I'm Just Sayin'

THINGS I LEARNED IN 2015

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 16:19:00 +0000

THINGS I LEARNED IN 2015

Having a teenager in the house is quite fun and entertaining, despite what I'd been told. (People said the terrible twos would be a nightmare, and I loved that stage, too. So I guess I've learned not to heed the grim warnings about the allegedly horrible stages of child development. I'm the imperfect mom of an imperfect kid -- and I love him big and I'm just enjoying the ride.)

The harsh, judgy thoughts that I assume others have toward me are pretty much never legit. And life simply goes better for me when I don't behave as though they are.

The two most life-changing and impactful decisions we can ever make for ourselves: 1) God is real (even when we doubt) and 2) God is good (even when we don't understand).

Refusing to hope does not protect us from disappointment -- rather, it pretty much guarantees us a disappointing life.

Gratitude is a choice, and recent research has shown that gratefulness actually changes our brains and helps to balance neurotransmitter activity. The coolest part: The brain-balancing benefits are not dependent upon us actually finding something specific for which to be grateful; it is through the process of searching that the healing and rebalancing occurs. (I love when science catches up with Biblical wisdom.)

Hope deferred is still hope. ("Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." Proverbs 13:12)

The scriptures tell us that God is love. And up until early last Spring, I had always blown right past the truth of that. God IS love. Therefore, any time in my life when I have felt or experienced love, I have felt and experienced God. This simple, foundational truth has impacted me profoundly this year; it has shown me the lengths to which God has gone to reveal Himself and His love to me. And some of you have been the human vessels through which He has done this -- and I am so, so grateful.

It is possible to go a full calendar year without health insurance. But not advisable. (It is also possible to go a full calendar year without getting a speeding ticket. Who knew?)

Food sensitivities are a very real thing. Working with an integrative physician to discover mine has been life-changing. (Average number of headache days per month in 2014: twenty plus. Average number of headache days per month in 2015: Three. THANK YOU, GOD.)

Forgiveness always begins in truth. We cannot forgive others until we are able to understand (and willing to admit) that we were wronged.

When we invite God into our pain and get real (instead of "polite") with Him, our seasons of deepest pain can become our seasons of most enduring growth.

Lesson learned the hard way: If you happen to be a perfectionist, a Type A personality, or a classic firstborn child, seek first to KNOW God rather than to PLEASE God. (Don't go for the A+. He isn't even grading you, as much as you wish He would.) Stop trying to impress Him with your good behavior, your eloquence, or your manners. And when you pray, don't tell Him only what you think He wants to hear. We don't want OUR kids to do that; we want them to TALK to us. Same with Father God. He wants relationship with us. If He wanted trained monkeys instead of sons and daughters, He wouldn't have given us unique personalities or free will (or hormones, for that matter).

Turns out the people who love me most are not all that concerned about whether my bathrooms are clean. They aren't impressed by fresh vacuum lines on my carpet. And if they know I've just frantically cleaned or straightened up because they were coming over, the ones who really love me will call me a dork and deliberately mess up the couch cushions.

Morrow's Law: Errands, tasks, and commutes will always take approximately twice as long as I think they will.

Being a parent is humbling. In Jaden's own words, "Mom, you think you know things but you don't."

The healing powers of probiotics are way overlooked and underrated. If you would've told me a year ago that I'd be culturing my own kefir for the health benefits, I would've laughed and called you a dirty hippie. Alas, I just bought cheesecloth for that very purpose. Ain't life a trip?

Steady-state cardio is way overrated. Strength training can also have cardio benefits if done the right way, and is time far better spent in the gym... Said the girl whose trainer grounded her from the treadmill last February. (Best. Punishment. Ever.)

If you let your crockpot "soak" overnight (which we all know is code for "I'm too tired/lazy to finish doing the dishes"), everything you make in it for the next year will taste like soap. So consider the cost.

Shared brokenness builds bridges where pretend wholeness never could.

The weather outside may be frightful, but be mindful of where you tuck your instant hand-and-body warmers -- or airport security will suspect you of trafficking tiny bags of cocaine in your bra.

No matter how cynical, jaded, and overly cautious the wounds of your past may have made you, never say never. ("Never" is a word that God often seems to invite us to eat. And He's still God and I'm still not -- so really, what do I know?)

****

Here's to another lap around the sun in 2016… Let's be careful out there, kids, and make it a good one!

