“Why do you want a diagnosis?” She asked. 

I didn’t have words to describe it, not fully. I’m still trying to figure out how to describe my feelings on the topic — that’s probably why I’m writing this post. It’s only when I start writing about something I’m struggling to articulate, that I find the words to articulate it. 

When she asked me why I wanted a diagnosis, I think I told her about my son. It had been about two years since my son was diagnosed with Autism and three since his ADHD diagnosis. I told her about the relief I felt upon being given a name for something I’d know, but didn’t have words for. I’d known Thad was different ever since he was a toddler. I’d suspected he was on the spectrum for awhile before his diagnosis and there was a relief to finally having someone really see my son, recognized the things I’d seen in him, and be willing to help. 

I told her how the diagnosis also helped the people around us understand Thad better and have more understanding for him. 

Then I told her what had happened for me, personally, after that diagnosis. I’d started reading up on things and stumbled across some information about women on the spectrum — how it looks different, how rarely they’re diagnosed — I felt a familiarity with the information I read. Like stumbling on your own face reflected in a mirror. 

I didn’t articulate any of that as clearly as I did in the last few paragraphs. I stumbled and stuttered and eventually she just said. “I’m going to recommend a few books for you to read on neurodiversity.” 

I devoured those books and went searching for more. 

I read: 

On The Spectrum: Autism, Faith, & the Gifts of Neurodiversity; 

The Power of Neurodiversity; 

Life on the Spectrum: A Guide for Girls and Women; 

But You Don’t Look Autistic At All; 

and half of Autism in Heels: The Untold Story of a Female on the Spectrum (I didn’t finish this one because I grew tired of the author constantly saying how smart she is). 

I also read novels written by women on the spectrum with autistic main characters — like Helen Hoang’s books. Bryan and I read a lot of the non-fiction books together. We talked about experiences I’d had throughout my life, about the ways I’d always felt different, weird, broken. 

After about a year of seeing this psychiatrist, talking through the books that I’d been reading and how relatable I found them, I asked her again about a diagnosis. 

“What does it matter?” She said. 

She went on to tell me a story about some famous psychologist who had a kid come up to her after giving a talk on Autism. “I’m autistic,” the kid said. And the psychologist responded by saying, “No. You aren’t Autistic. You are you. Tell me what you love, what gets you excited. That’s what I want to hear about.” 

That was the moment I realized this psychiatrist and I landed on very different sides of a debate that often happens about the merits and downsides of labels. 

Here’s what I think: until we can name something we can’t truly understand it. Names and labels give us a way to claim identity. They give language to complex ideas, allowing people to understand each other, connect, and discuss things that are difficult to put into words. They allow people to identify with one another and find belonging. 

Can labels and names be used negatively? Absolutely. But, they don’t have to be. They can often be incredibly beneficial. 

To name something is to recognize it, see it, understand it. 

I’ve been searching for that my entire life. Being known, seen, understood. 

After realizing that the psychiatrist I was seeing was never going to give me a diagnosis, I started seeing a new psychiatrist. There were other reasons for the change in practitioners, as well, but the difference in ideology was a big one. 

When I went to the new psychiatrist I was prepared. Or, at least, I thought I was. 

I went with a five page list of spectrum indicators I’d been gathering through my readings. I broke the list down into categories: Sensory issues, relational issues, executive function issues, routine/repetitious behaviors, stimming behaviors, special interests, and other random indicators, including on-line tests I’d taken that, though not diagnostic, did indicate I was likely on the spectrum. 

This new psychiatrist asked the same question the old one had, “Why are you interested in a diagnosis?” 

I still didn’t have words to articulate all that was behind that desire. But, I had this experience with the former psychiatrist fresh in my mind. 

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I stumbled through something about being pro-diagnosis rather than anti-labels. I told her that I always thought it wasn’t great for people to self-diagnose because it can dilute the meaning of a diagnosis. Like when people say, “I’m so OCD.” And labels become part of the vernacular and lose some of their weight. 

She didn’t say much to that and I didn’t look at her face, so I don’t know her reaction, but I picked up on something unpleasant or stiff in her that made me self-doubt and shut up before even attempting to explain more. I still have no idea what that was about.

“Are you interested in neurologic testing?” She asked. 

I told her I was and she told me that wasn’t something she does, but she could refer me to someone. I felt a little disappointed, but grateful that she’d at least told me upfront that she wouldn’t give me a diagnosis. 

We went on to talk about other reasons I decided to see a psychiatrist, focusing mostly on the last ten years. I liked her. She was much warmer than the last psychiatrist I’d seen and she listened well. 

When I told her about some of the OCD-like behaviors I was struggling with and how much they were affecting my family, she really listened to why I didn’t think it was OCD and she was the first person to articulate what she thought it was (basically, a trauma response resulting from my already high need for control and rigidity) in a way that really resonated and rang true for me.  

She glanced over my list of spectrum indicators, but only really pointed out how many sensory issues I had on the list. I wish I had the presence of mind to bring up the Intense World Theory from Henry and Kamila Markram, which essentially says that autistic brains are more sensitive to stimuli, and have a stronger response to stimuli, making the world more intense for them. It’s a sensory-first approach rather than a relational-first approach — taking into account the fact that this centers the autistic experience, rather than the experience of neurotypical individuals who notice the things that are “off” in the autistics relational responses. 

In her book But You Don’t Look Autistic At All, Bianca Toeps says that the Intense World Theory “doesn’t just explain autistic people’s hypersensitivity, but also their apparent in-sensitivity and limitations in social communication. We close up in the overwhelming storm of stimuli, like a computer that freezes when you give it ten different tasks at the same time. Then our hyper-fanatic brains make sure we remember that scary, nasty experience very well and will try to avoid it in the future.” 

But, it wasn’t until I got home that I even thought of mentioning a sensory-first approach to diagnosis. My brain was too frozen up. My attention narrowed to just the question at hand. I always freezes up in situations like that, when I’m put on the spot, expected to respond to a lot of questions; having to think on my feet; blocking out the stimuli around me; trying to interpret the other person’s words, body language, and expressions; constantly trying to figure out what the other person is expecting or wanting from me in that moment; and trying to anticipate what’s coming next. So, I didn’t mention it. 

She told me I might benefit from seeing an OT, which showed she, at least, took the sensory issues seriously. But, then she said something to the affect of, “It seems like you’re doing fine with the noise and bright lights right now, focusing and following along with me. So, it’s fine in settings like this?” 

I said something to the affect of, “I guess so.”  But, I could feel my body tightening up, responding in its own way to the question. 

Again, it wasn’t until I got home and completely crashed — to the point where I struggled to even make sentences — that I realized it wasn’t really fine. I was using massive amounts of energy to tune everything out. And I was stimming the entire time. Bouncing my leg and taking my ring on and off repetitively. 

When I went to leave, I asked her for the recommendations on neurological phycologists who would do testing and diagnosis. 

She basically said, “Let’s get you back to baseline and get your nervous system calmed down first.” 

I nodded along in agreement, but left wanting to cry. I absolutely understand the need to deal with one thing at a time. To adjust one variable at a time. To not test things in abnormal states with skewed variables, because it can affect the test results. But, I felt like what I was telling her about the research I’d done and my lived experience were, if not dismissed, at least, pushed aside and minimized. 

It wasn’t until hours after I got home that my brain was functioning enough to realized we’d mostly only talked about the last ten years (since they’ve been pretty packed full of overwhelming things) and I hadn’t even touched on the struggles I was already having long before. I could see how that would give her the impression that a lot of the issues on my indicator list where just from my nervous system being on hyper-drive. 

She’d even given me the opportunity to talk about other seasons of my life or other issues, twice asking, “Is there anything else you think I should know?” 

Both times, my mind went completely blank. It was like my body was a storm, my leg bouncing, my hands ringing, my nerves on edge, but my mind was the center of that storm, so still and numb and quiet, I couldn’t think a single thought. So, I told her, “Not that I can thinking of. No.” 

And I went home. 

I spent the rest of the day so tired I couldn’t do anything but read. I spent most of the next few days ruminating on all the things I’d done wrong in the appointment. All the things I’d said that weren’t quite accurate. All the things I hadn’t said that I should have said. All the frustration about how I always get like that when in those situations. I freeze up, or spill out information in a way that doesn’t really do justice to what I’m actually feeling or trying to say. I spend tons of energy trying to guess what the other person is thinking, trying to anticipate what they want me to say, what the right response is, how they will respond to my response, and what they might ask next. It’s exhausting. 

I felt broken and frustrated. Wondering why having a normal conversation is so impossibly hard. And beating myself up, because, I know next time will be the same. Even if I go in prepared, with all the things I want to tell her already figured out. It’ll sill be the same. It always is. 

I also spent a good portion of the week asking myself what I really think about diagnosis. Why do I keep pursuing one, at the expense of my comfort and money? 

A lot of the Autistic people I follow, and have talked to, are completely comfortable and encouraging of self-diagnosis — especially for women. The thought is that most people who self-diagnose as Autistic don’t do it on a whim. They do their research. Often they do enough research that they actually know more about the nuances of Autistic women than the phycologists who would be diagnosing them. 

I’ve also read enough to know that the neurological tests that my psychiatrist recommended are highly skewed towards the male experience. 

So, why do I keep doing this to myself when I am relatively sure that I am on the spectrum? 

I think the thing I keep coming back to is authority. I don’t believe I have the authority to do this for myself. 

I’ve always devalued my own voice, knowledge, and intuition, while overvaluing the voice of people in positions of authority over me. 

I often won’t openly disagree with a boss, even when I’m given the opportunity to, even when I’m certain they’re wrong (I’ll just go home and vent to my husband in private). I didn’t correct teachers, speak out in class, or miss steps in instructions. If a doctor wants me to do something, I’ll do it. If I’m in situations where I’m uncertain who has authority, I feel uncomfortable and awkward. And I only really feel comfortable being myself, or asserting myself, if I’m 100% certain I have authority or expertise on a matter — and I’m viewed by others as the one with authority or expertise on the matter. Otherwise, I defer, I cower, I submit. 

The truth is, I haven’t even wanted to write about neurodivergence, or the potential that I might be on the spectrum, because I didn’t feel like I had the authority to even suggest it. At least, not openly. Maybe to a few close friends. Sure. I have shared about what I’m reading, which included a lot of books on neurodiversity. But, I haven’t felt like I could write about these things (like I am now) until an authority figure told me I was on the spectrum. Because I didn’t feel like it was my place, like I should insert myself in the conversation when I didn’t have proof. When I hadn’t checked all my boxes, dotted all my eyes, and had it signed off on by an authority figure. 

But, I realized something this week. Maybe that’s a big part of why I want a diagnosis — so that I can write about it. Because I can’t fully process something until I write about it. And for some reason, for me, I don’t feel like I’ve really processed even in writing until I’ve shared what I’ve written. That probably goes back to that longstanding desire to be seen and heard. 

Ultimately, this all probably stems from that desire to be seen and heard. Even my choice to not write about it until now. Even my seeking a professional diagnosis. It all comes back to not feeling like my voice has value. 

So, consider this blog post my attempt to blow a hole in the part of me that says I have to stay quiet. No one wants to hear from me. I don’t have anything to contribute to the discussion of woman and autism. I’m not an authority. I can’t say anything until I’m certain. I can’t speak up without a piece of paper giving me permission. 

This is my attempt to call bullshit on all of that. 

It’s taken me three years of research and reading to get here, but I’m done keeping my thoughts on any of this hidden away. I’m going to write about it. Because this is how I learn to articulate what I think. 

I don’t want to stumble over my words anymore when someone asks me, “Why do you want a diagnosis?” 

We clearly can’t be responsible for, or advocate for, or learn about, or put our money and time towards EVERYTHING. Right? We are limited.

And we can’t just put our resources and intellect towards the things we know about — for two reasons: 1) we know about so much now and 2) sometimes the things we don’t know about are the very systems our ignorance supports and it’s important that we listen to others who know things we don’t, who have experienced things we haven’t.

But how do you listen when the whole world’s screaming?

