Category: Honesty

A Table

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

My friend makes a cup of coffee. She lets me choose the mug. We sit across the table from each other, sipping our drinks, soaking in the brief moments of quiet while the children play, while the rain stops and they can run outside to play. For a moment, we sit in silence. She lets me think, my unraveled and frenzied thoughts slowing as I breathe deep and find a place to start.

We talk about the kids’ education, our plans for the coming school year; we laugh about something or other that happened the day before; we discuss the books we have been reading. The conversation spreads wide, and we might touch on something more serious, opening up on something we hadn’t even thought about earlier that morning. Maybe, maybe not. We don’t always talk about the deeper things, but all of it matters because we are creating space—to be heard and seen and understood.

There, at the table, hands cupped around a mug of coffee, is something sacred, something safe, something sweet. Something I have tasted infrequently in my own life, something that has become a sort of treasure.

And I begin to think about God—the Creator of the universe—setting such a table for me.

He makes a cup of coffee. He chooses my favorite mug. He adds a spoonful of lavender syrup and froths the milk. Just how I like it. He knows. He places the mug on the table and pulls out a chair. Then He waits.

He sets the table and waits for me.

Very often, I have forsaken the idea of showing up altogether. Sometimes, I am too busy, I tell myself. I simply cannot take the time to sit for even a few moments, to hear His voice and rest in His presence. But mostly, I don’t come because I know that if He looks me in the face, I will cry, and maybe I’ll shatter into a million pieces that I could never put back together. He is supposed to be safe, but I feel so deeply unsafe because He sees through my facade, and I don’t want to be seen.

“Can’t you see that I have work to do?” I say when He calls me to come, to sit. The work is my shield. It protects me from having to sit with the silence, having to open my heart, having to deal with the wildness of my mind. And if I have work to do, my hands busy and moving, I have value.

I don’t show up to His table because I can’t if I don’t bring value. And so many times—most of the time—I have nothing to bring. Another disappointment. Another heartache. Another moment I lost my temper. A complaint. A question. A doubt. A shortcoming. A weakness. I bring hands, bleeding and raw from working so hard, hands full of need. And I can’t show up that way. The King of the World deserves better than that.

So, He waits. And I don’t show up.

Then there are other times when He sets the table. I show up because I am angry, and I know He will be there. I have words to say. I need to get a thing off my chest. I need to tell Him my opinions, laying it all out in the open. He knows it anyway, but it feels good to just say it all. I’m not drinking my coffee, made just the way I like it; I’m angry and broken and weary and confused, and I can’t stop talking because I have so much that I need to say about how much I don’t like this and I can’t handle this and doesn’t He realize I’m only human and what does He want from me.

In shame, I won’t show up the next time. I’m embarrassed that I said so much. My honesty gets me in trouble. He didn’t want to deal with that mess, with my wild and fearful mind. He didn’t want to deal with my humanity. I’ll spare Him this time, and stay away. Stay away for a long time.

Until one day, I have run out of options. Shame has wiped the very life out of my soul. I’ve tried every fix, every solution, and come up empty. Hope is no longer a word in my vocabulary. The future looks bleak, nonexistent, honestly. I haven’t sat at that table in years. I’m afraid of His face. I’m afraid to hear His voice.

I show up, tentative. Terrified, more like it. Maybe He doesn’t set that table anymore. He’s probably put the coffee mug away, gotten rid of it altogether actually. He has moved on to better people, people who are more fit for what He desires. People who are more tame, more trustworthy, more together. Maybe I should just turn around and leave. I don’t want to waste His time. But I’m desperate. If He isn’t there, I’ve got nothing left.

I walk into the kitchen, warm with cooking and afternoon sun spreading its gentle rays across the table. I’m taken aback to find Him is sitting there. He beckons me to sit down—there’s my favorite cup, coffee made just the way I like it. “I’ve been waiting,” He says, gently, without a hint of reproach. And I choke back the tears, because why had I stayed away so long, all of these years, because I was afraid He would be angry.

I haven’t shown up every day, but I have tried, in the last year. To show up, when I have nothing to bring—which is often. To show up, when my face is burning with embarrassment and my bones ache with shame. To show up when I have choice words to say and when my mind is incapable of forming anything coherent. To show up when I’m exhausted and when I feel excited about possibilities. To show up when I’m disappointed and brokenhearted. To show up when I have questions and concerns. To show up when my mind has been ravished by nightmares. To show up in my panic, when anxiety feels as if it might suffocate me. To show up in my humanity. And not just “show up, casual,” as in, I tried to look casual . . . but in reality, to show up as me . . . without the pretense of makeup and mask and clean dishes and organized schedule and a five-year plan; without the pretense of intelligence and knowledge and look at everything I know and have learned and accomplished.

