Never the Same.

I will never be the same again

I can never return, I've closed the door.

I will walk the path, I'll run the race

And I will never be the same again.

(Lyrics by Hillsong United)

It's the end of July, the year is only a little more than half over, and yet all I can think most of the time these days is that I'm ready for 2017 to be finished so that I can put it behind me and try to forget it ever happened.

This year has already seen more than it's share of pain, loss, grief, and uncertainty, and all signs point to more of the same coming up in the months ahead. I'd just like to get it done, put it all behind me, and hope for better, brighter things to come in 2018. I'm tired of living in a pressure-cooker.

I feel equally bad for and blessed by the church I've been attending for the past year. I'm very aware that at no point in the past year that they've gotten to known me have I been truly healthy and at my best--way too many weeks I've left worship as quickly as possible, or regretfully turned down invitations, having simply nothing left to engage in conversation in this community I'm just getting to know. And selfishly, I wonder what kind of impressions they have formed of me, these kind folks who have only known me when I've been in the midst of what has felt like a fiery furnace so much of the time. And yet, I feel so blessed by these saints who have seen me at my worst, and embraced and welcomed me anyway--not for anything I have to offer, because I've had precious little of that, but because I'm beloved by God and that has been enough. Their warm hospitality, genuine caring, and promises of prayer have carried me through some pretty tough seasons this year, even when I have given them precious little background about what I'm walking through, and I'm so grateful. 

And yet, in spite of all this, the words of this song have been stuck in my head for more than a week now, returning over and over in moments of quiet. "I will never be the same again."

The strange thing is that, while "I will never be the same again" could be about damage done that cannot be repaired, I think it's actually about God shaping me into a different person through it all--a stronger, more compassionate, more loving person than I was before. Someone who is more confident in her gifts and who has a stronger sense of call and vocation than before. Someone who has discovered she's capable of things she could never have imagined--or, more accurately, who has discovered the truth that the power of God, working in us, is able to do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. Someone who has seen the beauty amidst the brokenness, and been changed by it. Someone who has experienced God in ways that cannot, that will not easily be forgotten. 

I think these words gently planted within me by the Spirit are a gentle rebuke to the part of me that wants to find safety by running as fast as I can back to the familiar--to settle for a safe career, a 'good enough' calling, a life offering any kind of easy security. Most of me, in fact, longs for that kind of security--a security that's of my own making, that's built from analyzing plans 'b,' 'c,' and 'd' for potential pitfalls while plotting my escape, Jonah-like. These plans, not surprisingly, mostly involve tracing my path back to the way it was before God led me into parts unknown, before I let go of my white-knuckled grip on the plans, seduced by the voice of Love.

But as lyrics float uninvited through my head, to a song that's never really been a particular favourite of mine (where does this earworm come from?!), I know that these are words of truth. They slow me down, whisper promises of resurrection, breathe hope into the dark places and soothe the bone-tired parts and aches with promises of healing. 

I've been reading Eugene Peterson, who in his years of pastoral wisdom gently reminds me that Jesus' call to take up our crosses and follow assures us that salvation does not promise any us pain-free journeys through life. Healing takes time. I need to learn better patterns of self-care and develop better habits of rest, of remembering that I'm not God and therefore not responsible for shouldering the burden of fixing all that's wrong in the world. I need to learn to slow down. 

"Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." It turns out that I don't need to find the answers, fix the problems, or figure out the back-up plan. All God asks of me is trust. Trust that God is still taking care of me, still calls me beloved, loves me for who I am not what I can do. Trust that God is redeeming 2017--that this part of the journey, too, is part of learning to walk with God. Simply trust, learn to rest and just be held in the gentle embrace of the One who loves me more than I can possibly imagine. Who will never leave or forsake me, no matter what comes next. 

A Wee Rant

The other day, I ran into an acquaintance whom I've known ever since my early university days. We have mutual friends, mostly through InterVarsity Christian Fellowship connections from our university days, and periodically run into one another. When we meet, we usually have a brief exchange of "how are you"s and then go on about our business.

This time, when he saw me, he said hello and mentioned that he thinks of me every time he receives his Mennonite Brethren Herald (the Canadian denominational periodical)--although, he noted, he has since moved on to another church affiliation and no longer attends a Mennonite Brethren congregation.

I said that I had also recently begun moving on from the Mennonite Brethren Church, mentioning that I was no longer willing to constantly fight against the restrictions facing women in leadership.

It was a brief comment, made only because he had initiated this stream of conversation in the first place. After all, he is well aware that I have been in seminary and in church leadership within the Mennonite Brethren Church--that's the whole reason that he raised the topic in the first place.

But immediately, he turned to his friend and said something to the effect of, "I'm not going to touch that" and then compared the conversation to a colleague of his who brings up Donald Trump every time they meet one another. This led to a lengthy exchange with his buddy about his own political leanings, his feelings about how he would vote were he an American, and so on.

I shut up, feeling embarrassed, and went on my way.

But somehow I felt guilty for the whole exchange, as if I had done something wrong.

In no way did I intend to start an awkward conversation, and it was not me who raised the subject of religion but my friend. I was, I think, trying to prevent ongoing awkward exchanges like this in the future by simply explaining that I was moving on from the Mennonite Brethren Church. And I literally offered a few words of explanation about why, carefully phrased to be as neutral as possible.

Because, let's face it, I wear my position on the 'women in ministry leadership' debate on my sleeve. I have to. In order to be faithful to my vocation, I have no choice. And the denomination's position on the 'issue' (and I have a huge problem with the fact that we refer to 'women in ministry leadership' as an issue in the first place--when we refer to any group of people as 'issues' when they are in fact persons created in the image of God) is also hardly front page news.

Nothing I said was intended to be offensive or controversial. I was just attempting to name my reality--and, in fact, doing my very best to summarize a painful personal journey in such a way as to be as sensitive and as matter of fact as I could.

If I had wanted to start a debate, I certainly am capable of doing so. Goodness knows, I have studied and reflected on and lived this conversation enough.

This is hardly the first time such an exchange has happened, either.

But today as the guilty feeling lingers and I find myself fingering the wound, wondering what I should have done differently, I am wondering if I've got things mixed up.

You see, I've spent a lot of time over the past decade trying to make myself small enough to be non-threatening, trying to stick as close to the box as possible even when I clearly couldn't wholly embrace life within the box.

And the fact is, my friend, unintentionally I'm sure, didn't only name the conversation as being potentially offensive and inappropriate for polite conversation--but also made me feel like who I am is offensive and needs to be kept under wraps in polite company.

That's not fair. But it happens--too much.

And one of the hardest things for me right now is recognizing how very often I find myself apologizing for, essentially, taking up space in the world. For having opinions. For having gifts, and wanting to find ways to use them. Even, sometimes, for physically taking up space in the world.

So, if you've made it this far, thanks for hearing my rant today. I needed to speak this out loud--to give myself permission, at least in this space, to speak my truth, to voice my opinions, and to take up space.

And to remind myself that in God's eyes, I'm fearfully and wondrously made, and named as beloved. That nothing about who God has created me to be is not fit for polite company. That I don't need to apologize for my existence or try to shrink into nothingness.

It will take time, but I'm learning to stand my ground and claim my space.

I hope I'll also remember to recognize the beauty in others, and to invite them to claim a space of their own, too.