I know at times (maybe even most of the time), these questions make me feel paralyzed. I handle them by going numb, effectively sticking my head in the sand.

But, we are all connected and wrong done to one is wrong done to many — whether I acknowledge it or ignore it.

I know some people handle these questions by saying, “Just focus on the things close to you, the things you have personal experience with.” And I think this holds some wisdom — we can’t be responsible for the world, we can only be responsible for our small particular place in the world. So, we do the best with what we have and what we know, just where we are.

But, while there is wisdom in that, it also holds it’s own folly. If I narrow my focus to only what I know, let’s say my house and the neighbor’s on my street, and ignore the neighborhood on fire two streets over, that fire is likely to come for my street too. You need only look briefly at history to find examples of this on a large scale.

But history will also show you examples of people rushing in to help and making things worse.

So, again I come back to these questions. What is mine to hold and do?

And here’s the honest truth. I don’t have any answers. I don’t have any advice, or suggestions, or solutions. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to hold all the hurt I know about.

But there are a few things I keep coming back to whenever these questions arise.

The first is the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. When I first started using the common prayer book, something that surprised me (and felt weird to my individualistic, evangelical, American upbringing) was that there were often times when the congregation prays for “all those who are sick” or “all those who are homeless” or “all those whose countries are torn apart by war” or that sort of thing. My first thought was what does that even mean? It felt too vague and general to pray. I couldn’t picture it. I had no concept of it. It felt heavy and overwhelming and paralyzing, the way it feels to contemplate how many grains of sand there are on a beach.

But then I started practicing Metta Mediation, or Loving-kindness meditation. And something shifted. I understood what it was to pray for “all those…”

In this practice you always start with yourself. You start with picturing yourself, imagining sending loving-kindness towards yourself, surrounding yourself with compassion, praying over yourself.

Remember the metaphor about putting your oxygen mask on first before helping the person sitting next to you? Maybe it’s a bit like that.

You can’t give from an empty well, but also you can’t stop there. You put your mask on and then you help the person next to you, and if the person beyond them is struggling, you help them too.

In Metta Mediation, you start with yourself, but then you move on, starting with someone else who is concrete, easy to picture, easy to feel compassion towards. It’s almost like practice — you can’t run a marathon when you’ve never run a mile. You have to start with something easier.

But again, you don’t stop there. You move out and out, until at last you come to “May all creatures everywhere be well.”

And here’s what I’ve found, when I practice loving-kindness meditation, by the time I get to “all creatures everywhere” it’s not a vague concept. It’s not too infinite and overwhelming. It’s like stretching something out slowly until it can take in more than it could have at the beginning. When I practice loving-kindness, I stretch my ability to hold compassion and move actively towards justice without overwhelm.

The other thing I keep coming back to and thinking about, is the idea of listening.

When the whole world is crying, screaming, demanding, it’s really hard to hear anything. We have to get quiet. We have to get still. We have to listen carefully. And we have to do that over and over again each and every time.

Loving-Kindness meditation isn’t a once-and-done thing. It’s a practice. A continual practice. So is justice. So is mercy. And maybe these are all things that we need to stretch out every time we practice them, starting small and growing bigger.

When I do a loving-kindness mediation it’s as much about listening as it is about anything else. Sometimes, through listening, I know I need to spend a long time practicing loving-kindness towards myself. It’s like a rubber band that won’t stretch any farther. Sometimes, I can extend the practice, but only part way. Other times, I can extend it all the way to “all creatures everywhere.” Each and every time is different and requires active listening.

Here’s the thing, we can’t ignore what’s happening in the world. We can’t only care about the things that directly influence us, but we also can’t jump to being the savior of everyone and everywhere — that leads nowhere good.

I think that justice, mercy, compassion are practices and every single time we approach something that asks them of us we have to stop. Get still. Get quiet. Listen. And come back to the tension in those questions above. Is this for me? Am I in a place right now where I can do something about this? Is this a situation where the other person wants help and support or not? What are they saying? How can I practice extending my loving-kindness today? How far can I stretch today? What can I do about this? And what can’t I do?

The answers to these questions aren’t a one-and-done thing either. They change from situation to situation, from day to day.

At least, that’s what I think right now.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

To be honest, there were some cuss words mixed in with my tears and my self-pitying monologue (ok, fine, there were a lot of cuss words mixed in) and it went on a whole lot longer, multiple days of tears and false starts.

I had nightmares in which the story was slipping through my fingers; I’d find the perfect line and then it would vanish. I wrote twenty-two false starts. I tried writing it in 1st person, limited 3rd person, omniscient 3rd person, and with an involved observer-narrator. I tried writing it chronologically, starting at the beginning. I tried writing it out of order, starting near the end. I tried everything.

None of it worked. All of it felt wrong.

Every story has an entry point, a way in. I don’t mean open lines, although sometimes those are the way into the story, I mean an angle, a spark, an x-factor, a starting place. It’s the way the book lays itself out before you. And I couldn’t find it. I could look in the window and see all the rooms, but I couldn’t find the key.

So, I cried, ate handfuls of chocolate chips, and yelled at my husband for letting me take this job (because I needed to pretend that it was someone else’s fault and not mine). I was out of my depth. I hadn’t struggled to write something like this in years — maybe not ever.

I cried so much, my husband was scared of me. And I wasn’t done crying.

If it was my own book I would have walked away, but it wasn’t. I had been hired to tell a particular story. My first full length ghostwriting project. And that was exactly the problem.

Telling someone else’s story is a heavy responsibility. Mix in my own expectations for what the book could (no, should!) be, my crippling desire not to disappoint anyone, and the fact that I already had no margins in my life. Now, you have a recipe for disaster.

Which is pretty much exactly what happened this weekend. Disaster. A full on enneagram 4 melt down. I felt like a fraud, a fool, a complete and utter failure. And I knew I was going to be found out. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t write the book.

But here’s what I realized at the end of a weekend full of tears and temper tantrums...

Maybe I don’t have to find the key. Maybe I don’t have to write the book that’s in my head. Maybe I don’t have to live up to the heavy standard I’ve draped across my own shoulders.

Here’s the honest truth, my assessment wasn’t wrong — I can’t write this book. At least not the one that’s in my head. And probably not the one that’s in the client’s head either, the one that makes people feel “the whole gamut of human emotion.” I don’t have the experience, the skills, the ability — at least, not yet.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t tell this story to the best of my current abilities. I don’t have to write the perfect book. I don’t have to write the beautiful book in my head. All I can do is write the book that I can write, right now. That’s ultimately all I can offer. Maybe it will be enough, maybe not. That’s fine too — there are reasons there are clauses in the contract saying the client can back out at any time. I don’t have to write them the perfect book. I just have to offer the best I can right now, and then let them decide if it’s what they want or not.

And maybe this is a lesson I need to carry into all my writing. Even when I’m writing my own stories, without the pressure of a particular audience, without the pressure of meeting someone else’s expectation, I can still get frustrated that my work isn’t where I want it to be, that it doesn’t match the idea in my head, that it doesn’t hit the goal I was aiming for.

Again, all I can do is write the story I can write, right now. Write what I’m capable of now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be capable of more. I don’t know. But, for now, I’ll keep writing the books I can write, right now.

That, and I’ll never again take a ghostwriting job ;)

Grace and peace,
Bethany

Then about a decade ago, I started slowly seeking out varying view points and forming my own opinions about politics. Rather than shying away from political conversations, I started asking questions. And like anything else, I wrote — it’s how I pull my thoughts into existence, it’s how I process. I blogged about the last few presidential elections (2016, 2012, 2008) and found it incredibly cathartic and empowering. I also found it terrifying. Terrifying to so publicly speak an opinion that varied from my family, and from the majority of my community at the time.

This year, there’s been so much I’ve wanted to say, but mostly I’ve found myself hesitating. Hesitating, because I don’t want to be adding noise to chaos. Hesitating, because I don’t believe social media or even blog posts are the best place for political conversations in divided times. These are conversations best had with open ears and soft hearts, where one person can look another person in the eye and ask what it is they care about, what it is they value; where two people can both feel heard and seen.

So, why even bother sharing something online? The only answer I have is that this is what I do, this is how I process — there is something in me that burns until I share my voice, not just with one, but with many. Maybe it’s something in me that’s broken, maybe it’s something in me that’s whole — I’m not really sure. But I’m wired to speak. I don’t feel right when I stay silent.

And there is something I want to say right now...

I’ve been thinking about a conversation Bryan and I had on our first anniversary. We spent a weekend at a local hotel and we sat in the beautiful lobby, listening to someone play piano and talking about what kind of people we wanted to be. We intentionally made choices and dreamed dreams, not about goals or the kind of life we would have, but about the kind of people we wanted to be.

It’s easy to become by default. If we aren’t intentionally making choices to become better, to become who we want to be, we end up pulled by whatever current is strongest around us.

You know the old saying, “You are the culmination of the five people you spend the most time with.” It’s, of course, true, but the truth of this extends beyond just your friendships. We don’t only become like our closest friends, we also become like the people we listen to, the books we read, the people we follow on social media, and the communities we live in.

Like it or not human’s are incredibly easy to influence — no matter how strong willed you think you are, or how much you think you are making your own choices, research shows otherwise. This is why it’s so important who we surround ourselves with, who we listen to and follow, and elect.

Which leads me to just one (of many reasons) why I voted for Biden and not Trump.

I know people who would argue why Trump should be elected and given another term, for the moment, I’m not interested in any of those arguments. For just a moment, all I want to look at is the man himself. He is unarguably chaotic, divisive, reactive, argumentative, disrespectful, and manipulative. I have family members who might argue that those characteristics have made him a good business man, but the evidence suggests otherwise, and even if that is true, is that who I want us to become?

I don’t think anyone would try to argue that we have not become, as a nation, MORE divisive, chaotic, reactive, argumentative, and disrespectful (not to mention that we’ve also lost the respect of most of the world) — these are words I’ve seen both political parties use to describe 2020. We are obviously and unarguably more argumentative and divided as a nation than anytime I can remember.

Maybe that is not disconnected from the person we have elected to lead us.

I’m not saying that we should elect someone, or not elect someone, based solely on their moral character. Politicians are broken, like all people. But, I can’t stop thinking about how our choices shape who we become, and the people we allow to lead us, the people we choose to listen to shape who we become.

Here’s what I want to become, what I want my children to become, what I want my nation to become:

Thoughtful, intentional people.
Honest, open, curious people, who ask questions and really listen to the answers they’re given.
People who listen well to others, not just to what is said, but what is under what is said.
People who can differ in opinion, while never straying from love.
People capable of engaging in civil discourse without argument or defensiveness.
People willing to take personal responsibility, who recognize when they are wrong and apologize quickly.
People who are soft towards the hurting and gentle toward the grieving.
People who recognize their privilege and are willing and eager to bring more voices to the table.
People who are constantly learning and growing and improving themselves and the world around them.
People who are humble enough to acknowledge what they don’t know and when they should look to experts for help.
People who care about their neighbors and treat all people with respect, honor, and dignity.

When I look at the two presidential candidates this year I see one who emulates many of these characteristics and one who is the polar opposite of everything on this list.

When it comes down to it, here’s why I have hesitated to say anything about this election on social media or on my blog, because I want to be a person who is like the list above. I don’t want to be divisive or stirring up argument. I don’t want to be reactive or condemning. I want to choose to see the dignity of all people, even Donald Trump. And I’ll be honest, sometimes that’s hard for me.

When I look at who I want to become, I know I don’t want to be the kind of person who bashes someone else on the internet (no matter who that someone else is or has proven themself to be). But there’s something else that I want to be, and become, more. Something else that I would add to that list, that feels personal for me. Maybe it’s also something I want for my children and my nation, but it’s ultimately something I feel called to be, and become, and that’s a truth-teller.

This goes back to what I said at the beginning. Something in me burns until I’ve shared the words that are bottled up in me. I need to share what I see, what I experience. And what I see right now is that we are becoming like the person we elected, and I don’t want that to continue. What I see is that the American people are in an abusive relationship (a relationship full of manipulation and gaslighting) with our president and I don’t want to see that continue.