And I’ve found, to my unraveling surprise, that He waits at any moment, at every moment, to meet me there. Willingly. Never rushing things. Never making me feel like an inconvenience. Never saying that I should have shown up differently. He sets the table, day after day, and I’ve only to come. Come to find the treasures of goodness and mercy, of love that He has already given so I don’t even have to ask, of Presence that settles the chaos of my soul and quiets my weary mind. It’s not what I expected, by any stretch, but it’s what I have been looking for all of my life.

In Prison

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

It’s been a while since I’ve written here.

The summer, as is usual, has less of a routine, less of the predictable spaces I have carved out in my life, and more of a sense of floating at random, doing all of the fun things and traveling and seeing friends more times in three months than we might see them the rest of the school year combined.

In reality, however, I can’t blame summer for not being here. Rather, writing has felt less enjoyable, mostly because I have spent a significant part of the last few months arguing with God about how much I don’t want this space, this place anymore. I don’t want to sit in the dark places; I don’t want to know the shadowed lands of depression any longer; I don’t want to find Jesus’ compassion in this place so that I can give it to others; I don’t want to walk the often long path that is healing; I don’t want to surrender myself into the unknown. I don’t want to know Jesus’ strength in my weakness. I don’t want to understand this any longer.

I’d like to be anywhere but here, I tell myself. Just take me somewhere else, Jesus.

The other day, I was reading the story of Joseph. I grew up in church, so I have heard this story countless times before. As I read, though, one particular phrase really struck me. Joseph had been sold into slavery by his brothers and eventually wound up in Egypt. There, he gained the favor of Potiphar, “an officer of Pharaoh and captain of the guard.” 1Joseph was a successful man and became Potiphar’s personal attendant. “The Lord blessed the Egyptian’s house because of Joseph. The Lord’s blessing was on all that he owned, in his house and in his fields.”2 Joseph’s life had made a turn around and seemed to be headed in a great direction!

And then, Potiphar’s wife wanted Joseph to sleep with her. When he wouldn’t, she wrongly accused him of trying to start the affair, and Joseph was thrown into prison.

Uhhhhhhh . . .

Finally, things had been starting to look up after he had been sold into slavery, by his brothers, taking him away from everything he had ever known. Finally, Joseph had become successful and was doing well. But here he was again, tossed into a pit. His life had not, in any way, gone according to “plan.”

If I were Joseph, I would certainly have been questioning everything about my existence, my purpose, and the dreams I had believed God had given me. Were those just my imagination? Was I just making something up to make myself feel good or give myself false hope?

I’ll admit: I have had a few moments this summer when it felt like God was playing a joke on me—like maybe this entire thing called life is just one giant joke, and God is sitting up there in heaven laughing at me while I stumble and struggle through each day. I’ve struggled at large with cynicism, a deep mistrust of others and of God—that everyone’s motives are selfish; and that nothing can ever possibly change. So, what’s even the point?

And I wonder if Joseph ever struggled with those thoughts himself. Is it possible to be human, thrown in prison for something you didn’t even do, and not at least question a few things? Did he look back on the scope of his life and wonder what had gone wrong? Had he had a misstep? Had he disobeyed God? Had he heard wrong? He had just been unlucky? What was the point?

Yet, Scripture tells us something important. There, in prison, “the Lord was with Joseph.”3 In a low place; in a lonely place; in a place that he didn’t deserve; in a place that he didn’t expect; in a dark place; in an uncomfortable place; in a place where perhaps Joseph felt forgotten, unseen, and unheard; in a place of questions; in a place of uncertainty; in a place where perhaps Joseph wondered what the future could possibly hold; in a place that didn’t make sense; in a place that Joseph would never have chosen for himself.

In this place, the Lord was with Joseph, extending kindness to him and showing him favor.

Please tell me that I am not the only one who assumes that any difficult, painful, unfair, or challenging circumstance is a sign that God has forgotten me or that I have done something wrong. I have walked around this circle dozens of times over the last many years: “Just tell me what I am doing wrong, God, so that I can fix it!” Why is it so easy to assume that anything that is hard or uncomfortable is a sign that I am doing something wrong? Then I work myself in a tangle trying to fix it, fix myself, and get myself out of the circumstance.

