All growth
leads to contact
to touching
and being touched
where our life force flows.
I don't have time
for the waiting rooms of small talk,
to play at being alive,
to resolve religious problems.
My growing is
having a yearning that hurts,
being breakable by words alone,
and taking the risk
of living on the edge.
But that is how we meet.
Our brokenness touches
and in our craving for the light
we lift off,
dancing angels with weighty feet.
—Ulrich Schaffer
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Unexpected Surge
Every time we stand in church to sing, my 8-years old daughter nestles into my side and my arm goes around her. This always reminds me of the closeness I can have with Christ my Father, and how dearly He loves me. Sounds simple, but trust usually is, right? I am looking to once again trust Jesus like this, but I struggle with even the best evidence perceivable in my own life, because of the scars that seem not to have healed.
Ten years ago we left our home and jobs in California and used all of our savings to follow the leading of the Lord to join a floundering missions organization. Pouring ourselves into the people, the work and the culture for almost six years was not a difficult choice. We had some great times of growth, and we saw so much good! And to be a part of such an accepting and close-knit group was incredible. To this day believe we were following the Lord's leading to be a part of this work He was doing in Asia. The eyes of our heart were opened—but in more ways than we were hoping for.
It has been four years since my family was abused and abandoned by those in leadership of this mission organization. Our family was not alone. Many families were preyed upon and many left shortly after we were kicked out, and the number has grown to about 20-30% of the staff. I believe that us being fired opened the eyes to the toxicity of this dark religious environment. This will sound twisted, but I was so grateful to be let go, grateful that I didn't have to choose, because I was very willing to stay and suffer for the sake of the gospel there...and I now see that I just didn't have to, and that my family would have paid a very steep price if we stayed there.
When abuse, lies and abandonment come from those you trust and love—even though my family and I have made it through (and things are so, so good now) I still struggle with the fear. My feelings unexpectedly surged this month when I was physically drained from surgery, medication, no gym-time, and chronic physical pain. I know the time to think rationally is not when one is under such stress, but like a flood, there were these feelings that I thought I had long said goodbye to. I mean, I was the one who just left my last position, I was not forced out. I have a great job now that has been unmatched in respect and care. What do I need to do before I am healed?
I feel like I will be abandoned by those closest to me, that I will be misunderstood, spiritually abused if I allow anyone close, if try to stop or point out abuse, or simply disagree with anyone. These are the things I did that brought down the boom at the dot-org.
So, I have been thinking a lot lately about why I feel the way that I do and what conditions accelerate these bad feelings, what feelings are present exactly, and what has conditioned me to behave this way. Trying to identify what I exactly feel is difficult. How do I break free from this victim mentality? Is it a victim mentality?
Do I just need to just trust Him, to allow His arm around me, and know He is standing with me (like my daughter does when we sing at church) and allow even more time and circumstance to heal me, or...do I need professional counseling? Yes, I want to be fully healed.
When I first thought of blogging, I was hoping to only write about the good things in life that I did not want to forget because I wanted to think only about them and forget my recent past. I was coming out of these painful times and the denial part was wearing off, and I didn't want to wade through the muck of processing it all. I was, and may still, not be strong enough. But wow, it feels good to even have these few clear thoughts written out.
Ten years ago we left our home and jobs in California and used all of our savings to follow the leading of the Lord to join a floundering missions organization. Pouring ourselves into the people, the work and the culture for almost six years was not a difficult choice. We had some great times of growth, and we saw so much good! And to be a part of such an accepting and close-knit group was incredible. To this day believe we were following the Lord's leading to be a part of this work He was doing in Asia. The eyes of our heart were opened—but in more ways than we were hoping for.
It has been four years since my family was abused and abandoned by those in leadership of this mission organization. Our family was not alone. Many families were preyed upon and many left shortly after we were kicked out, and the number has grown to about 20-30% of the staff. I believe that us being fired opened the eyes to the toxicity of this dark religious environment. This will sound twisted, but I was so grateful to be let go, grateful that I didn't have to choose, because I was very willing to stay and suffer for the sake of the gospel there...and I now see that I just didn't have to, and that my family would have paid a very steep price if we stayed there.