The party of my childhood failed me. We haven’t lived up to what we said we’re about. (If you’re curious to know more of what I mean by that statement, Ryan Holiday has an incredible post which I think sums it up perfectly.)

You might be thinking, “Well, the Democratic Party is even worse!” Maybe. But that’s not primarily what I see in the people I follow and the sources of news I choose to engage with that are left leaning. I see people responding to accusations with patience and grace. I see people calling out the good. I see people asking questions to learn more. I see people being the change they want to see, even running for local office themselves rather than just pointing fingers.

Which makes me sad. Because I come from a right leaning family, in a right leaning community, in a right leaning state and I want to see better from a community that in some ways still feels like it’s mine. But mostly what I see there is anger.

Here’s what I know: I can’t speak for the whole of any party. I’m 100% certain that there are sane, reasonable, compassionate people on both sides. I know many of them. All I can speak for is what I personally want to become and who I personally choose to listen to.

Are these people reactive or calm? Are they stirring up fear and dissension or grace and patience?

At the moment I see more people on the left and left-leaning people modeling that list of what I want to become. I don’t say that smugly, I say it with a lot of grief. Because I want us to be better. I want all of us to be better.

Is this post going to change anything? No. I’m not so naive as to think that. I live in a historically red state, and, as far as I can tell, the community around me is not on the fence or undecided, they are, for the most part, strongly on one side or the other.

But, as for me and my house…

Grace and peace, so much grace and peace,
Bethany

PS — Are you still on the fence and unsure about how to vote this year? I’d be curious to hear from you about what you’re thinking, what you value, and who you want to become.

Does it date me to use that phrase? Maybe. But, this book is not at all what I thought it was and it’s making me incredibly excited to keep going, not to mention curious about the man who wrote it.

You see, as I look more closely at the Greek that James was writing in, I’m starting to think James was a writer. I’m amazed at the language — it’s beautiful — poetic, even. And over and over again, just in the first chapter alone, James uses two of my absolute favorite literary devices: parallelism and antithesis.

“Parallelism is the use of components in a sentence that are grammatically the same; or similar in their construction, sound, meaning, or meter.”

“Antithesis, which literally means “opposite,” is a rhetorical device in which two opposite ideas are put together in a sentence to achieve a contrasting effect.” Antithesis is a form of parallelism.

To understand this better, we can look at a well known example of antithesis at work in literature, such as in the opening to Charles Dickens’ A Tale Of Two Cities:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…”

This is a pretty obvious straight forward example of parallelism and antithesis at work. What you get in James feels subtler, but just as powerful.

In my last post I dissected the way James seemed to be repeating and contrasting these images of “staying under”, “remaining”, “drawing near”, with the image of “separating” or being split in two. But, this week I explored the end of this first chapter and I was equally awed by his use of language and choice of images.

This section starts out, “let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” Incidentally, the word for speak in the verse is laleó which is also sometimes translated as “preach” and in Classical Greek is used more like we would use the word “chatter.”

I really love how The Message translates this verse, “lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear.”

Essentially, it feels like James is setting up a thesis statement for this coming section, because he moves from here to talk more about hearing vs speaking, but it doesn’t really play that way in English.

I’ve heard lots of sermons about these verses. And they generally have something to do with the whole “faith vs works” argument. But after looking at the Greek I feel like James is on a whole other level talking about something that is just inherently true and presenting readers with a beautiful invitation.

Here’s why it feels like that to me…

The word we translate as “doers” is the greek work poiétés, which, as you might be able to guess, literally means "poet.” The less literal translations of this word are “doer” or “maker,” but I think you lose some of the beauty and, for lack of a better word, poetry of James’ writing when you translate this word as doer instead of poet, because you lose the antithesis and parallelism.

Do you see it?

Be quick to hear and slow to speak (chatter). Don’t just be hearers, be poets — more specifically logos poets.

When we cut it down like this it’s so easy to see James is contrasting (using antithesis) a hearer, a listener, someone who’s just sitting in the audience, with a poet, someone who opens their mouth, who steps onto the stage, who makes and creates something.

When I think of poets I think of people who respond. They respond to the world around them, the world inside of them, by creating something beautiful. It makes me think of Paul saying we are “co-laborers with Christ.”

And then James uses a metaphor. He says those who are only hearers of the logos and not God poets, who hear and don’t respond with action, they are like a man who looks in a mirror and then goes away and forgets what he looks like.

I can’t help but think of the earlier language of separation and division that James used in this chapter when I read this metaphor, in particularly dipsuchos (double-minded, or two souled, or a person split in half). Someone who looks in the mirror and forgets who they are is like that, a person split in half, a person without identity, a person who is the opposite of the picture James paints of the whole, mature, complete person who remains under trials (perhaps, if I may take a little liberty, the person who makes poetry/beauty out of their tribulation).

James continues to carry this imagery of hearers vs. speakers/poets by ending with a warning about bridling the tongue. It’s like he’s saying, start with listening, don’t chatter away, listen to the Spirit (the logos), but also, don’t just listen, don’t stay silent, don’t just sit there and do nothing, stand up and speak, become a God Poet, create, make, do. But, hey as you’re doing that, don’t get carried away either, keep a bridle on your tongue — remember where we started, with being quick to listen and slow to speak.

Oh, and hey, if you don’t know what to do, if you’re not sure how to be a God Poet, or how to respond to the logos, look after orphans (the bereaved, those without a parent, teacher, guide) and widows (the word for widows is metaphorically a city stripped of its inhabitants or riches, basically those who are without) when they are thlipsis, which literally means “under pressure” and here again we have a harkening back to the beginning images of the chapter the idea of "steadfastness” which is to “remain under [pressure].”

Goodness, it all feels so tied together, so consistent and beautiful. It kind of makes me giddy.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

PS — I’m not a greek scholar and I’ve never been to seminary so this should probably all be taken with a grain of salt. It’s just me pouring over some greek dictionaries and digging in as best I can. If you have more knowledge on these things or if you think I am butchering James please, please reach out (shoot me an email) I want to know.

Then two weeks ago I didn’t know what to do for yoga.

I teach a yoga class every Tuesday morning at a local church. I usually like to have some little thing prepared, a word we’re going to meditate on, a particular thing I want to invite us to pray for as we move, a poem, or a passage of scripture to consider, etc.

I had nothing… except this pull towards James.

Ok, I get it. We’ll do a series on James.

So, I started reading James and, as usual, it just felt sort of… sentimental, and abstract, and more than a little heavy-handed.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds…”

Ok, so I know James isn’t just talking out of his ass, he had some experience with trials and hardship, to be sure, but this feels like the kind of verse that makes me want to say… Really? What do you know about it? “Count it all joy” what does that even mean?

Then I looked at the greek…

Now, I’m no greek scholar. I’ve never been to seminary (thanks to a number of people talking me out of it when I was young, but that’s a topic for another post). What I am is curious. And what I have is a good Bible app that includes a Strong’s Concordance with Greek and Hebrew Lexicon.

So, here’s what I found:

The word sometimes translated “count it” and sometimes “consider it” is hēgéomai. It means “to lead” or “to go before; in front” or sometimes “to rule, command.”

And now this verse starts to make sense to me. It’s not saying I have to consider every trial I go through a joy. Let me tell you, trials aren’t in and of themselves a joy, or something to en-joy.

But, lead with joy, well that feels like something different. That makes sense. I don’t have to think my trials themselves are a joy, but I can start everything, lead everything with joy, with gratitude, with praise. I can command myself to begin with joy (joy in who God is and who I am in Christ), in all my trials and struggles and temptations.

So, two weeks ago at yoga, we talked about the first four verses of James and this idea of leading with joy and how we can do that because we know our trials produce steadfastness (or hypomonḗ which means “to remain under”) and steadfastness (or remaining under) has the result of making us téleios (complete or mature, grown up) and holóklēros (whole, complete in every part).

That thought honestly does bring me some joy.

I don’t feel grown up, or whole. I feel young, confused, insecure, and divided within myself. But I want to be mature, complete, and whole. I really do.

Then we get to the verse that I’ve struggled with the most, verse six.

Last week before yoga I thought I would probably just skip this section of verses. But, out of curiosity, I decided to look up the greek and the whole verse shifted and changed and opened up — in fact the whole book did.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be giving to him.”

All good so far…

“But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.”

Ok, James, we’ve got a problem.

I value doubt. I think questioning and doubting are part of life and even part of the spiritual journey and spiritual formation. In fact, I firmly believe that questioning can make our faith stronger — when we bring those questions to God.

I’ve experienced that.

I think God is big enough to handle our uncertainty.

But, when you look at the greek it suddenly doesn’t feel like James is talking about certainty at all, or about a conviction that God will do what you ask. It feels instead like James is talking about a posture and a posture that’s in contrast to hypomonḗ (to remain under, to stay).

The word for doubt in this verse is diakrínō and it literally means “to separate thoroughly, to withdraw from, or oppose.” The figurative meaning of the word is more what we think of as doubt — to judge, waver, or discern.

But a little digging led me to find there’s another greek word for doubt that James could have used, a word that doesn’t have this posture connotation of “to separate”, but James doesn’t use it.

From a literary perspective a beautiful contrast starts to play out in these verses between two different postures of the heart. One which remains under, stays, and is steadfast, and another which withdraws, separates, and opposes. One draws near and another separates. One remains and another withdraws.

James goes on to say that the one who doubts (separates) is double-minded, which again drives home this picture. The one who is steadfast (remains under) becomes holóklēros (whole, complete in every part) and the one who doubts (separates, withdraws, divides, opposes) is dípsyxos (literally of two souls, split in half — the exact opposite of whole and complete!).

And now it feels like James is not exhorting us towards certainty, but instead saying… Start with joy and have faith in who God is and who you are in him. Trust him. Stay there, steadfast in all your trails and God will make you complete and whole. If you don’t know what to do ask God, go to him, but go to him without pulling away, without withdrawing, without separating some part of you away and keeping it from God. If you do that you’ll just split your soul in two. Go to God completely, asking with your whole self, as your whole self remains in faith and remains under whatever trails you are facing. Then you can trust that God hears you and gives generously without reproach.

Now, we can start to see echos of this theme throughout the whole book. Wholeness vs division. Remaining and staying vs withdrawing (or trying to get out from under something by taking the easy way). Unity vs disunity.

His warnings about picking and choosing who’s important in the church body take on a new connotation: your one body of Christ, don’t divide yourselves, don’t separate (in fact he even uses diakrínō in chapter 2 talking about judging and making distinctions between each other).
His warnings about being doers of the word and not just hearers start to sound a lot like someone who is double-minded, being one thing one the outside and another on the inside.
The way he calls out those who say one sin is worse than another and instead reminds that all transgressions against each other are transgressions against God, feels like wholistic thinking at it’s best, thinking that doesn’t divide, separate, and nit-pick at sins, but instead calls us all to mercy that is without partiality.

“Can a spring pour forth from the same opening both fresh and salt water?”

“Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.”

This makes me excited to keep reading James and digging in more to this book that has always felt like a heavy burden, a little like a noose. Maybe James wasn’t actually being as heavy handed as I always thought.

And maybe I need to spend a lot more time learning Greek.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

“Sage, we’re gonna have to just carry you in and find a place for you to sit, ok?”

She started crying.

“Ok, how about we try to get the chair inside, but if it can’t go in we’ll carry you.”

She agreed to this plan, which meant we came up to the front door (which obviously had too big of a step for Sage to enter), not only late but with a wheelchair that obviously couldn’t make it through the door. We said awkward hello’s as Bryan lifted Sage up onto his shoulder and I headed back to the car with the wheelchair.

Once inside, we made plates of food and ate quickly. They were about to start.

We introduced ourselves and I avoided making eye contact, shifting attention to Bryan as quickly as possible. We listened as they shared the history of the church, a bit about what they believed, a little about the leadership, and their vision for the future.