Interestingly, Joseph wasn’t in prison because he had done anything wrong. He hadn’t disobeyed God. He hadn’t been worshiping idols. He hadn’t slept with Potiphar’s wife—in fact, he recognized that it was wrong and tried to run away. Joseph was just living his life, doing his job—and WHAM—in a moment, everything changed.

But the Lord was with Joseph. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t change the fact that God was with him, giving him favor, or working everything for good. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t mean that God had left him or forgotten him. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t mean that God was done with him—in fact, God was only getting started with what he was going to do through Joseph’s life. The fact that Joseph was in prison for several years did not change that God was kind, good, or faithful.

I don’t know what your “place” is—it probably isn’t a literal prison, but maybe, some days, it feels like it. From the stage on Sunday morning, we sing songs about promises—about God setting the captives free, about Him handing us the prison keys. But on Monday morning, when we aren’t seeing those promises play out the way we thought they would or WHEN we thought they would, it is so easy to grow cynical, to start questioning and doubting, to grow weary and want to quit. (Just me?) Maybe we aren’t walking free yet; maybe that day isn’t coming for many more years. But, what if we could be faithful there, in the prison? What if we could see that the Lord was with us, and choose to honor Him, even in a place we’d rather not be? What then could God do in our lives, in our stories?

Today, I am praying that God would help me to be faithful, help me to be obedient, help me to honor and trust Him—in the exact place I find myself, rather than asking for a way out, asking for anywhere but here. I am praying that God would help me to know peace and hope, even in the places that don’t make sense and don’t feel good and don’t look like He is doing anything. It’s so hard, isn’t it? I get it wrong far more often than I get it right. I grumble a lot and argue a lot and look for the easy way out a lot, a lot. And He knows. So I am also praying that God would show me His kindness, because it’s the only way I can stay in this place without giving up. The amazing thing? I know He will—even in prison.

  1. Genesis 39:1 ↩︎
  2. Genesis 39:5-6 ↩︎
  3. Genesis 39:21 ↩︎

Writer’s Block

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

“Writer’s block is life block.”

Last weekend, I listened to a recent podcast episode of That Sounds Fun with Annie F. Downs. The interview1 was with author, speaker, and coach Ally Fallon, and I have to say that, as a writer, this was one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard. (If you’re a writer or want to be a writer or just want to write something, I highly recommend listening, then downloading the 37 pages of show notes and sifting through them a few times to absorb it all. Don’t ask me how I know.)

Ally said, “Writer’s block is life block,” and this struck me in a different way than anything else I’ve ever heard about writing. We tend to hear that writer’s block occurs when we don’t have anything to write about, when the inspiration runs dry, maybe when we’re physically tired or our minds are weary.

(Funny thing is, for these very excuses, I haven’t written here in two weeks and not because I don’t have things to write about but because it felt hard to start, and it felt like it would take so much time. The problem is, I made a goal to write here once a week, and while I know that no one else is holding me to that and that there is nothing wrong with cutting myself a little slack, I know how easy it is to skip one week and then another and then another and before you know it, years go by and you realize you haven’t been pursuing the things God has placed in your heart. So, I knew today was the DAY to write. I sat down this morning while my son was at tutoring, tapped one sentence into my phone, and within 30 minutes, the rest of this all came together. Writer’s block LIES – the first step is always the hardest. Just get started.)

So I think there’s really something to all of the writers who say they write something every day no matter what. It’s too easy to say, “I’ve run out of things to write about” or “I’m just too tired to write today” or maybe more like “I’m so busy. I don’t have time to write . . . ” when in reality it’s more like we know that writing is going to require effort and maybe even take us places we don’t want to go. And honestly, I’ve found this to be true whether I’m writing personal thoughts in my journal that no one will ever read, writing for my blog or a social media post, writing thoughts that may one day resemble a book, or writing curriculum for work. Sometimes, avoiding it just feels so much better.

So I avoid writing and blame it on writer’s block instead of being honest about the fact that writing takes energy and faith, and exploratory writing often leads me to places I never thought I’d go or wanted to go.