When abuse, lies and abandonment come from those you trust and love—even though my family and I have made it through (and things are so, so good now) I still struggle with the fear. My feelings unexpectedly surged this month when I was physically drained from surgery, medication, no gym-time, and chronic physical pain. I know the time to think rationally is not when one is under such stress, but like a flood, there were these feelings that I thought I had long said goodbye to. I mean, I was the one who just left my last position, I was not forced out. I have a great job now that has been unmatched in respect and care. What do I need to do before I am healed?
I feel like I will be abandoned by those closest to me, that I will be misunderstood, spiritually abused if I allow anyone close, if try to stop or point out abuse, or simply disagree with anyone. These are the things I did that brought down the boom at the dot-org.
So, I have been thinking a lot lately about why I feel the way that I do and what conditions accelerate these bad feelings, what feelings are present exactly, and what has conditioned me to behave this way. Trying to identify what I exactly feel is difficult. How do I break free from this victim mentality? Is it a victim mentality?
Do I just need to just trust Him, to allow His arm around me, and know He is standing with me (like my daughter does when we sing at church) and allow even more time and circumstance to heal me, or...do I need professional counseling? Yes, I want to be fully healed.
When I first thought of blogging, I was hoping to only write about the good things in life that I did not want to forget because I wanted to think only about them and forget my recent past. I was coming out of these painful times and the denial part was wearing off, and I didn't want to wade through the muck of processing it all. I was, and may still, not be strong enough. But wow, it feels good to even have these few clear thoughts written out.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Six Random Things
I had the honor of being tagged by my gluten-free friend to list six random things about myself. Here goes!
1. I love watermelon. My grandpa had a hidden watermelon patch in the sandy soil of his cornfields. After he cut sample squares to taste a few with his Case pocket knife, he would cut me large pieces with his machete on the tailgate of his pickup, and we would feast! It was warm, but very sweet and extremely juicy.
2. My wife and I were house-parents for 11 years: seven in a sorority and four in a group home for pregnant teens.
3. We served as missionaries for six years, stationed state-side, but have traveled throughout India.
4. Rodeo Clown: I think a lot about this profession—how they step into the bull to avoid the horns. Probably my true calling or a reflection of the way I think about life.
5. This weekend marked 22 years for Mrs. 23 Degrees and I. I truly found favor with the Lord by finding her—and she still laughs at all of my jokes.
6. An Etch-A-Sketch, a wheat penny, Stone Crossings, a small bust of Abraham Lincoln, an "I Love you daddy" note from my daughter, and a photo of my son on the football field: a few things on my night-stand.
If you are game, I would love to tag:
Laama Momma
LL Barkat
A Reluctant Blogger
And I tag Kirsten back, because I know she has six more random things she has thought of since this post that she wants to share.
1. I love watermelon. My grandpa had a hidden watermelon patch in the sandy soil of his cornfields. After he cut sample squares to taste a few with his Case pocket knife, he would cut me large pieces with his machete on the tailgate of his pickup, and we would feast! It was warm, but very sweet and extremely juicy.
2. My wife and I were house-parents for 11 years: seven in a sorority and four in a group home for pregnant teens.
3. We served as missionaries for six years, stationed state-side, but have traveled throughout India.
4. Rodeo Clown: I think a lot about this profession—how they step into the bull to avoid the horns. Probably my true calling or a reflection of the way I think about life.
5. This weekend marked 22 years for Mrs. 23 Degrees and I. I truly found favor with the Lord by finding her—and she still laughs at all of my jokes.
6. An Etch-A-Sketch, a wheat penny, Stone Crossings, a small bust of Abraham Lincoln, an "I Love you daddy" note from my daughter, and a photo of my son on the football field: a few things on my night-stand.
If you are game, I would love to tag:
Laama Momma
LL Barkat
A Reluctant Blogger
And I tag Kirsten back, because I know she has six more random things she has thought of since this post that she wants to share.