Toward the end, I tried to discretely wipe tears out of my eyes as they talked about community, getting involved, and as they closed the time in prayer.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve been to a church’s informational meeting, but it might be the first time I cried in one.

We’ve been going to this church off and on for a while… at least a year, maybe two, or has it been three? We’ve been tithing there for at least a year maybe more. We haven’t been going anywhere else for probably close to two years at least. But, it’s only been the past three or four months that we’ve really started being there consistently every Sunday.

And this week something shifted.

We were ready to stop sitting on the fence. We were ready to invest a bit of ourselves in this community. We were ready to say, “This is our church. We are part of this particular, local, expression of the body of Christ.”

If you’ve been around this blog for any length of time you’ll know I used to write a lot about church. When I first started this blog it was almost exclusively what I wrote about. Some of it was criticism, some of it was just thoughts on ecclesiology, some of it was processing my own internal hurts and experiences related to church.

I’ve been pretty silent on church over the past few years, but my own internal struggle with the subject has continued.

We’ve been on the “wrong” side of church decisions, we’ve been part of churches that have fallen apart, we’ve been close friends with people who’ve been asked to leave a church, we’ve watched churches split, we’ve been hurt by pastors. We’ve offered our gifts only to be pushed into things we weren’t ready for. We’ve hidden our gifts and had no one see us, or call us out of hiding.

We’ve been loved well by churches and pastors alike too.

We’ve felt like we belonged and we’ve felt like outsiders within the church — sometimes both at the same time.

Within all of that though, it has been more than ten years (and at least four different churches) since I’ve been at a church where I really felt like I wanted to bring myself, wanted to be seen, wanted to invest my heart into a community and group of people. In fact, in my adult life, there’s only been one church that I’ve been at where I truly felt known, seen, and comfortable bringing all of myself and my gifts.

Until now.

I cried during the meeting because I felt that burning in my stomach, that sensation that tells me I need to speak up, I need to say something. And I did eventually.

We may have been the last to arrive, but we were also the last to leave. We talked briefly about some of our church histories. We talked a bit about women in the church and my own baggage with that.

I shifted my weight and moved my gaze around the room, trying to find something comforting to look at as I shared, “I don’t feel like my gifts fit with what most churches want from me. I don’t know exactly where I fit in the church.”

I said, “I don’t know” a lot.

Because I don’t. I don’t know what my relationship is with church anymore. I don’t know what it is I can offer the church or what my gifts are exactly.

Here’s what I do know…

I know that the Spirit has been prompting me to be more present, to invest a bit of my heart in this space, to lean in, to speak up, to try. I know I’ve cried more often at this church than any other. I’ve probably smiled more too. I’ve felt the Spirit’s presence, in the simple and sacred moments of communion taken in a school cafeteria.

And I know that I don’t want a church that is a production, a show, not that there’s anything wrong with that expression of the body — there was a season of my life when that appealed to me because I knew it appealed to others.

But now, I’m at a season of my life where I want life, in all it’s awkward, simple, messiness. I want to experience the Spirit of God not in the dim lighting, or perfect music, or because of a powerful orator. I want to find God in the awkward, in the messy, in the simple, in the uncomfortable, in the school cafeterias, and the family rooms with kids interrupting every few minutes.

Because this is the God I believe in… The God who can and does break into our ordinary, our mundane, our normal everyday life with Love. The God who takes our simple offerings and multiplies them into something sacred and holy. The God who shows up not just in the cathedral, but in the kitchen, on the street, in the hospital, and everywhere our feet touch. All the earth is holy ground. This is the truth I want to permeate my life and I believe this is the church body that is going to help me with that.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done more than just show up at church, a long time since I’ve wanted to do more than just show up at church, since I’ve wanted to pour myself into a place and people, be part of shaping something and investing some of myself into a community, but I feel ready for that in a way that I haven’t for a very long time.

There is something exciting and freeing about that — and also completely and utterly terrifying.

I have lots of internal stories I tell myself that serve to keep me small, that have served to keep me from leaning into a community in the past, and I’m feeling them rise up and revolt against me this week especially.

Stories that say…

“I’m too much for people to handle.”
”I’m a burden.”
”There’s a reason for the pain and hurt I experienced at other churches and it’s ME.”
”I’m a disease that will weaken and damage a healthy church.”
”No one will want what I have to offer.”
”My ideas will be rejected, or, if I’m empowered to try them, they’ll fail.”
”No one else likes the things I like or want to bring to the community.”
”People won’t show up for the things I plan or ideas I present.”

There are also still (even after years of study and knowing better), voices inside me that say…

“Women shouldn’t lead or speak.”
”Women should be quiet.”

These are not soft voices or subtle stories. They have deep roots, some which stem from truth, or at least true experiences. But, I am not the person I was ten years ago, or five years ago, or even one year ago. Does that mean I’m completely healthy, and in right standing? Hell, no! I’m broken. And when it comes to church I’m a little extra broken. But, God has never disqualified the broken, just as he has never shunned the outcast.

I don’t know what’s in store for Bryan and me at Desert City Church. I do know I feel like it’s where we’re suppose to be right now.

I don’t know what it means to move into more commitment to the church and lean into bringing my heart and gifts to this community. I do know that I’ll stumble. I’ll probably fall, and fail, and make a mess. But, I feel like this is somewhere that might, just maybe, create a safe place for me to do that, hold my hand as I fumble my way through, and help me to learn how to do this thing called church again.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

“People come together
Strange as neighbours
Our blood is one
Children of generations
Of every nation
Of kingdom come”

There were already people praying in the room when we entered. The music from the sanctuary drifted through the walls in a muffled hum. There was conversation I didn’t fully absorb, hand shakes, and exchanged names, as the few people in the prayer room joined the five of us who had entered in forming a circle around my husband.

And then we prayed.

A man more than twice my age, a man who has lead and pastored others for decades, an elder, the kind of person who you meet and just know there’s something different about them — a quiet, calm, presence — quoted James 5 and anointed Bryan with oil.

After prayers and words were spoken. After all was received and tears were shed, she gave me a hug and whispered. “Can I pray against fear and worry for you?”

And then they were gathering around me and, with tears streaming down my face, they prayed.

The music from the sanctuary stopped. We made our way out of the prayer room, still wiping tears from red eyes. We stood in the back, leaning against the wall, leaning against each other.

Craig spoke about despair, discouragement, losing hope. He talked about empty jars and miracles. He named us co-workers with Christ, trusting even after disappointment. Bringing what we have, what little we have, and letting God do the miraculous.

Tears streamed down my cheeks again. Both for the power of the message, and for the joy of getting to see a good friend living fully in their gifting.

Others spoke. Sharing the story of how God was working in their church and how God was working in their lives. Fr. James Mallon talked about the prodigal son and the nature of God. He spoke of the compassion of God. He talked about the older son having his identity all wrong — he thought he was a slave, when really he was a son, everything the father had was already his. And I thought again of the words I wrote so recently, “to neglect to ask, to only ever bow, is to forget our rightful place in God’s family, it is to forget our free will (the very fact that we have desires and wants, and are not robots to God’s sovereignty), it is to be the child that cowers in the corner afraid to ask the parent for crumbs when the table is heavy with a feast.”

Sobs come at the same time as laughs. My eyes fill, my shoulders shake, my lips spread wide. It’s impossible to sing, but somehow I force out the words.

Bryan stepped away for prayer. I stayed, swaying and crying and singing.

Bryan came back and wrapped his arm around me. The lights came up, the night was ended, but we kept swaying and softly singing, humming to the music. People filed past us, but I was only barely conscious of them. We clung to each other.

And in that moment something shifted, something broke, something fell away.

We sat quietly processing the day as the room slowly cleared.

“This is going to sound strange, I’m not sure how to explain it…” I shifted my weight, looked away, then back at Bryan, then looked away again.

He waited patiently for me to continue.

“There was a moment, when we were at NIH… there was this one night when I had this really powerful experience with God. And I felt like he told me I needed to lay you on the alter like Abraham with Isaac.”

Bryan nods. He knows this story. He’s heard this before.

My voice falters and cracks and tears start filling my eyes again.

“Tonight, I felt like God gave you back to me.” The words burst out of me in one breath, in one sob. Then his arms were around me. We were both crying. My shoulders shook and I clutched his sweater with my fingers.

I know Bryan’s not really mine, he will always be God’s more than He is mine. But, tonight, I felt an exhale I have been waiting years for. I had been waiting, with baited breath and lifted knife, for seven years, held in that moment on the alter, asked to surrender all loves. And tonight, God said, “Enough.”

And I think I know a little of how Abraham must have cried with Isaac when God gave him back his son. Wild, clinging, cleansing tears.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

“Remember this, had any other condition been better for you than the one in which you are, divine love would have put you there.”

This post is a combination of thoughts from the last two emails I sent out to our prayer list. If you already read those emails, you can ignore this post. If you don’t get those emails and would like to, you can sign up here.

Here's what I know, God is good all the time. No matter what.

Like the Spurgeon quote above, these are statements of surrender and trust. Most of the last decade for me has been about surrender and trust. It's not a lesson I've mastered, but it's one I've had an awful lot of experience with, and I think I've gotten good at accepting what is, grieving when things don't go the way I want or the way I had hoped, and surrendering my desires over and over again. At least in terms of Bryan's cancer. 

But, lately, I'm hearing the Spirit whisper that there's more. He is not just the God who asks us to surrender. He is not just the God who takes.

He's not just the God who asks us to accept what is. He is the God who changes what is.

Here's the thing, I can write that and on some level believe it, but it's not really the God I've experienced. The God I've experienced is the God who offers love even in the midst, right in the middle of our lament. The God I've experienced is the God who demands all of us, who is jealous for us, who wounds in order to heal, and tears down in order to build up, who doesn't bend his will to mine, but asks me to bend mine to his.

But, here's the thing I'm realizing, if this is the only side of God I know, experience, and believe in, it is incredibly easy for me to become hard, closed off, and detached. I don't think that's what God wants for his children, it's not what I want for my children. 

Yes, God does demand my surrender, he does take. He does not owe me anything and I am not entitled to anything from him. He asks me to accept the hard and meets me tenderly with love right in the middle of it. Sometimes, maybe most often, he says no to our prayers. He doesn't take away the hard, instead, he asks us to walk right through the middle of it. All of that is true, or has been true for me. 

But, the whispers I'm hearing lately are pressing me to believe in a God who is all that AND more. A God who doesn't owe me anything, but does still sometimes do exceedingly and abundantly more than I ask. A God who delights to say, "Yes." A God who may at times leave us in Egypt for generations, and at other times part the Red Sea and make a clear path out. Who might sometimes ask us to wander in the desert, and other times tear down the walls of the city and provide a place to inhabit with just a shout.

I don't know why sometimes it's one way and other times another. But I'm realizing, I'm scared to ask for a different way.

The first few years Bryan had cancer I desperately needed to learn to surrender, to bow my strong will to a will that was stronger. I needed to learn to accept the cup that was offered and find God in it.

Now, I'm wondering, if I've bent so far that I've forgotten that God is not just good in his rightness when he says no, he is also a good father who longs to say yes to His children.

I'll be honest, for a long time I stopped asking for much more than "your will be done." That was the prayer I needed, but perhaps I lost something along the way, something of the innocence of the widow who knocks and asks incessantly for what she wants, who in so doing gets the judge to bend to her will through her persistence.

This is a story that doesn't resonate with me, I struggle with it. I want to tell the widow to move on with her life, to surrender to the higher authority. There's something in it that feels a little unhealthy, this asking and asking, it feels almost delusional. But, I think there's something for me in this story as we move into a new year.

I don't really know where I'm going with all this, except to say that there's some tension I think I've lost, that I'd like to take hold of again. Some ability to see God as both and... Some ability to both surrender and hand over our desires, and still hold on to desires and ask persistently as well. I'm not sure how to do this. Maybe you know better than I do.

All I can say right now is I think I need to ask God for a miracle and that terrifies the hell out of me. It goes against the very image of God I've built up in my head. But, if I know anything about God it's that he's always about tearing down our images and breaking out of our boxes. Perhaps the God we need is always the side of God we don't know and haven't experienced yet. 