At large, I’ve seen this whole avoidance thing in myself a lot this past year. I see how I avoid things that I know are going to require emotional and/or mental investment, and I think that’s part of the struggle I’ve had with depression especially. Getting into the ring to fight is hard. Like it-is-the-very-last-thing-I-want-to-do HARD. As wild as it seems, it’s easier to stay in the pit sometimes than to put forth the “Herculean effort needed to make mental corrections.”2 It’s easier to avoid than to face what’s really there, especially when you aren’t sure what you’ll find and you’ve no interested in being exposed. Or when you know what’s there, and you know how much work it’s going to take to deal with it all, and work or not, you really just don’t want to get into the mess.

If y’all have been around the church block even once recently, you’ve surely heard about The Chosen. For its popularity, I was against it at first because sometimes I’m stupidly stubborn like that. But I also knew that visually experiencing the life of Jesus would be emotionally challenging, exhausting honestly. Of all the goals I could set for myself, maybe watching a show doesn’t seem that important. But I recently made a decision to sit with the show after several people recommended specific episodes to me. I watched the first episode of Season 1 last week, and I wasn’t wrong about why I was avoiding it. Episode 1 was gutting, though not for any ways I thought. I won’t spoil it for you here in case you’ve not watched it, but let’s just say, it felt like watching my life on the screen, and I cried ugly tears. It was easy to avoid watching this show and just chalk it up to me being stubborn about popular things; it was a lot harder to watch the show and realize that what I’d been avoiding are some of the very things I’ve needed for my healing.

At some point in our lives, I think we all hit a block of some form or another. And it’s easy to excuse that away by saying we’re tired or we just don’t want to deal with it or it’s not that big of a problem or even a problem at all. But when Jesus calls, when His whisper gets too much to ignore, it’s time to step into those waters and find out what’s there.

We don’t necessarily have to pick apart every part of our lives and (over) analyze them. (l will do that for you for free. You’re welcome.) But maybe there’s a point where we have to get at the roots of our anger, our short temper, our fear, our panic, our resentment, our obsession with independence or our overt dependence, our lack of effort or motivation, our stubbornness, our need to control our children/spouse/environment and other people, our tendency to laugh things off or make everything “no big deal,” etc. If we’re going to grow, we have to be willing to push into that block and find out what’s behind it all.

Or maybe the block is because Jesus is calling you to something, and you’ve got every excuse in the book about why you can’t, why you don’t want to, why you won’t, why now isn’t a good time, why you don’t have the resources, why you’ll maybe think about it . . . in a few years. (Oh man, I’ve been there before. That makes me think of another story for another day.)

Surface level existence or relationship is one thing. I’ve lived there long enough. But I’m finding that Jesus wants to take us so much deeper, if only we are willing. Turns out,  it’s not as scary as I thought it would be but it sure is uncomfortable and it takes a level of courage and commitment far different from what I expected. To go deeper, we’ve got to stop blaming the block on other things and stare it in the face for what it is: my unwillingness to get into the mess or discomfort I already know is there or that I might find.

Are you willing to face your life block today? It probably (almost definitely, sorry) won’t feel like how you want for a while, but there’s SO MUCH GOODNESS on the other side. I promise.

Footnotes
  1. “When You Want to Write a Book with Ally Fallon – Episode 892.” That Sounds Fun, 6 June 2024, https://www.anniefdowns.com/podcast/when-you-want-to-write-a-book-with-ally-fallon-episode-892/.
    ↩︎
  2. Welch, Edward T. Depression – The Way Up When You Are Down. P & R Publishing Company, 2000. pg. 10. ↩︎

Layers

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

I think the realization that there was a tremendous lot of “stuff” lurking under the surface began the day I bumped the front corner of my car into the backside of another mom’s mini-van in the playground parking lot. I was knee-deep in parenting three little ones under the age of who knows what, absolutely exhausted, and totally terrified by the volcanic explosion of emotions that, looking back, I now see had been buried for a really long time. The anger was the most confusing and heartbreaking, and I felt more like a monster than a mother. I didn’t expect, though, to get out of my car and start sobbing and suffocating in front of a complete stranger who couldn’t understand why I was so incredibly shaken by leaving a small scrape on her already scraped up minivan. She joked about it with grace. But for me, there was a whole lot more going on.

It was only a scrape, I told myself. No big deal. But of course, what was going on inside of me went much deeper, and it festered. Sometimes, I seemed to be able to manage it, even to ignore it. Sometimes, I convinced myself that everything was fine. But then, suddenly, in moments that smacked painfully, the wound was ripped open again, and again.

With gaping wound last year, grasping at straws in every area of my life, I stepped onto the path of healing in full belief that all I needed help with was managing stress. A few changes to my schedule, some social outlets, a hobby, a few chiropractic adjustments, and maybe a few counseling sessions—that’s all I needed.