Friday, May 9, 2008
The Ground is Down There
My feet dangled over the edge of my dreams for a of couple of months, as I waited to jump into my new job. It was tough sitting there, wanting to immediately leave, and I was tired of the posturing and office politics. But I waited, giving thanks that this new path had opened up, seemingly with no prompting from me.
Thinking about how great it would be to leave, I felt a long-missed sense of freedom and often found myself swinging my legs, anticipating the new adventure.
Some days I wondered if it was all true. I tried to focus on my day to day tasks as I felt feelings of relief and also some small doubts that it may not turn out. But conditions were poor and steadily getting more out of control where I was at. At no point did I wonder if I should stay. These days gave way to the reality of what I believed to be His hand leading me beside quiet waters: confirmations and re-assurances that He sees me and knows every detail.
Typing up my notice gave me goose bumps. Turning it in felt like a 1000 pounds lifting from my shoulders. My two weeks went quickly and my last evening was spent raising glasses and telling stories, getting hand shakes and hugs from friends and enemies.
I have just finished my second week at my new post and my feet haven't touched the ground. There is a sense of honor, care and humility present at my new work place that has given me wings. Even the atmosphere is ultra-creative with wide open spaces, sculptures suspended from the ceiling, space to roam, think, draw, move. No cubicles, no clock watchers.
I realize I am still honeymooning, but wow, what a honeymoon!
Thinking about how great it would be to leave, I felt a long-missed sense of freedom and often found myself swinging my legs, anticipating the new adventure.
Some days I wondered if it was all true. I tried to focus on my day to day tasks as I felt feelings of relief and also some small doubts that it may not turn out. But conditions were poor and steadily getting more out of control where I was at. At no point did I wonder if I should stay. These days gave way to the reality of what I believed to be His hand leading me beside quiet waters: confirmations and re-assurances that He sees me and knows every detail.
Typing up my notice gave me goose bumps. Turning it in felt like a 1000 pounds lifting from my shoulders. My two weeks went quickly and my last evening was spent raising glasses and telling stories, getting hand shakes and hugs from friends and enemies.
I have just finished my second week at my new post and my feet haven't touched the ground. There is a sense of honor, care and humility present at my new work place that has given me wings. Even the atmosphere is ultra-creative with wide open spaces, sculptures suspended from the ceiling, space to roam, think, draw, move. No cubicles, no clock watchers.
I realize I am still honeymooning, but wow, what a honeymoon!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
"Take Care of Your Boy"
He sat alone, although a crowd encircled him in the overly-heated room. Many friends and family had come to pay respects, but no one could begin to have words that would comfort, or offer apologies that would alleviate his sorrow.
I tried to picture myself in his place: sitting uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, staring out the window into the winter landscape, listening to the dull voices of those sharing memories and tearful embraces. I tried to put myself in his place, but the pain was too overwhelming, the grief too heavy for my frame. My God, how can he bear this? How could this have happened?
His son lay in the next room, killed by his best friend, with what was thought to be an unloaded gun.
My son stands in the dimly lit doorway of the funeral home greeting a small group of people who have just arrived. I hear him recite his name to those who have come here be alongside of this family who has lost so much. We are a part of this community, a part of these lives, and together we have come to grieve as one and say goodbye to a friend, a neighbor—a son.
I look at my 15-year old and I see the best in me: I see his unique personality that has developed from his view of the world, and from the unusual experiences he has had moving cross-country (more than a couple of times) and having his folks involved with the arts and ministry. When I look at him, I see the little boy that would make sketchbooks full of sea monsters, the boy that would chase the ocean waves and stare up into the redwoods in wonder. I see the child who would sleep with his toy trucks and build spacecraft with his Lego's and call charlie-horses "horsey-joes." My son, the child who prayed each night for two years that God would provide him the perfect dog, the one who worked beside me to renovate our first house. I see the football player, the joker, the romantic. I see the boy who is fast becoming a man—who told us that he didn't know how he would do today, and asked us to be close. I understood. Less than a year ago we were in the same room as he grieved with a friend who lost his mom. He is holding fast, our eyes meet and he gives me a sign that he is okay.
Being new in our community, I never met this dad before, but I knew that I had to go to him.