This week someone told us they felt God had told them He wanted to heal Bryan this weekend. I never know what to do with things like that, but I recognize the courage and vulnerability it took for this person to share.

I celebrate that.

Listening to the voice of the Spirit is awkward and uncomfortable, it’s even more awkward and uncomfortable to act on those promptings. For good bible-thumping evangelicals, who have been raised to value the Bible more than the Spirit, I think it’s even more uncomfortable. But, Jesus tells us the Spirit is our Helper, our Counselor, our Guide. So, this is also part of following Jesus — listening and responding to the Spirit. 

Bryan and I have been talking and praying about what this person said. There were specifics of what they shared that we wanted to take seriously, but that we didn’t feel fit with things we were being directed towards, or that we were hearing in our own walks. What do we do with that then? 

How do we hold space for the Spirit to speak to us, while also recognizing and valuing the voice of the Spirit in another? I’m really not sure. 

Here’s what I do know though… 

I know that God has been prompting me to pray more specifically for healing, for a miracle. As I already shared, this has been an uncomfortable prompting for me.

But, I’ve been thinking a lot about the story of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. He doesn’t just pray, “Your will be done” he also asks that “this cup be taken from me.” 

This always felt incredibly strange to me. Isn’t this why Jesus came? Didn’t he know this was coming? Wouldn’t perfect surrender and trust be to accept what was to come without even asking for the cup to be removed? 

But, that’s not what Jesus models for us. 

And this is the dichotomy that I find myself wrestling with. I have struggled and fought to surrender into the second half (“not my will but yours”) and now find God gently reminding me that I’ve neglected the first half (“take this cup from me”). 

Either one without the other is incomplete. 

To ask alone — no matter how powerfully, or how much faith is behind it — without surrender, is, indeed, entitlement, not much different than children writing letters to Santa Claus or throwing tantrums to try to get their way.

But, to neglect to ask, to only ever bow, is to forget our rightful place in God’s family, it is to forget our free will (the very fact that we have desires and wants, and are not robots to God’s sovereignty), it is to be the child that cowers in the corner afraid to ask the parent for crumbs when the table is heavy with a feast. 

And so, I ask you to pray for my husband. I don’t just ask you to pray for God’s will, to pray for God’s best, or to pray vaguely for Bryan’s health and well-being. I ask you to pray specifically for this tumor in Bryan’s butt to go away and never come back. I ask you to pray that God would save Bryan’s ass. 

And I ask you to pray specifically this weekend.

Will God miraculously heal Bryan and take away this tumor? I honestly can’t say.

What I can say, is that I’m learning, slowly, ever so slowly, to hold two opposing things in my hands at the same time. To surrender completely, without letting go of desire, without holding back from asking, without fearing to still boldly make requests.

Grace and peace,
Bethany Stedman

So, I started 2019 tired. We started 2019 knowing Sage would need surgery and not knowing exactly when it would happen or how long her recovery would take. We kept our commitments small. We stepped back from things. We made space for being home, for healing, for lots of therapy. And that was pretty much how most of this year went.

Sage’s surgery was postponed a few times, recovery took even longer than we thought. Bryan started back into cancer treatment.

2019 was a year for sitting by hospital beds. It was a year for waiting and for being still. It was also a year for consuming, for taking things in, for learning from other people’s experiences, mistakes, and victories.

In addition to that, 2019 felt like it was also the year that I got truly serious about writing. I’ve written a lot, for a lot of years, but this year something shifted. I started revising, editing, and seeking out feedback on my creative writing more than I had in the past. I started reading not just for enjoyment, not just as an audience, but as a writer, as a craft person.

Before this year I knew I wanted to write, that writing would always be a part of my life and my life’s work, but I didn’t have much trust in my ability to write fiction. I didn’t have much trust in my ability to critique fiction either. This year I got serious not just about writing, but about fiction writing, about the art and craft of shaping a story.

I’m not very good at it. But, that’s ok. I enjoy it. I’m learning and I’m getting better. That’s what matters.

One of the biggest ways I learned this year was by reading a lot. Not just by reading a lot, but by noticing what I liked and didn’t like, what worked and didn’t work, and paying attention to the choices authors made.

In roughly the last year (I started keeping track sometime in December of last year) I have read 77 books. As part of my year end reflection I thought it would be interesting to document a bit of the data of this reading year, a bit of what I learned from these books, and perhaps award a few silly awards along the way.

So, here is my year in books :)

77 books read in total
6 non-fiction books
71 fiction books

39 Young Adult
11 Middle Grades
3 classics

41 Fantasy
16 Distopian
8 Sci-Fi books
6 Mystery

Clearly the vast majority of my reading happened in Young Adult Fantasy, but this was intentional. I am writing a young adult fantasy series, so I set out at the beginning of the year to read as much young adult fantasy as I could get my hands on. And I’m glad I did, partly because I enjoy reading this type of book and partly because it’s helping me get a better sense for the craft of writing this type of story, as well as a better feel for the market.

Recently, I asked a writer I respect if he would read my first three chapters and give me some feedback. One of the comments I got back from him was about the marketability of my book. He commented that YA is tending to skew dark and edgy and my book (at least the first three chapters) didn’t read very dark or edgy. This was invaluable feedback and has given me a lot to think about. If I hadn’t read so much in the genre this year, I may have taken the advice at face value, or I may have questioned it and dismissed it, having spent a good deal of my life reading older (more classic) young adult stories, which don’t tend to be as edgy or gritty.

Because I have recently read so much in the genre (largely by current authors), I could neither dismiss his observation or just blindly agree. He’s right. I can see it in so much of the books I’ve read this year. And yet I can also think of exceptions to that rule, books that push against that ever so slightly.

I can also think of authors who seem to take this advice to heart a little too much — throwing in gratuitous violence and death at every turn and making their writing unnecessarily edgy.

Needless to say, it’s been a good thought exercise to consider where my book lands on this spectrum, how much I want to cater to marketability, and what are the nuances of my own personal style and voice that may or may not fit with current trends.

One of the most remarkable things I think I’ve learned this year is a lesson that feels very visceral, and close to me right now, and that is this:

There is an audience for every book.

No, that’s not quite what I’m trying to say. It’s not that every book will have an audience, or that there is an audience for every book, but that there is a book for every audience. That’s not quite what I’m trying to say though either. Let me try again…

Not every book will be for you, but it might be for someone else.

That’s part of what I’m getting at, but it’s not the whole of it, it’s not even the heart of it. Maybe what I’m trying to say is…

Even unlikely books find publishers.

No, that makes this whole point sound too negative and it isn’t negative at all.

Apparently, what I’m trying to say isn’t easy to boil down into one thought, or a single principle, but the idea, or rather the feeling of the idea, is crystal clear in my mind. It feels like… hope. After reading so many books so close together (not to mention countless years of reading before hand) what I’m starting to see more clearly is that lots of books do find publishers, even strange, odd, quirky books, that I wouldn’t have thought would ever find a publisher, or that I wouldn’t have thought would be marketable. And here’s the really remarkable thing, not only do they find publishers, but they find audiences, sometimes even cult-like followings.

Now, that’s not to say that EVERY book WILL get published or will find an audience, but maybe it’s just to say that there is some mystery to this whole process and it’s not entirely predictable. Books that I would have never thought would find a publisher, do. Books that are bizarre and out there and don’t fit the norm for what might be considered marketable, do find followings. It happens.

And while there is a time and place and reason for playing to your audience, for revising your book into something more marketable. I think this reminds me that there is also a time and place and reason for letting your inner weird out and simply not giving up. Maybe that story that you’ve kept hidden away because you don’t think it could ever be marketable, or that anyone else would like it, is just what someone else needs.

Now, let’s talk a few specifics about some of the books I read. I figured I do this in award fashion…so…drum roll please…

Book that made me cry the hardest at the end: Allegiant (the last book in the Divergent series)
Book that made me cry the earliest (in the first few chapters): Red Rising (first book in the Red Rising series)
Book that made me cry the most often: Farm Girl
Book that was most overrated (in my opinion): The Alchemist
Series I am surprised people don’t talk about more: The Winner’s Curse Series
Book that was most anticlimactic: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Book that I enjoyed a lot, but keep forgetting about: To Kill a Kingdom (this one also had a villain that reminded me of the villain in my WIP in odd subtle ways)
Book I recommend most often: The Silent Gondoliers
Book that I wouldn’t recommend to most people: American Gods (this definitely requires a particular taste)
Book with the most information dumps: The Last Dragonslayer (this whole book was more information dumps and world building than anything else, but I still enjoyed it)
Most visually beautiful book (in terms of descriptions): The Night Circus
Book that would be vastly improved by a slight edit to the end: Mockingjay
Book with the best tension (both in terms of questions in the mind of the reader and tension between characters): The Wrath & The Dawn
Book that took me by surprise: Caraval (the first book really kept me on my toes, and kept me surprised in terms of plot, the second and third surprised me because they felt so much more developed than the first and the world building grew much more complex, which I wasn’t expecting)
Book that left me unable to stop thinking about it and wondering about the ending: The Giver
Book for Enneagram 4s: Hunted
Book for the nerdy 80’s child in you: Ready Player One
Book for the literary: Jane Eyre
Book for the feminist in you: The Lady Sherlock series (this series feels like a feminist read in a very subtle way, that I really appreciate — it’s not the warrior woman or even the girl power, women run the world type thing, it’s very much set in the time period that it takes place in and the characters are directly out of that time period, but it handles some topics of woman’s rights and work in really interesting ways I think)
Most random book for people who like books: The Eyre Affair
Best resource book for writers: Personality Types: Using the Enneagram for Self Discovery
Best Non-fiction: Everything Happens for a Reason & Other Lies I’ve Loved
Favorite Neil Gaiman (since I’d never read him before and managed to read five of his books this year): The Graveyard Book
Favorite writing style: Light from Distant Stars

There you go. That’s not everything I read, but it’s a good bit of it. I normally leave comments off my blog posts, but I’m turning them on for just this post, cause I want to hear from you! Have you read any of these books? If so, tell me what you thought of them.

I’d also love it if you’d take a moment to tell me what you read this year, or recommend a book to me. I’d like to read between 50 and 100 books next year, and, although I have a list started, I’d love to hear what you would recommend I read next. I’d appreciate it!

Grace and peace,
Bethany

I can’t write a book. I’m a horrible speller, my grammar is only so-so. I am the queen of malapropisms (according to my husband) and I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was in first grade.

Then I had a dream. The real, sound-asleep-in-my-bed, kind of dream. It was weird, disturbing, and completely fantastical. I woke up and knew I wanted to write about it.

That was shortly after my son was born. I remember pushing his stroller onto the tram in Prague (where we lived the first year and half of his life) and getting an idea for a scene or a snippet of dialogue and quickly typing it into my phone with my thumb while using my other hand to hold a toy out in front of his face so he wouldn’t scream and disturb the whole tram.

It wasn’t until two years later, just a little after my daughter was born, that I finished that book. I remember we had just moved back to Seattle, where my husband grew up. We were living in a little apartment and trying to adjust to life with two kids. We were slowly starting to adjust to life back in the United States. We were dreaming about what might be next for us. I remember sitting on our hand-me-down red checkered couch and typing “The end.”

I felt so proud of myself. I felt like I had climbed mount Everest. I had written a complete story, a book. I had stolen little moments during naps and in-between errands. I had stolen a few words here and a few there until, after two years, I had finished writing a book. Something existed that hadn’t existed before.

I shared it with a few family members. I sent it to a few friends asking for their feedback. My family members read it. The friends I sent it to never responded. I don’t blame them for that. Truth be told, that book was nowhere near ready for anyone to read.

I hadn’t yet learned how to edit, how to re-write, how to carve and shape a story. I’m still not sure I’ve learned that, but I know more now than I did then.

When I finished that book, I was convinced — one hundred percent convinced — that it would never be publishable. I never even considered cleaning it up or trying to get it published. I didn’t think there was an audience for it. I’m still not sure there is.