And while I suppose that stress was the first layer, I peeled that back and found a whole lot more . . . Year and years’ worth of undealt with stuff. I wasn’t at all shocked by the exhaustion I found, by the weight of the world, by the impossible burden of perfectionism I’d been carrying. I wasn’t really surprised by the resentment or by the frustration or even the anger. And although I was shaken by the anxiety and depression that continued to scream in my ear, I’d known them as (unnamed) foes for my entire life. I worked through some things, I saw a bit of growth. Maybe that was all I needed.

I have seen progress, but I KNOW there is more. So I’ve kept digging.

Goodness, I thought the healing process would be gentle. I thought it would feel so inviting, so rewarding. But really? I’m at this point where my arms are aching tired and I’m dripping in sweat. I’m dirty, my hair is a mess, and I’ve got bug bites that are driving me crazy (southern mosquitoes, y’all—they are the WORST). My excitement about the process has most definitely waned but I’ve dug up so much by this point that there is really no turning back. I’d do anything to just be inside reading a book and sipping iced coffee right now. But I’m out here in the unrelenting summer sun digging around anxiety and depression until the process makes me want to run away from the literal world.

While digging a few weeks ago, my shovel hit something hard, something that took the breath right out of me. I hit SHAME.

Just typing that word makes the tears sting my eyes.

I had thought shame was for people who had done something wrong or had something wrong done to them. I thought shame was for miserably poor people or for prostitutes. I thought shame was for drug addicts. I thought shame was for people who had been abused. I thought shame was for people who stole, for people who drank, for people who looked at inappropriate photos online.

But there I was, a church girl who grew up in a safe and loving environment, the girl who basically lived under a rock half of her life and still doesn’t know the popular music and is so hyper-sensitive that she can’t watch movies rated PG-13 without hiding behind a pillow. Yeah, that girl—drowning in shame that I had taken on for myself and shame that other people had poured on to me. And I realized that, quite the opposite, shame is an experience that anyone can have because shame says, “You are bad.” Shame says that there is something wrong with you, that you are an outcast, that you are worthless, that you are beyond repair, beyond hope, beyond love—because of some way that you are, some thing you have done, or some thing you have had done to you.

Shame is the Enemy’s tactic, and he can and will whisper it into the ear of anyone.

As I’ve peeled back the layers, I see shame woven through the threads of my life, shame that began when I was a young girl trying to make sense of my quiet personality, my tendency toward tears, my many irrational fears, and the dark crevices of my chaotic, overwhelming, and unpredictable mind; shame that has increased with every wave of depression, with every suicidal thought, with the people I reached out to in desperation who told me that I was in sin or that I wasn’t actually a Christian at all, with every attempt to get up earlier, pray harder, do more only to still be staring mental illness in the face. The shame has increased layer over layer and become mangled into a mess of anger and exhaustion all of which landed me on the precipice of hopelessness last year.

The pieces are starting to fit together, a little bit.

Studies of the brain show that it reacts to shame as if it is confronting physical danger. Shame evokes a physical response, a desire to run, a need to hide. Shame produces an exhausting race of self-preservation, a race against the potential of being exposed or the potential of hurting others. As Welch writes, “Shame has a natural affinity with self-protection and unbelief. It hides from others, feels undeserving of anything good, and believes it will contaminate whatever comes close.”1

As I look back, I see how I have furthered the distance between myself and the possibility of healing or freedom because of shame. I have built walls between myself and others but mostly between myself and God. In shame, I found myself asking, “Is there a place in the Kingdom of God for me?” If I’m only going to contaminate others and/or disappoint God, maybe walls a million miles high are the way to go. But although isolation may feel safe, it is actually the nightmare of shame – the realization that I am so broken, contaminated, and worthless that I am all alone.

