can get out of it.

The idea of going to a party is suddenly a terrible notion, something that’s to be avoided. Me, the extrovert, looks for excuses or overlapping commitments so I don’t have to stay too long. I imagine being in a room with people who I’ve had interactions with in the past, before my dad got sick. How can I possibly act as if nothing has shifted in the world since then? How can I fill the conversation on light, fluffy things when the hole of his absence looms large in every room I enter?

A hat. That’s the answer. An unusual hat. I need a hat as a distraction, as a conversation piece. That will let me steer any questioning up to my head.

Now you’ll know if you see me, that you should ask about the hat and then let me control the conversation. Deal?

Here are two more, just so you’ll be able to recognize me:

A fetching number in navy.

This one strikes me as the most wild.

For our communal entertainment and because it’s Friday, let’s change things up. In the comments section tell me which headband/fascinator hat you’d wear and what it would take to get you to wear it in public. Can’t wait to see what you say!

Today was a linkup with Kate Motaung who is now the lovely host of Five Minute Friday. The word prompt was “dare” and if you want to read other posts, click here .

Lost in the Woods

23
Oct

It was a weird morning here in Minnesota. It was misty but warm, quite comfortable for a walk outside. Great idea. Get out, get some movement, fresh air, all good things. I chose a nature preserve within easy driving distance from our place and planned on spending about 45 minutes walking, thinking that I could cover a manageable distance in that amount of time…

…until I got totally turned around and had no idea where I was.

After more than an hour and a half, here’s the conversation I had via text messages:

1.

Messages sent 20 minutes after thinking I knew where I was. Also, please tell me that you already know a “sippy drink” means pop from a fountain machine.

2.

Message sent when destination seemed unreachable.

Messages sent when my destination seemed unreachable. Clearly things were getting desperate.

3.

Eventually, my crisis was averted…and was never much of a crisis in the first place.

It’s nice to have people who will play along with you.

I ended up walking for almost two hours. Think of all the Reece’s Pieces I can eat now after exerting that kind of energy. Just for the record, I was never in any danger of drinking contaminated water or poisonous berries. But if someone could confirm which side of trees moss is supposed to grow, that would be helpful the next time I need to determine my navigational position.

Have a great Thursday everyone!

Hard Skin and Dragon Scales

14
Oct

This piece originally appeared on the Story Sessions website. That website is being reworked, which lets me share this with my own blog readers. …all five of you. 🙂

“I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe. […]

“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off? For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had been no good.

“The lion said—but I don’t know if it spoke—‘You will have to let me undress you,’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know—if you’ve ever picked the scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Edmund.

“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off—just as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t hurt—and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me—I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I’d turned into a boy again. You’d think me simply phony if I told you how I felt about my own arms. I know they’ve no muscle and are pretty mouldy compared with Caspian’s, but I was so glad to see them.

“After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me—”

“Dressed you. With his paws?”

“Well, I don’t exactly remember that bit. But he did somehow or other: in new clothes—the same I’ve got on now, as a matter of fact. And then suddenly I was back here. Which is what makes me think it must have been a dream.”

“No. It wasn’t a dream,” said Edmund.

“Why not?”

“Well, there are the clothes, for one thing. And you have been—well, un-dragoned, for another.”

“What do you think it was, then?” asked Eustace.

“I think you’ve seen Aslan,” said Edmund.

~Excerpt from Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis

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There was a period of my life when I wore an extra skin emotionally as if it was heavy chainmail or a coat of dragon scales.

It was knobby, thick, suspicious, sarcastic, and dismissive.

I grew this layer of protection over time. The barrages of arrows whose poisoned tips bore insults hedged as jokes about my body, necessitated this thick skin – the arrows didn’t hurt as much when they met hard scales. Snide comments about my lack of intelligence or critical thinking skills couldn’t meet their mark when repelled by bony skin. The repeated defense of my family’s expectations or my role as the pastor’s daughter, the constant sense of being different than everyone else, called “weird” for my sense of humor or mocked for my vocabulary, these things built layer upon layer of cartilage armor.

I was quick with a joke or a biting comment, even if it was about me – better to be aware of my weakness than to let others announce it.

I became skilled at assuming the twist of a statement, rather than believing it was said straight. It made me paranoid about what any sentence meant.

I grew weary with the analyzing, stony in the silence I adopted rather than open myself to hurtful responses that were bound to come, should I offer the opportunity.

Any gentleness I once had slowly shrunk and hardened until it was only a pebble.

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Instagram: tclmn

In the excerpt above, Eustace’s dragon scales are the result of greed and selfishness.

My scales were the result of a perceived need for self-preservation and protection.

The image has returned to me time upon time, the image of scraping away dragon scales, peeling them back as a snake slips its skin. The effort of learning a new way to relate to the world, the hard work of retraining my brain synapses so messages wouldn’t travel the same well-worn canyons, and the strain of finding new thought patterns felt like ripping off layers. I worked to allow myself to believe the compliment that came from the lips of the one I loved, rather than hearing its reverse, and the awareness that the former was still my first response, felt like Eustace when he thought he had scratched away the dragon skin, only to discover he was still wearing it. Try as I might, my best efforts only removed the outside layers with no impact on those that were thicker, those that were deeper.

There comes a point when, if we want real change, we have to admit we can’t do it ourselves.

We have to lie down in the grass and allow Aslan to undress us.

It feels vulnerable and intimate.

It feels defenseless.

It feels like a death.

And it can hurt like a bitch.

While we lie there, letting our defenses be stripped away, we might feel like we’d rather continue wearing the dragon skin, except for the sublime gratification that comes with the removal of it, like peeling a long strip of wallpaper after you’ve been laboring and only getting scraps, or the feeling of finally getting all the snarls out of your daughter’s beautiful long hair so you can drag the comb through it unhindered. We become our truer selves, closer to our clearest essence, unhindered by the bulky armor we accumulated. Only once it is removed are we released to feel earth on flesh, breeze on face, and warmth of embrace.

It is only once our dragon scales are removed that we learn the strength of being vulnerable, the confidence that undergirds gentleness and the freedom that comes when we are our most unfettered selves.

2 Corinthians 3:17-18 (NKJV) “17 Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. 18 But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.”

Have you built up your own coat of dragon scale defenses? Is that dragon skin still serving you, or has it begun to hinder your freedom? In what ways might you allow some of those scales to fall away?