It’s a weird little book. Or at least, it is in my head — I’m still not sure that what is in my head actually came across in text.

It’s a Middle Ages, or Middle Grades, fairy tale story with something of the feel of a fable. I know that now, but when I first finished it I had no idea how to classify it. I knew it was for kids, probably 1st - 4th grade range, but it was a little too philosophical to feel like a kids book and the vocabulary and writing style was a bit above that grade level in places. I imagined it as a book that would be read aloud, a book adults would read to kids, a book with some winks and nods towards the adults reading it.

It was also a strange book in that it was about a tooth fairy — a topic typically reserved for very young children and not entirely the age group I was targeting. Well, it is sort of about a tooth fairy. It’s about a tooth fairy in the way that A Princess Bride is about a princess bride. It’s sort of about a fairy’s journey of becoming a fairy and a boys journey of growing up, but with a lot of random magic and philosophy thrown in.

That book has sat on my hard drive untouched for a very long time.

When my son was in 1st grade (I think) I read it to him and he enjoyed it, but other than that it’s mostly just sat there, barely thought of, until recently.

This year I returned to my love of fiction with fervor. I read as much as I could and I did it largely in the genres I want to write in. I read a lot of fantasy and the fantastical. I read my first Neil Gaiman book this year, and my second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. Yeah, I’ve been on a bit of a Neil Gaiman kick.

And it taught me something. There are a lot of weird books that don’t quite fit — or that you wouldn’t think would find an audience — that do get published and are incredibly enjoyable reads that really should be published.

My first book, the one I affectionately refer to as simply “Thomas”, is not well-written, it’s not polished, it’s not worthy of being published or of an audience… as it stands right now. But, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something there worth polishing and carving away at.

So, last week, I started editing that very rough manuscript that I “finished” seven years ago. I don’t know what will come of it, but this is me continuing to show up to the work, following curiosity back to something set aside a long time ago. This is me showing up and doing the work.

Grace and peace in the process,
Bethany

I let out a quick awkward laugh and turned away to grab my own glass on the counter, “No! I basically just gave her my copy writing hourly rate and then said I would do the whole website for $250.”

“What?” Bryan’s face was as outraged as his voice.

“It’s only a few pages, it won’t take that long.” The justification was clear in my tone.

He leaned back against the counter, “It’ll take twice as long as you think.”

“It’s fine. I like doing it. I’d be happy to do it for $250. It’s fun for me. I mean, I enjoy it anyway, so it’s fine.”

It wasn’t until later in the day, thinking back on the conversation, that I realized the error in my logic, or maybe more accurately the error in my belief. Did you catch it?

I enjoy doing the work.
So, it’s not really work.
Therefore, I don’t really deserve, or need, to be paid for it — or at least not much.

When did the idea sneak into my subconscious that something being enjoyable and fun means it’s not deserving of compensation? When did I start equating not enjoying something with work worthy of being paid, and enjoyment as work worthy of being given away?

As a society we talk about the importance of finding work you enjoy, and say things like “if you love your work, you’ll never work a day in your life.” Maybe we’ve missed something though. We’re so busy telling each other the importance of finding enjoyable work, that we forget there’s a whole lot of complex beliefs underlying that sentiment. If we really believed work should be enjoyable, we wouldn’t need to tell each other so often the importance of finding that kind of work. Perhaps, if we really believed it was possible to find work we enjoy that much, we wouldn’t feel so cynical (and envious) of those who claim to enjoy their work.

We forget about what happens after you find work you enjoy. What happens when you find work you love, but fail to find the belief that you are worthy of being compensated for that work? Or still hold a false belief that enjoyment is payment in and of itself.

This belief that enjoyment is better than compensation, that if you enjoy the work then you don’t need or deserve to be compensated…well, it’s the kind of belief that I don’t want my children to hold. It’s the kind of false belief I would call out in my friends, as I remind them about the value they bring to their world through their work AND through their enjoyment of their work. But, in myself…

These sorts of beliefs are hard to weed out. They have deep roots. They go back decades. Culturally, maybe centuries.

Even our language equates work with toil, with labor, with effort, even with drudgery — that’s right drudgery is a synonym for work in our English thesaurus! So how do we reprogram that thinking. How do we stop feeling shame or guilt about being compensated for something we enjoy, something that feels more like play than work? I don’t really know.

But, maybe it starts by recognizing when we’re making those false equations in our minds. Maybe it starts with yelling out “stop!” and switching around the variables.

Work = toil = $

STOP!

Work = play = $

Is it bad that I sort of had trouble even just writing out that equation, and then when I re-read this again I almost deleted it? It feels so ridiculous to me, I kind of want to laugh, and blush (?), and berate myself, “who do you think you are to think play could be compensated?”

I told you, the roots of this false belief go deep.

For now, I’m probably still gonna under charge people when they ask my rates — I don’t have the confidence or long term evidence-driven experience to do otherwise. But, maybe in time, slowly, I’ll be able to start valuing the work I do and the work I offer others.

Maybe as I change I’ll be able to show my children something different, a delight in work that doesn’t result in the “starving artist” stereotype, but in a thriving adult confident in both their enjoyment of the work and the value they are bringing to the table.

Maybe…?

For now if you’re looking for a squarespace designer, apparently I’m on sale. Haha.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

I almost never write much during the summer, but as the days slowly start to get a little cooler (or just barely cooler — I do live in the desert after all!) I start to come back to writing, and thinking about writing. This year is no different, but this year I’m looking at my writing through a different lens. I’m feeling ready to get serious about my writing, and my desire to be an author, in a way that I haven’t before.

I’ve often said here on this blog that writing is how I process, and it’s true, but I’m starting to think about my writing as something more than just me processing my thoughts and shouting into the dark. I’m ready for something different — something more polished, professional, published.

Recently, I realized that this will be my fifth year doing NaNoWriMo (is that right? have I really done this that many times?). I have finished three out of four of the times I attempted it. This, and the fact that I’m currently researching the query process for my YA fantasy novel, got me thinking about my writing life and the books I have written.

It was sort of surprising to lay them all out in my mind, finished and unfinished.

There’s the finished rough draft of a Middle Grades Fantasy book that I affectionately call simply “Thomas.”

There’s my e-book, On Creativity, which is a collection of poems, essays, and scenes from my life.

There’s my current WIP (work in progress), a YA fantasy series that is currently three books — one finished and in final edits, a second book that is almost finished and just missing a few key scenes, and a third book that I’m about 20,000 words into.

Then there’s a collection of essays and poems on grief that will likely never see the light of day, or at least not until I’ve lived a lot longer and felt a great deal more.

There’s a very random family drama novel that I completed for NaNoWriMo a few years ago, but even with so many words written it never seemed to really take shape as a story. It kept running off on bunny trails. It’s also likely to be left in an unopened file for years or maybe forever.

Sometimes I wonder if I could really pursue the writing life as a career. I worry that I won’t have enough ideas, that I won’t be able to put out books as quickly as published authors are often required. But, this makes me think otherwise, and it’s not counting the hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written for other people, or the blog posts that keep trickling out of me.

It’s easy to let doubt and fear and insecurity become the loudest voices in the room — super easy. Last night I nearly had a panic attack thinking about NaNoWriMo and feeling entirely convinced that I wouldn’t be able to complete it this year. I can’t do it. I won’t be able to finish. It’s too many words. But, then I look back at the words I have written, the books I have started, the rough drafts I’ve finished, and I’m reminded of a different truth.

I’m not where I want to be in my writing. I haven’t published a book yet and the things I’ve written aren’t at the level I want, but I have come a long way in the past few years.

Maybe you’re at this place too — this place where the distance between where you are and where you want to be feels insurmountable and you aren’t sure if you can get there or if you ever will. That’s the point where I find I need to shift my gaze back, and remind myself how far I’ve come.

This wasn’t the blog post I sat down to write, but it’s the post I needed to write. I needed to put a stake in the ground and say, “I’ve come this far.”

It’s not where I want to be. I still have a long way to go. But, I’ve come this far. I’ve written books — not just one book, but multiples. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words. I know I can write a book. It might not be a good book. It might not be the book I wanted it to be, but I can write a book and each time I do it I get better at it…or at least I think, and hope, and trust that I do.

So, I’m going to keep writing, because someday I want to look back and say, “Look how far I’ve come since 2019.”

Grace and peace,
Bethany

We weren’t exactly on the same page. We didn’t fight, we almost never fight, we just rubbed at each other wrong. It happens.

The morning moved at a fast and grumpy pace. Then, after Bryan’s blood draw, we had about an hour before he was scheduled to see the oncologist and get hooked up for today’s infusion. An hour with nothing to do and no where to be.

My temptation was to fill it with words. We need to connect, to talk it out. But, I’d already tried and failed at that this morning. And I’m not as young as I used to be. Sometimes time is more important than words.

Tense and awkward, we walked outside and found a bench in the garden. We didn’t say much. We were quiet. Still. For roughly an hour we just sat together in our tiredness and anxiety, sat together with all our rough edges.

Slowly, something shifted.

I rubbed Bryan’s back, while I looked through Instagram and then read a Mary Oliver poem.

Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all of the voodoos of ambition sleep.

The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.

But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I’m traveling
a terrific distance.

Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.

- Mary Oliver

Bryan shifted and laid down, resting his head in my lap while I continued to rub his back.

I wrote a poem, trying out an exercise I had heard of in which you intentionally try to copy the style of a poem from memory. It’s a practice in voice — getting past the fear of copying and stealing, past the fear of being unoriginal, in order to find your own voice.

Today, I’m letting ambition sleep,
setting it aside for stillness.

The wind plays on my skins.
The cactus beside me creeps
upward,
adding only centimeters.
It flowers one decade at a time.

A bird chirps on the green branch
of the Palo Verde.
Today, she gathers what she needs,
what she needs most —
a song,
a flight on the breeze.

Stillness is “the door to the temple.”
Stillness is the path to the alter.
Stillness and trust.

- Me

Apart from reading Bryan my poem, we didn’t say much in that hour. We were just together.

It was my favorite part of the day.

Grace and peace,

Bethany

I’m pretty sure I’ve written that exact sentence multiple times on this blog. Maybe more times than I can count, but I can’t stop saying it because it needs to be said. I need to hear it again and again. Because so often we don’t realize that our brains are story making machines and we don’t recognize how much that effects.

Lately, I’ve been particularly thinking about the stories I tell myself about work and money.

Maybe it’s because we just finished the auction and I was overwhelmed by the generosity that poured in on behalf of our girl. Thanks to all of you, I had more money in my account than I have ever had before in any account with my name on it. I felt a heavy responsibility to buy the best possible product with that money, to use that money well and responsibly and ensure that it all goes towards just the right car for Sage. As we did research and talked to different dealerships I recognized more and more how inadequate I feel when it comes to talking about money, when it comes to negotiating, when it comes to getting the best deal for something offered.

Maybe it’s also because I’ve taken on some new clients recently — two new copy writing clients and a squarespace design client. I am loving each of these projects. It is immensely feeding for me to have work outside of care giving, but doing more freelance work is forcing me to keep running up against the stories and false beliefs I have around work and money.

I’m pretty sure it’s gonna take more than just one blog post to unpack these, but I want to start by talking about two particular stories I tell:

Money isn’t something to talk about.
&
I don’t like talking about money.

These sound like statements, but really they are full on stories — myths I carry around with me wherever I go.

Sometimes I have blamed my distaste for talking about money on my mathematical inadequacies, but it really has little to do with the numbers themselves.

Somewhere along the way I picked up a story that talking about money was impolite, common, debase, something to happen only behind closed doors. Talking about money showed a lack of trust in God’s provision, it showed a lack of trust in your employer or community to do right by you, it showed an innate selfishness.

So, I avoided talking about money like it was a dirty subject.

Now, that wasn’t the case with abstract “money management.” It was still sort of a topic to be avoided, but it was OK in my internal storytelling to talk vaguely about the evils of debt, or practically about ways to save money, as long as the topics didn’t get too personal.