Although so much is beginning to make sense, and I think maybe there are things that have been so dead inside of me that are starting to come alive, I know the process is ongoing. I’m currently, daily, taking a sledgehammer to those walls—and allowing Jesus to dismantle all of Shame’s lies. And I just want to say, at the moment, these three things:

  • Friends, if you are in a process of healing, of dealing with pain—keep going. I know it isn’t easy, I know it probably doesn’t look like what you thought it would or how you want it to, but it IS producing good things, maybe things that you don’t even know and likely things you can’t even imagine. Keep digging. Keep asking questions. Keep hanging on because GOD IS WORKING, and He isn’t finished with you yet.
  • If you are asking God for more, keep asking. Believe and speak this: “Jesus is far better than I think He is or could ever imagine.” I’m doing the same. I know it’s not easy, it doesn’t come naturally, and everything within us wants to protect ourselves by believing that really, God can’t be that good, and at the very least, He can’t be that good to me. But keep asking for the more because if nothing else, what I have seen this year, is that HE KEEPS SHOWING UP AND BLOWING MY MIND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, and I’m no longer chalking that up to random coincidence or good luck. He HEARS you and He SEES you.
  • If the experience of shame resonates with you, name it for yourself and speak it to someone you can trust. My pastor said to me recently, “The enemy’s power is dispelled when we don’t allow shame to isolate us.” Seek help, wisdom, counsel, and encouragement from people who will cover you and support you, and, most importantly, help you take that shame to the feet of Jesus, the One who can and will bring you the healing and hope you need.
Footnotes
  1. Welch, Edward T. Shame Interrupted: How God Lifts the Pain of Worthlessness & Rejection. New Growth Press, 2012. p.137 ↩︎

Showing Up

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

Lore Wilbert1 is one of my new favorite authors, and not because I always agree with what she writes about. In fact, her work is very challenging to me, in both good ways and ways that are much harder to handle. What I love about her work, though, is that she writes with a gut level of honesty that brings the case for humanity to the table while pushing back against mainstream arguments.

I’m not sure how or when I stumbled across her work. It was a few years ago and somehow, I found myself on her website which, at the time, had a free book of hers available for download. I read that little pdf in a single night and was hooked. Someone who wasn’t afraid to put into words real emotions and experiences without trying to sugarcoat them with Christian platitudes? Yes, please.

In one of her recent pieces2 discussing the launch of her newest book, she concluded with the following.

“Releasing a book into the world is a huge act of vulnerability. Maybe some people do it and feel like patting themselves on the back for it, but I mostly feel like crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head for the foreseeable future. To show up and continue to show up takes almost every ounce of my energy. I want to believe that my showing up matters not just to you and you and you, but also to me and to God because it is how I grow and mature and change and become more of who I am actually created to be.”

And honestly, it’s so good to hear someone else say that. I feel every bit of this, and not just in my writing. I’ve found that most of my life has really been a daily war between wanting to hide under the covers and needing to show up.

I guess I kind of thought that the older I got, the more energized I’d be about life. Instead, getting older has felt a bit more like grief, because while other people seem to be excited about what lies ahead, I have to choose each day to keep showing up. Sometimes it’s rather wearying to think about doing this for another few decades. (Not to say that there isn’t also goodness and mercy and blessing with each passing year; I’m finding eyes to see that much more clearly too.) But I’m finding that showing up for life takes a serious amount of defiance.

And if you’re a person like me for whom depression has been a near constant acquaintance, one of the most important things you can do is to show up every single day and defiantly refuse to give the Enemy the opportunity to let you quit. If we can be honest, showing up for life and seeking the good, the true, and the beautiful is “hard as hell sometimes,” as Sarah Clarkson recently put it, “because it is precisely a pressing back agaisnt the gates of Hell itself.”3 We don’t need to sugarcoat the reality that we are in a war “against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”4

The unfortunate part of all of this is that when showing up is hard, either one of two extremes seems to be favored. The one approach is to say, “get it together.” This approach insists that depression is a sin and that real Christians are tough and always smiling (because Jesus, of course). This approach assumes the underlying perspective that tough times indicate that you are doing something wrong, and if only you’d do XYZ, you’d be happy, energized, and motivated. You definitely wouldn’t be struggling.

The other approach is the extreme opposite in which feelings dictate our every move, and we are permitted to be victims of our emotions. Hiding under the covers becomes totally acceptable as is spewing our inner chaos all over everyone because “I’m just being real.”

I like to think that honest, mature showing up lies somewhere in the middle, that God invites us to bring Him all of our humanity, including doubts, uncertainties, grief, tiredness, even anger, while also kindly but persistently leading us into hope and perseverance.

It takes courage to show up every day for a life that you didn’t expect. We don’t need to sugarcoat that either. What does that look like for you? Maybe it’s an unexpected disease; maybe it’s watching a spouse or child suffer; maybe it’s heartache and betrayal by people you trusted; maybe it’s pain in important relationships; maybe it’s the fact that this parenting gig is way harder than you ever thought; maybe it’s not anything ‘major’ but just the fact that some seasons of life are more exhausting than others; maybe, as for me, it’s facing down the reality of depression, anxiety, and physical pain as possible lifelong foes. It takes courage to show up for reality, for this messy thing called humanity in a broken world.