Walking over, I offer my hand and sit down. He knows my son and tells me a story about him and his boy, and we both share a smile. This memory brings him joy for a moment, until once again the overbearing reality sets in, that his son is now gone.
“I can’t bear to go into the other room,” he says, “I can’t see my boy like that.”
Turning his head away, he cries, wiping the tears as they flow down the well-worn paths on his face. As I sat there in the silence of his grief, deep down I knew that we shouldn't be here—this should not be happening. We should be at a basketball game or a concert, anywhere else—anywhere but here.
I didn't know what to do, but to just be there. Looking at him, I uttered the only thing I knew to be true, "You will see him again," I said, as my hand fell onto his shoulder.
His eyes were red, and his voice stifled, but he managed to look up and say that this was his hope.
As I got up to leave, his eyes fixed on mine, and he said to me, "Take care of your boy."
I could sense his love for his own son in these words, and knew they would echo in my heart for a long time, because the meaning of his words were: "Take care not to miss even a moment of time you could spend together with your son. Help him know who he is and how proud you are of him. Tell him that you love him.
"I will," I said, keeping his gaze, "I will."
I tried to picture myself in his place: sitting uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, staring out the window into the winter landscape, listening to the dull voices of those sharing memories and tearful embraces. I tried to put myself in his place, but the pain was too overwhelming, the grief too heavy for my frame. My God, how can he bear this? How could this have happened?
His son lay in the next room, killed by his best friend, with what was thought to be an unloaded gun.
My son stands in the dimly lit doorway of the funeral home greeting a small group of people who have just arrived. I hear him recite his name to those who have come here be alongside of this family who has lost so much. We are a part of this community, a part of these lives, and together we have come to grieve as one and say goodbye to a friend, a neighbor—a son.
I look at my 15-year old and I see the best in me: I see his unique personality that has developed from his view of the world, and from the unusual experiences he has had moving cross-country (more than a couple of times) and having his folks involved with the arts and ministry. When I look at him, I see the little boy that would make sketchbooks full of sea monsters, the boy that would chase the ocean waves and stare up into the redwoods in wonder. I see the child who would sleep with his toy trucks and build spacecraft with his Lego's and call charlie-horses "horsey-joes." My son, the child who prayed each night for two years that God would provide him the perfect dog, the one who worked beside me to renovate our first house. I see the football player, the joker, the romantic. I see the boy who is fast becoming a man—who told us that he didn't know how he would do today, and asked us to be close. I understood. Less than a year ago we were in the same room as he grieved with a friend who lost his mom. He is holding fast, our eyes meet and he gives me a sign that he is okay.
Being new in our community, I never met this dad before, but I knew that I had to go to him.
Walking over, I offer my hand and sit down. He knows my son and tells me a story about him and his boy, and we both share a smile. This memory brings him joy for a moment, until once again the overbearing reality sets in, that his son is now gone.
“I can’t bear to go into the other room,” he says, “I can’t see my boy like that.”
Turning his head away, he cries, wiping the tears as they flow down the well-worn paths on his face. As I sat there in the silence of his grief, deep down I knew that we shouldn't be here—this should not be happening. We should be at a basketball game or a concert, anywhere else—anywhere but here.
I didn't know what to do, but to just be there. Looking at him, I uttered the only thing I knew to be true, "You will see him again," I said, as my hand fell onto his shoulder.
His eyes were red, and his voice stifled, but he managed to look up and say that this was his hope.
As I got up to leave, his eyes fixed on mine, and he said to me, "Take care of your boy."
I could sense his love for his own son in these words, and knew they would echo in my heart for a long time, because the meaning of his words were: "Take care not to miss even a moment of time you could spend together with your son. Help him know who he is and how proud you are of him. Tell him that you love him.
"I will," I said, keeping his gaze, "I will."
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Two Candy Hearts
With a sheepish little grin, my daughter walked into the kitchen and handed me two tiny candy hearts. You know, the ones where the words are almost never centered, the ones hard enough to break the tooth of a Pitbull?
On one heart was stamped the word, "TO," on the other was the word was,"DREAM." As I looked down at them cupped in my hand, I realized this is something that I haven't done in a long time.