XOXO,

Jena

Learning to Love the Mom in the Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 21:24:00 +0000

Author note: The following was written as my guest post for my friend, author Emily Wierenga. I invite you to visit the original post on Emily's blog, and to spend some time there; she's doing amazing things and featuring some wonderful people! Original post can be found here: http://www.emilywierenga.com/2013/04/the-love-dare-on-how-god-sees-us-as.html

All my life I had dreamed of becoming a mommy. It wasn't my only dream, but it was certainly the most important dream in my little girl heart. I was the child who never went anywhere without a baby doll tucked under my arm -- and I wasn't the type to toss my baby doll aside when the ice cream man came down the street or when my favorite TV show came on. No, Annie came along with me, and I included her in every detail. It mattered to me what Annie wanted from the ice cream man (snow cones were her favorite) and if she understood the jokes in that week's episode of Punky Brewster (and as I recall, I often had to explain them to her).

Some women come into motherhood by accident, and others are ambivalent throughout their young adult lives about whether or not they want children. And both of these types of women can become amazing mothers despite how they come into the role. But for me, as sappy as it may sound, I had always believed I was born to be a wife and a mom, and I had it penned into my life checklist early on: Finish undergrad (majoring in Music Education) by 22, by which time I would have met Mr. Right (who would also be an education major so we could teach in the same school district, which would be adorable); get married by 23, take two years for grad school, and be blissfully pregnant by age 25 with my MA on the wall and my hunky husband at my side. Then we'd have our second child two years later, and if we had the finances and the energy, a third two years after that. Voila: two degrees, a fulfilling career, a healthy marriage, and three kiddos -- and all in time for my 30th birthday. Nothin' to it.

I once read a bumper sticker that said "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." And while I don't believe for a minute that our compassionate, perfect Father laughs at our dreams and plans, He certainly doesn't seem to hesitate to rearrange them for our good.

My carefully calculated life plan had derailed before I was even to have completed step one. There was no undergrad degree by age 22, because the anorexia that had chased me all my adolescent life had caught up to me by age 18 and nearly killed me. Instead, I found myself hospitalized for most of 1996, with a tube in my nose and a weight on my heart far heavier than the sad, sickly weight on the scale. I left the hospital the day before my 19th birthday, owing around four hundred thousand dollars in treatment costs. There would be no college -- and worse, within six weeks of my discharge from treatment, I had lost thirty of the forty pounds that had been put on me. I had gained the necessary weight, but I had not learned to feed myself -- because I had not learned to love myself.

Fast forward just a few years, to age 24. Steps one and two of my checklist had not come to pass, and as I approached 25 -- the age by which I HAD to be married and pregnant -- I panicked. I met a guy at church, and figured that since my pastor approved of him and we quickly became the iconic church couple, mascots almost, surely God would bless our union despite the fact that we were completely wrong for one another and both brought unresolved emotional baggage into the marriage. I mean, we met at church; if it didn't work out, that would make God look bad.

For a few months, the courtship was exciting. Even though I wasn't in love with my fiancé, I was madly in love with the idea of marriage and family. My dream was coming true -- even if I had to force it. And since I wanted children and felt I was running out of time (according to my checklist), I began eating healthily and increased my food intake enough to restore myself to a healthy weight. A grown-up weight. A mommy weight. I absolutely hated my body during this time --but I believed this was the one thing that meant more to me than the sense of control I felt from starving myself. In exchange for the fulfilled dream of marriage and family, I would surrender.

The naive little girl inside of me, still clutching her original childhood dream for dear life, cried tears of grief and confusion when the honeymoon ended before it had ever begun, and the marriage became unsafe. This was not the plan. What had I done wrong? But in the midst of my darkest hour, I was to meet my greatest joy. A month into our marriage, we were expecting a baby.

Those around me were unsure how pregnancy would effect me, having never made peace with my body image before the pregnancy began. But to their surprise and my delight, I loved every minute. As I wrote years later in my memoir, Hollow, "This expanding, itching, stretching, round, swollen body of mine was suddenly a great pleasure to me. The same body I hated and despaired of and punished and starved and cut and cursed for years was now doing me the ultimate favor, by fostering life and turning me into something I had always wanted to be: someone's mom."

The challenge to love the mom in the mirror came after my son was born. By the time my son was eight months old, his father and I had separated. And while we worked to reconcile through marital counseling, it was becoming progressively clear to me that I was going to be a divorced woman.