The beautiful thing I’m finding is that when I show up, God shows up. And yes, God fights for us, but not in the sense that we get to lie in bed while He does all the work. We have to join Him in that work. When we do, victories are won; territories are reclaimed; growth happens, even if it seems small. But let’s be honest. Sometimes, we show up and it seems like nothing happens, which means showing up is going to take courage. It’s going to take defiance. It’s going to be hard as hell. Why do we insist otherwise?!

Showing up means you take care of yourself, even when it’s hard, when you don’t want to, when you don’t enjoy it, when you’re embarrassed or ashamed that it feels so hard. (I saw a remarkable post by Elyse Myers5 this morning which really struck me. She talks about how taking care of yourself doesn’t always feel good and might not even always be something you are immediately glad you did; but we can still take care of ourselves to help ourselves feel a little more human and “get back to the starting line.” So many things to unpack there, woah.)

Showing up means calling your people and asking them to pray for and encourage you, no matter how uncomfortable that makes you or how much you think that you shouldn’t need to ask or how ashamed asking for help makes you feel. (This is a really tough one for me for so many reasons, but I also realize that asking for help is, first and foremost, my responsibility. I can appreciate when people offer help unasked, but ultimately, if I don’t ask for help, I can’t blame anyone else when I don’t receive it.)

Showing up means accepting emotions as a part of humanity and learning how to process those emotions in a healthy way. (Let’s start with this: emotions such as anger, frustration, or fear are not BAD, they are part of being human. But our thoughts are what drive our emotions, and we don’t have to be a victim to emotions. It takes practice-like a LOT of practice-but we can learn to pay attention to what we think about in order to walk in a healthier emotional state, and we can learn how to experience and process “negative” emotions without them overtaking our lives.)

Showing up means learning how to rest, surrendering the belief that we are on our own, that the burden is all on our shoulders. It means learning what actual rest is, i.e. not necessarily just a nap. (This may be my least favorite one, I have to admit. Avoiding rest for me has, over time, become a means of self-preservation. That’s also a whole other post to unpack.)

Showing up means doing what God has given you to do, faithfully, daily, when you’re tired and when you’re not, when the tears sting your eyes or when you feel on top of the world. It means, “I have decided to follow Jesus, no turning back.” It means that we “bless God in the sanctuary, . . . in the fields of plenty, . . . in the darkest valley, . . . when my hands are empty, . . . with a praise that costs me, . . . when nobody’s watching, . . . when the weapon’s forming, . . . when the walls are falling.”6

I grow in hope and perseverance as I show up because when my foundation is Jesus, I know that my house stands7, that with the Lord, I can “attack a barrier and . . . leap over a wall.”8 I have courage to participate in the battle because I have “the promise that heaven is waiting for me.”9 Some days, that’s all that keeps me moving forward, and that’s okay too.

Footnotes
  1. Sayable, https://lorewilbert.com/. ↩︎
  2. Wilbert, Lore. “The Impossible Work of Being Here.” Sayable, 1 May 2024, https://lorewilbert.com/p/the-impossible-work-of-being-here. ↩︎
  3. Clarkson, Sarah. Facebook Post, 9 May 2024, https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=882427800562911&set=a.176543481151350. ↩︎
  4. Ephesians 6:12, King James Version. ↩︎
  5. Myers, Elyse. Facebook Post. 20 May 2024, https://fb.watch/sbi5WBD8qz/. ↩︎
  6. Ligertwood, Brooke. “Bless God.” Eight, 20 October 2023. ↩︎
  7. Matthew 7:24-25. ↩︎
  8. Psalm 18:29, Holman Christian Standard Bible. ↩︎
  9. Wickham, Phil. “Reason I Sing.” Hymn of Heaven, 25 June 2021. ↩︎

Deep Gladness

~ Cati Grape ~ Leave a comment

By default, I tend to pick up this burden that everything I do must turn into a business, a stream of income. And while I fully acknowledge the importance of having an income and being able to pay the bills, I wonder if sometimes we ignore God’s call on our lives because it doesn’t look like a career.

I have spent the better part of the last fifteen years wrestling through God’s purposes for me, and while I don’t think this is something that is necessarily easily answered nor defined, there’s something to this wrestling. I have never been one satisfied with the idea that we are merely here to take up space on the earth, and—for better or worse—I have never been satisfied with the idea that my purpose is simply to lead an ordinary life and then die.