The last few years have been hard, and admittedly, I have been in quasi-survival mode, making a living and coping with my job, my coworkers, trying to find my voice again—recognize my own laugh. My tears have been all too a familiar taste in my mouth.
This is why Friday was a great day. I was asked to lunch with the creative director of a local firm—to dream.
I have been praying and searching for a new place to hang my hat, and amazed this person sought me out. She said that she showed my work around and the consensus was, "we have to have him!" "So," she said, "here I am asking if you will consider joining us." I was stunned. Amazed. This woman who was sitting across from me has won more awards for her design than sequels to Rocky, and I would get to work alongside of her. Am I dreaming?
My current position, although very challenging, has been difficult to enjoy. Through some very strange re-structuring, my work load has increased dramatically. And, a person I have to work closely with has a personality I have found very difficult to be around for most of my waking hours.
Deadlines have also been an issue. My copy is always late and my margin to create in very small for a monthly rag. This seems to be an ingrained problem that I have tried to address, but it seems those in question feel they are above questioning, above scrutiny.
Although I get apologies for the lateness and recognition for always making my final deadlines, it comes with a price of many extra hours the last week before press. I have enabled this behavior by not taking a strong stance, but I feel like I have had no one to turn to, and I fear pressing the subject further would very much risk my job.
Company wide, there has been so much posturing that many creatives have left because their voice was smothered, their gifts unused. My friend, the one who was now asking me to join her company, was one of them.
What I have learned:
1. to work with difficult people, and pray for them
2. I can meet impossible deadlines
3. 45 minutes of heavy lifting at lunch works wonders
4. I can only have responsible relationships with responsible people
5. God sees me and is for me
6. Seeds of hard work and kindness I sow now will reap opportunities later
7. Holding those over me to be accountable is difficult—something I need to learn how to do
8. I have a choice where I want be
So, here I am with a great offer on the table, my head spinning, my heart thanking the Lord—my dreams about to become reality.
On one heart was stamped the word, "TO," on the other was the word was,"DREAM." As I looked down at them cupped in my hand, I realized this is something that I haven't done in a long time.
The last few years have been hard, and admittedly, I have been in quasi-survival mode, making a living and coping with my job, my coworkers, trying to find my voice again—recognize my own laugh. My tears have been all too a familiar taste in my mouth.
This is why Friday was a great day. I was asked to lunch with the creative director of a local firm—to dream.
I have been praying and searching for a new place to hang my hat, and amazed this person sought me out. She said that she showed my work around and the consensus was, "we have to have him!" "So," she said, "here I am asking if you will consider joining us." I was stunned. Amazed. This woman who was sitting across from me has won more awards for her design than sequels to Rocky, and I would get to work alongside of her. Am I dreaming?
My current position, although very challenging, has been difficult to enjoy. Through some very strange re-structuring, my work load has increased dramatically. And, a person I have to work closely with has a personality I have found very difficult to be around for most of my waking hours.
Deadlines have also been an issue. My copy is always late and my margin to create in very small for a monthly rag. This seems to be an ingrained problem that I have tried to address, but it seems those in question feel they are above questioning, above scrutiny.
Although I get apologies for the lateness and recognition for always making my final deadlines, it comes with a price of many extra hours the last week before press. I have enabled this behavior by not taking a strong stance, but I feel like I have had no one to turn to, and I fear pressing the subject further would very much risk my job.
Company wide, there has been so much posturing that many creatives have left because their voice was smothered, their gifts unused. My friend, the one who was now asking me to join her company, was one of them.
What I have learned:
1. to work with difficult people, and pray for them
2. I can meet impossible deadlines
3. 45 minutes of heavy lifting at lunch works wonders
4. I can only have responsible relationships with responsible people
5. God sees me and is for me
6. Seeds of hard work and kindness I sow now will reap opportunities later
7. Holding those over me to be accountable is difficult—something I need to learn how to do
8. I have a choice where I want be
So, here I am with a great offer on the table, my head spinning, my heart thanking the Lord—my dreams about to become reality.
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