It was also OK to be in need and to express your need. In my internal story, money was power, and you could talk about money from a position of weakness, but not from a position of power. I could tell people about the medical debt we have due to Bryan’s cancer and even ask for help paying those bills — sure, it made me uncomfortable, I didn’t like doing it, but I could. However, when I offered a legitimate service, when I did work that brought value, and was asked about compensation I changed the subject faster than you could blink.

When I was working a salaried job I wouldn’t have ever told someone else what I made, and would never have asked them a similar question. That would have been impolite. Maybe that’s a true story — maybe it would be impolite. But, does that serve us? Do men carry that story? I don’t know.

I’m not sure where this started, but I know I’m not the only one who grew up with a distaste for talking about money. I’m especially not the only female — in fact, I recently read that one study found that 61% of women “would rather talk about their own death than have a conversation about money.”

I grew up with some story in my head that talking openly about “money,” particularly pay, was unladylike and unbecoming (to use two very old fashioned words with the right sentiment). Now, I’m sure I was never overtly told that it was “unladylike” or “unbecoming” to talk about money or pay, but somewhere I definitely picked up that concept.

So, when I was very young and started in the “workforce” as a babysitter and families asked me “how much do you charge?” I blushed and laughed and dismissed the statement by stumbling out something awkward to the effect of “whatever you want.” I trusted the families I worked for to pay appropriately and for the most part they did, many probably even gave me more than I would have asked for. But, I gained no practice in asserting the value of my work and effort.

In fact, I have a vague memory of asking my mom what I should charge and her side-stepping the topic by saying something to the effect of how she always left it up to the families when she was babysitting. These stories and beliefs around money get passed down.

Not surprisingly, when I started getting real jobs and negotiating salaries, the same thing happened. And the same thing still happens now when I take on new copy writing or consulting clients. Money comes up and I change the subject. Regularly I’ve refused payment all together. Once I negotiated someone DOWN rather than up.

Here’s the problem with avoiding talking about money, particularly talking about payment…

If money is a store of value,
then avoiding talking about money, or payment, is actually avoiding talking about my value (in relation to the work I offer).

It is a quick jump from not being able to talk about money, to not being able to talk about my value, to not believing I have anything of value to offer.

And this is exactly the story I tell myself: I have nothing of value to offer.

Let me pause for a moment here and say, you are worth far more than whatever you are paid. I think we all have both intrinsic value (being made in the image of God and impeded with his breath), AND we also all have economic value (the value of our gifts, talents, skills, etc.). I think we all have value and worth just in existing AND we all have something of value to offer the world.

But, so often I doubt that I have something of value to offer the world. And, interesting enough, that can sometimes (or possibly often) lead me to doubting my intrinsic value as well.

When we did the auction and so much money was graciously gifted to us, it was appropriate for me to feel overwhelmed — which is exactly what I felt. It was appropriate for me to feel like we didn’t deserve the abundance that was given — because we didn’t. What was given for the auction was pure grace, a gift undeserved and freely given. And what flows out of me in response is gratitude and a heavy sense of responsibility to do right by the givers.

But, work that brings value to another is something different. Work that brings value deserves to be paid.

Here’s an interesting confession, I just edited that sentence. The first time I wrote it I wrote “When I do work that brings value to another, I deserve to be paid” and everything in me cringed. I believe that work that brings value deserves to be paid. I believe that YOUR work that brings value deserves to be paid. But I don’t believe that when I do work that brings value, I deserve to be paid. Why is that? Why is it hard for me to even write out that sentence?

This is part of the work I am doing right now, recognizing these stories. Recognizing when I come up against sentences I don’t believe, that it’s hard for me to say, or write, with a straight face, that make me want to laugh or change the subject. And, having recognized those sentences, stopping to ask, “what’s underneath that?”

I want to change my perception of money and change the story I tell myself around money and payment.

Money is not a dirty word.
Money is not something evil and debase.
Talking about money and asking for adequate compensation does not make me selfish, aggressive, masculine, un-intellectual, ungracious, un-trusting, or ungrateful.

Money is a tool, a resource, a privilege, a valid and appropriate exchange for value.

When I do work that has value for someone, I deserve to be paid and it is appropriate and right for me to ask for and talk about that compensation. It is not a conversation to be avoided, it is a conversation to be entered into with a confident assurance of my intrinsic value, based not on what others say or how much they voluntarily pay me, but on my identity as a child of God, on the skills and gifts I bring to the table, on the evidence of my experience, and the proof of my past work.

So, here’s to learning how to ask for adequate payment. Here’s to learning how to talk about money. And here’s to believing that I do really have something of value to offer the world (even when so much inside me screams that I don’t).

Grace and peace,
Bethany

“The very thing you’ve been fighting not to be your whole life is the very thing that is your genius.”

I have spent a lot of my life trying not to be what I wanted to be, trying to suppress various parts of myself. I remember in High School thinking that God must have made a mistake when making me, must have gotten some wires crossed, because something just wasn’t right.

I spent a lot of my life trying not to be the bossy little girl I was reprimanded for being as a child, trying not to be the little girl who took things too seriously and personally, who was always lost in thought, but also wasn't ever thoughtful enough about other people. Slowly, I’m realizing my seriousness isn’t something broken in me that needs to be “lightened up” — sure part of growth for me is to branch outside of this natural bent, but there’s nothing wrong with being serious or introspective.

It was not a bad thing for me to learn some patience and learn to curb my bossy (fiery) inner child, but that bossy part of me came from a good place, from a place of being able to envision things easily, make judgement calls quickly and intuitively, and a healthy desire to lead towards an ideal. Did I need to learn how to be less aggressive and demanding? Absolutely! But, did I need to tell myself a story that this part of me was wrong and bad? Did I need to force myself to hold back and shrink and kill off this part of me so much that I have a hard time accessing it now? No.

I spent a lot of my life trying not to be the little girl who dreamed of being an architect, but was convinced she wasn't good at math, who wanted to be a pastor, but was told that role was only for the men, who would rather sit quietly listening to the adults talk about theology than play dolls, and would rather spend all day with her head in a book than talk to others. I tried not to be that little girl because I didn’t really believe that she was OK. She was broken. She wanted to be things she couldn’t be. She preferred to do things others didn’t. She wasn’t quite… right.

And the truth is, I still tell myself this story. It’s the I’m-not-good-enough story. It’s the something’s-wrong-with-me-story. It’s the story that I sink into when I’m feeling like a bad mom, because I don’t like playing with my kids and I’d rather read, or have a deep conversation with an adult, or pretty much anything else. Something must be wrong with me. Why can’t I be like the other moms? I’m not like the other mom’s, so I must have been made wrong… and again I sink into the belief that God must have messed up.

But, God doesn’t mess up.

And we need all types in this world.

At least I hope so.

Recently, as I was scrolling through my IG feed I came across this quote from @scottthepainter,

“You can’t experience Divine Love if you secretly hate who you were created to be.”

Oh… right the heart, right?

Then, soon after, I came across a post from Kelsey Golden of @littlegoldencottage where I found these words

“I used to think I needed to make myself small because who I felt like I was created to be wasn’t acceptable in the social norms… You don’t need to make yourself small to fit the stereotype of what a woman ‘should’ be. Your words are valuable. Your art is valuable. Your personhood is valuable, regardless of your status of wife, mother, daughter, ‘good’ Christian, etcetera, etcetera. Don’t buy into the lies, friends. You are gorgeous in your unique, glorious, creative beauty and you are made in His image.”

Then I ran into a post from @eloranicole that shared these words,

“I am done with the lie that I cannot do what I am called to do.”

Wow. Yep, words I needed to hear.

I want to unlearn the story that I am wrong. I want to unlearn avoiding how I’m wired, or trying to change it to fit some different image. I want to try to remember who I was before the world told me it wasn’t who I should be, before the world told me it wasn’t good enough.

I want to learn to trust that God shaped me as I am, and doesn’t make mistakes.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

But the thing about shame is it’s a de-motivator, so the more time passed, the more shame I felt, and the more I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide rather than write the damn post. Shame is the worst, isn’t it?

Here’s the short of it: 

It took us awhile to figure out what would be best for our family. We’ve never had an accessible vehicle before and, with more options than we had first realized, we just weren’t sure what was best. But, we think we’ve finally found something that meets all our needs. Only problem is it’s not here in Arizona, so we’re waiting for the dealership to send it here (which will take about a week or more). Assuming it’s what we think it is once we actually see it, then we’ll buy it and we’ll be on our way!

Here’s the long of it: 

The weekend after the auction closed, I was ready to go buy something. I wanted to just get it done. I was chomping at the bit, as they say. I had done my research. I knew the dealership I wanted to go to, and I thought I knew what we needed. Then I realized there was a slight hiccup in my plan — it would take a few days for the money to transfer out of donorbox, so we couldn’t just buy something right away. 

Fine, no problem. We will just go look at cars and not buy anything yet, but that way we’ll know even more what we want. Then Sage and I got sick. 

OK, change of plans. We’ll just look on-line and do more research then we’ll go once all the money transfers out of donorbox. 

Then my sister called. She’d found an organization, The Steelman Foundation, which gave grants to families for wheelchair accessible vans and she wanted us to apply. 

“I really don’t think we’ll qualify,” I told her. I’d looked into grants before and for one reason or another we never qualified. 

“I think you should just try,” she said and explained to me that she’d already talked to someone and they would be expecting our application. Then she told me that this organization particularly liked to give to families that had already done some crowdfunding and already raised some money. Basically, what they specialize in is adding a little extra so that families can get something a little newer that will last a little longer. 

Honestly, I dragged my feet sending in the application. It felt like I had already gotten over all the hurdles to getting this vehicle and we were already at the finish line and then someone added one more hurdle. But, I knew that if we could get the grant it would be worth it and I would be grateful, so we sent in the application. 

The Steelman Foundation did a phone interview soon after, which resulted in them telling us that they’d already given all the grants they planned to give for the year, but if we could find a vehicle at this one particular dealership (the only dealership they will work with) then they might help us out. 

Sage and I were still sick, so Bryan and my brother-in-law went to the dealership to see what they could find. By this point it had already been at least two weeks since the auction closed. 

And here we ran into another snag. 

The dealership only had one rear-entry vehicle in stock here in Arizona and it only had “aftermarket 2nd row smaller seats.” This was an option we hadn’t known anything about and basically it means that the 2nd row seats were flat, narrow boards — not ideal for sitting in. Bryan came home and thus started a bunch of back and forth emails with the guy at the dealership (who really wasn’t the best communicator) and lots of confused conversations between Bryan and I about what would really be best. 

Are we sure we want a rear entry? I don’t know. I think so. 
Could we make due with the smaller seats? Maybe, we mostly just drive the kids around. But, this will be our only car and what about when your family comes to visit? 
Well, the dealership has other cars in other states. Let’s get a list. 

By this point both Bryan and I were deep in the middle of our own unhealthy psychological patterns. 

Bryan and I are both firstborns with a strong sense of responsibility. You all had been so generous and we wanted to honor that generosity by getting the best possible thing we could with that money. We didn’t want to make a poor decision. We felt a sense of responsibility to get the best possible car we could with the money we had. 

We both share a strong desire to do the right thing and make the best decision, which means that when we aren’t sure what the best decision is, we delay making a decision at all. 

In addition to that, if you’re familiar with the Enneagram, Bryan’s a 9 and I’m a 4, which might tell you everything you need to know. Basically, neither of us are good at maintaining motivation over a long period of time. 

I had put together a successful auction (something I’d never done before and had no experience with) in less than 3 weeks. I’d made decisions about the auction in a split second, without any waffling or indecision. I could see the vision and I knew how to go after it. But, two weeks later I couldn’t even make the simplest decision about how to move forward. I had completely run out of steam. 

Bryan and I also have something else in common, when we feel overwhelmed we hard core withdraw. 

Add to all this the fact that Bryan started back into cancer treatment last week and, well, the result is we’ve both been pretty slow moving in dealing with the car.