For some, that is okay. I have talked to many people for whom that is okay. I just have never been one of those people. The need for inspiration and meaning and a larger thread weaving through my ordinary days has always been a part of me.

I guess this is what thinkers call vocation, though I have been one to assume that vocation is merely what you do to pay the bills. And while I believe that God can use me and is using me for His purposes while I wash dishes or teach students how to write five-page essays, I find myself always asking for more—not in the sense that I want an award or accolades. But in the sense that there has always been something stirring in my soul, this need to reach down deeper for something that goes beyond merely existing. And I am beginning to think it is a need for vocation, that is a calling, mission, and purpose . . .

My coach recently shared this quote by author, minister, and theologian Frederick Buechner with me: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Woah. Deep gladness.

I think part of the wrestling I have experienced over the last decade is due to the fact that I thought I would find that meeting of deep gladness and deep hunger in particular areas. Maybe it would be marriage or motherhood. Maybe it would be in homeschooling or running a business. Maybe it would be in music or cooking or art. And while all of those things are very good and very much shape the person that I am . . . well, how do I put this without sounding ungrateful? They are not where gladness and hunger meet in my world.

Do you ever make a list of the people you know and their skill sets, so that, when you need something, you can reach out to the right person? If I have a serious medical question—like my kid just tripped into the corner of the coffee table and busted his lip (real life, y’all)—I call my aunt, the nurse. “Do you think he needs stitches?” I ask, while texting her a picture. On the other hand, if my computer is giving me all sorts of attitude, I call my dad, the computer guru, who spent hours over his Christmas vacation bringing our desktop computer back to life after a tragic “corrupted file” error. If I’ve got a question about the best new board games or toys, my sister-in-law is wonderfully resourceful. One of my friends is particularly knowledgeable about good places to eat; another about the best chapter books for elementary students; another about how to parent with a clear head and right outlook.

You know what I mean, right? It isn’t that I look for people in my life based on what they can provide me, but we each have something (or things) that we are deeply interested in and knowledgeable about, and since we can’t all be devoted to and passionate about everything, we need other people in our lives—for help with practical needs, for different perspectives, for filling the inevitable gaps of being one, limited person.

I follow a fair number of writers, curriculum developers, and other creatives on the internet—and how lovely it would be, I think, if I could be one of them. Perhaps my vocation could simply be teaching other people to write. Maybe it could be teaching other people how to become successful with their writing. Maybe I could create courses that teach people how to begin and run a small business. How nice it would be if my passion were homeschooling and raising kids, and I could write deeply about the impact of morning time and certain educational methods and spending inordinate amounts of time outdoors. Or maybe I could develop gentle pre-school curriculum. Maybe I could just make cakes or sew something or be a photographer.

I guess I had kind of hoped that I could be the person on your list to call if you just wanted some new recipes (I mean, I do love to cook, so I won’t turn down the chance to talk about what’s happening in my kitchen). Or maybe, if you had a random question about the different figure skating jumps, you would know that I know (I’m guessing that’s not really a question you’d ever have; I’m just dreaming). Maybe even, you’d know me for being a book connoisseur or grammar nerd and reach out to me with your most pressing questions about MLA format.

Yet again, as much as I had thought I’d find the convergence of gladness and hunger in those places, they have never fit right on me. When I have dipped my toes into those pools, it has more been in an attempt to fit a mold that I created for myself, more an attempt to quiet the ever-present questions of vocation in my mind. I don’t discount any of those things and fully believe that each person has their own lane—it’s just that those lanes are not mine.

The road of my life has been one laced with questions and doubts, often overwhelming waves of darkness, a journey that has involved staring sorrow and brokenness dead in the face. But maybe it’s not all for nothing. Maybe, my deep gladness could be found in being able to make space for conversations of sorrow and weariness that are so difficult, so rare, and often so filled with shame. Maybe my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger could meet in making a space for people who feel shattered, for questions that are almost too preposterous to pose, for places that feel dark and hopeless. I have found that it is in those conversations, in those places and spaces, that God is stirring something in my soul, and although I realize such topics basically put a plaque on my forehead shouting “I am not the fun friend,” I’m here for all of it. Yes, I’ll still take your questions about whatever is a roux or how to cite a website any day, but if you find yourself asking other—harder—questions you never thought you would, I just want you to know that I am listening.