The guy from the dealership send a word document list with information about all of the cars in the country that met our requirements. Just looking at it made my eyes cross and my brain freeze. We felt more than overwhelmed, we felt paralyzed. 

I misunderstood something in the email and thought that only two of the vehicles had the normal (bigger) seats in the 2nd row, so I wrote back and asked to learn more about those two and see pictures. Pictures of the more expensive one were sent back to us, but not the other one. 

Could we afford the more expensive? Maybe, if Steelman helped. 
Should we try for that? Maybe, but what if Steelman doesn’t help? 

Paralyzed again. 

Eventually, after talking to Steelman again and pressing the guy at the dealership for more options, we learned about a 2017 Dodge with less than 30k miles on it for only $35k (around $40k once we added on tax). So, we picked that one and asked them to bring it out (it’s currently in another state) so we can test drive it. We haven’t bought it yet and it still feels like there are lots of things that could go wrong, but we’re one step closer. And at the moment, that feels like a really big deal. 

I didn’t expect the process to take this long. I’m kind of ashamed that something so little and normal as buying a car could be so overwhelming for me, especially when the hardest part (financing) was completely provided for through the generosity of others. But, this shouldn’t surprise me, this is not new for me, so often the simple, normal things are the things that feel insurmountable. I like to blame this on Bryan’s cancer diagnosis or Sage’s CP diagnosis and the background stress I constantly carry from those two things, but the truth is probably something much more complex. No matter what, the responsibility ultimately lands on me and I feel the need to apologize… to Sage, to all those who stepped in and helped us with the auction, to everyone who made donations, I’m sorry we haven’t moved more quickly on this. I’m sorry.

I expected to have a car by now, but we’re getting there and I’m hopeful that very soon we will end up with something that will last a long time and work well for us for years to come. 

Grace and peace,
Bethany

It’s a silly little thing, to put words and thoughts out into the world, but it’s a part of me. And so is authentic honesty. 

So, let me tell it like it is… I never thought I’d have an email list or send out any sort of regular newsletter (apart from the prayer emails I send out about Bryan’s cancer). If I wanted to write something, I figured I’d just write it on the blog, but then I started hearing that if you want to get published you need to have an email list. So here’s the rough honest truth, let’s get it out in the open so we can move on: I want you to sign up for my new email list, so that I can use you to help me get published someday. 

I’d rather just put that out there bluntly and let you know, rather than pretend like that isn’t the ultimate reason I’m starting an email list.

That being said, as I started to read the arguments for having an email list and sending out regular emails I found myself slowly being swayed into thinking maybe it could be about more than just having a number to tell a publisher. Because, there's an opportunity in email that feels a little different than blogging. We can maybe have a bit more of a conversation, something a little less public and a little more intimate. Or at least I hope so. 

The real reason I have never wanted to start an email list in the first place is that I have a strong hatred for spam and junk mail, and, if I’m honest, almost every newsletter I’ve ever signed up for — even the ones from people I really like — feels like a time suck. They don’t add value to my life. They are mostly full of “inspiration lite” and someone wanting to sell me something. And they generally feel thinly veiled — I know they are maintaining this list just for the possibility of selling me something at some point, but both of us pretend that isn’t the case. The whole thing just feels icky to me, but I’m realizing just because something is often like that doesn’t mean it has to always be like that.

So, I started to wonder… If having an email list is a necessary evil in order to get a publisher to be interested in your work, than how could I have an email list that allowed me to maintain some self respect?

I knew the first thing was that I wanted to create something of value, something with some meat on it’s bones, but scannable enough to be a quick read if you want it to be. If I have to have an email list, then I want it to be something I would actually enjoy reading. So, I’ve been thinking about what I would want in a newsletter and what I like in other communications with people over the internet. Here’s what I’ve come up with…

1. I like recommendations, not for the thing the person is selling, but for something that they are enjoying, something that’s making their life better. I particularly love book recommendations… and writing recommendations, and movement recommendations, and podcast recommendations, and recommendations that make life easier. 

2. For some people, those whose story I’m invested in, I like to know a bit of what’s going on in their lives and what they are thinking/learning from those happenings.

3. When I follow other writers, I like to know what they are working on, how it’s progressing, what problems they are running into, and what they are learning that’s helpful. I guess this is true for every niche group I follow, whether special needs parents, or cancer patients, or yoga instructors, I like knowing what problems they are running into, what solutions they are finding, and what they are currently dealing with. 

4. Occasionally, I like inspirational content, but I’m finding that it actually doesn’t hold a lot of long term value, not usually. It’s a bit like junk food. 

Now, my blog and social media feed at any various time will have a bit of these four already. So, what should these emails focus on? How can I make needing to have an email list to get published, into enjoying having an email list that sparks connection, and providing an email list that doesn’t just get archived right away (like more than half of the email lists I subscribe to myself)? 

I’m not entirely sure of the answer, but I think I’m going to start with not sending something out so often that I have to scrap the barrel for content. I want to send out something nutrient rich and filling, not junk food or a piece of candy, and nutrient rich takes time. 

So, for now this will only be a quarterly email. Four emails a year packed full of… what? 

Well, I think a little of all four of the things I listed above. Particularly heavy on the recommendations (things I’m reading, watching, listening to, etc), with a bit of a quick life update maybe attached to some of my thoughts about that season of life, a little bit about my work and writing life — how I’m experimenting with that and what I’m learning in the process — and maybe a very small smidgen of inspiration now and then. 

So, here’s the deal. If this sounds like something you’d like (and if you’d like to help me in my long-term goal of getting a publishing house to pay any attention to me) sign up for my email list below. But please, don’t sign up if you don’t think it’s something you’ll read, or if you already have twenty thousand emails you subscribe to and your inbox is full — you don’t need one more unopened email in your inbox! Really, you don’t. And I have no desire to add stress or empty content or unnecessary thought clutter to your life! Really, I don’t. 

If you decide to join me on this email newsletter journey, the first one will go out on September 30th. It’s already half written and I’m starting to feel really excited about it. Also, for the next few months I’m giving away the first few chapters of my e-book, On Creativity, to anyone who signs up because that’s what people do when they start an email list, right? And also because I’m still amazed that anyone ever reads my words and I truly do want to thank you in some way for joining me on this little email list experiment :)

Grace and peace,
Bethany

I know I was a difficult child. My parents made no effort to hide the fact that they struggled with me as a kid. My dad used to like to tell the story of the time we first visited New York and I was jumping off the walls so much he had to hold me down to keep me still and get me to fall asleep. I was about six. Then there was the time when I broke my milk cartoon bird house over the head of another student at school. I was about seven then. I was “strong willed”, “too sensitive”, bossy, stubborn, argumentative, unfocused. I was not an easy child.

And I have a son just like me.

When Thad was young there were moments when I thought he would literally drive me crazy. I used to say, “Sage is non-verbal, and non-mobile, but Thad is my difficult child.” At various times I would become convinced that he had ADHD, or was maybe even on the spectrum. But, I never had him tested, because….well, with everything else in our lives, it never felt urgent. Thad was fine.

Until this last year.

Last year he started having problems at school. Mostly behavioral, but I could see his grades weren’t quite what they used to be either. He hated school, struggled with his teachers constantly, and was regularly in trouble. He was frustrated. His teachers were frustrated. And I tried to brush it off as something that would just get better on it’s own.

Then at the end of the year someone from the school called and asked about having some testing done. She and I had a very honest conversation and by the end of it I knew I couldn’t brush this off. I had been failing Thad in the face of everything else going on with Bryan and Sage. It was time to do something.

So, I made an appointment with a psychologist.

Bryan and I went and talked with them, and then filled out a bunch of assessments. Thaddeus spent half a day with them taking tests and playing games. At the end of it all we were given two things, one a diagnosis that my gut had already known, but my brain needed time to process, and the other a surprise.

Thaddeus was diagnosed with ADHD.

This was not a surprise. We already suspected as much. But, it still took me awhile to be able to process it. When it was just a suspicion it was something I could ignore. Now that I had an official diagnosis in writing, I knew I couldn’t ignore it.

For the first few weeks, I couldn’t read the assessment. It just felt too overwhelming. I couldn’t deal with one more thing I had to figure out, learn about, advocate for. I just couldn’t. Gradually, as I became more comfortable with the idea, I became relieved and grateful that we did this testing and that we do have this diagnosis. A whole new world of resources and help has opened up for us. Help I didn’t know existed when Thad was young and driving me crazy. Help I wish I had known about sooner.

I can’t beat myself up for the past. What’s done is done. But, now, I do wish that we had done this testing sooner. I wish I had known some of these things about how his brain works when he was younger.

I’m glad I know now.

The second thing to come out of this testing was a surprise, that wasn’t fully a surprise to me either, although the extent of it sort of came as a shock.

We’ve always known Thad was smart. But now we know he’s really smart. The psychologist said Thad tested in the top 1% for his age and even tested out of the vocab test he gave. Of course, any parent loves to hear that their kid is smart, but there’s also a level of panic that comes with hearing your kid is this smart.

How do we deal with that? How do we encourage that, without overbuilding ego or pride? How do you parent when your child can already use reason and logic against you and isn’t satisfied with anything short of a fool proof argument for why he can or can’t do something? I really don’t know.

Bryan and I sometimes joke that cancer is the worst club with the best people. Getting a diagnosis can feel like joining a club you didn’t have a choice in joining. And it feels a bit like we joined two more clubs we didn’t have a choice in joining this summer. The ADHD club and the exceptionally smart club. Hey, they’re way better than the cancer club, but it still feels a bit like being thrown into the deep end when you don’t know how to swim.

So, here’s to figuring out how to swim in these new waters, getting the lay of the land in this new club, and to throwing out the term “difficult” and embracing Thad for all the wonderful complexity that is him.

Grace and peace,
Bethany

This week, when Sage turned eight I decided to go back and do a bit of editing and revision on that old piece of poetry.

This was the result…

As a smudge stick

Native Americans have an old ritual, 
they call it smudging - not a great name I know. 
But by it, they cleanse a space, 
A room, 
a person. 
And they do it with sage. 
That sweet tasting treasure of the Italian's, 
That herb whose name means 'to heal', 
of which one writer in the 1500's said
"such is the virtue of sage 
that if it were possible, 
it would make a man immortal.” 
Immortal! 
And so they take this herb, 
This magical sage 
And bundle the leaves together into a stick 
The smudge stick 
And they light it aflame, 
And squelch the fire.
The smoke rises up, 
circling its way around the space, 
expanding 
filling 
driving out the negative, 
the undesired, 
the evil, 
trading it for the sweet smell of leaves grown out of earth 
leaves given life by the light of the sun. 
You, Sage, have been for me as a smudge stick 
you burn and yet you cleanse. 
2920  days you have been with me. 
2920  roller-coaster days 
Days filled with fear
Surrounded by diagnosis after diagnosis. 
Seasons changing in the blink of an eye
Days of weary bones,
Nights of aching muscles
And moments, 
every moment 
Bursting with tenderness. 
Into this your fragrance penetrates 
The cleansing smoke of your sweet presence rises up,
Expands,
Fills the space 
The sweet fragrance of your soul
Does it’s work 
The same work of the herb by which you’re named
To drive out, to eradicate, To replace and fill. 
To heal. 
And while your mother panics 
And your father fights 
You smile. 
Out of large curious eyes
a soul filled with stardust shines
Fresh, like herb crushed between fingers,
Like babies just opening their eyes
Like the swell of sunlight as it first breaks over the horizon. 
And though wordless 
you sing, 
A song of beauty and hope 
a song of praise. 
Praise for the one who hears the cries of the wordless. 
Praise for the one who runs to the immobile. 
Praise for the one who set the stars in their place 
and guards the souls 
of those who cannot guard themselves. 
Praise. 
Praise. 
Praise. 
Praise for the darkness and the light. 
Praise for the little girl I asked not to have. 
For by you, 
By the twinkle of knowing in your eyes, 
And the smile that dances across your lips 
God has blown holy smoke into my soul 
And healing fragrance has come into all our lives.

Grace and peace,
Bethany