A divorced woman. A single mother. A divorced single mother who never went to college. The checklist had been abandoned. And in my rigid perfectionist mind, the same mind that had driven me to starve myself for so many years, I was a failure. It was then that it became especially hard to look at myself in the mirror.

But the story gets brighter. It always does, at some point, friends -- because we have a God whose love pursues us tenaciously and tirelessly.

In the darkest time of despair, when I was hardest on myself for having seemingly ruined everything, God provided me with moments of peace that were as overwhelming as they were fleeting. They usually occurred in the quiet moments of nursing my baby boy. Nursing infants have a way of communicating love to their mothers in such a way that even I could not argue with the force of that love. My baby needed me -- but beyond that, he longed for me. He was jealous for me. He wanted to be near to me, to feel my heart beat next to his.

Credit the hormones if you must, but those moments became spiritual experiences for me. They reminded me that God Himself is jealous for me. Longs for me. Wants to be near enough that my heart can begin to beat in sync with His. I could not love "the mom in the mirror" on my own; I needed to borrow from the love that God had for me. I had made terrible, life-altering mistakes -- and none of them had shaken or even touched His love for me. My checklist had never mattered to Him, in that He had never had such rigid standards for me as I had had for myself.

My baby boy, Jaden, didn't care that his mommy only had a high school education. He didn't care that his mommy was carrying a little post-baby weight; in fact, if anything, he rather enjoyed it because those were the pounds of selfless love which allowed him to be fed and nurtured. When Jaden looked at me, both then and now, he didn't see an imperfect body to be tweaked and sculpted or a failure at life in general. He sees his mom. He looks at me through love.

When God looked at me, both then and now and forever and always, he sees His daughter. He looks at me through love and through the blood of Jesus, which has erased the sin of those life-altering mistakes of mine.

My son is eleven years old now. I never had another child, never remarried. I still get angry at the mom in the mirror sometimes -- and it is in those moments that I know what has happened: I've moved away from God, and I need to scoot back over to where I can hear His heart beat.

His heartbeat always sounds the same: You. Are. Loved. You. Are. Mine.

My part is simply to take His word for it.

What Matters Most

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 19:49:00 +0000

Ever have one of those reality checks where, in a single moment, you realize how short life is, how precious and limited our time on earth, and how stupid you've been about how you have been spending it? Yeah, me too. In modern parlance, I believe it is best described like this: *facepalm*

I had one such moment last week, as I checked on my son before heading to bed late one night. My Facebook status that night seemed to strike a chord in the heart of many folks on my friends list -- 84 of whom were moved enough to click "like." Clearly, there was some solidarity expressed in response to these words:

Went in one more time to check on my kid before I went to bed --- and just stood there and watched him sleep for a few minutes. He seems somehow taller than he was this morning. This boy is a handful. He is sharp and funny and complicated and moody and tender and talented and way too smart for his own good sometimes... He has the capacity to both infuriate me and melt me into a puddle. He is a part of my heart, walking around outside my body for the past eleven years. He is my miracle -- and yet he isn't "mine" at all. I do not own him; he is on loan to me from God, entrusted to me for an all-too-brief season called childhood. And right now, in this moment, I would humbly ask God to please slow down time...

Sometimes, I still picture him this way in my head . . .

Where has the time gone??

I've been thinking about this since last week -- both my feeling of desperately wanting to slow down the passing of time, and the strong response others had to my sentiments. Both of these things have helped to solidify a commitent I made to myself on January 1st of this year: In 2013, I will do my conscious best to focus on what matters most. I do not believe in setting resolutions because let's face it, we all know what a New Year's Resolution really is: A to-do list for the first week of the year. A set-up for failure -- and for the self-imposed guilt and condemnation that inevitably follows.

Please . . . Ain't nobody got time for that.

Instead, this year, I am setting a theme for 2013: Priorities.

Blame it on a lack of discipline, or a childish wanderlust of the mind, or perhaps the ADD with which I was diagnosed in my teen years -- but the ugly truth of the matter is that I am very easily distracted from my priorities, and I lose sight of what matters most more often than not. I am all too easily led astray by the demands of others (which usually can wait), the allure of gossip (note: in churchy circles, this is often disguised as a "prayer request" on behalf of someone else. Be careful!), or by my obsession of the moment, which is often something as frivolous and temporal and self-focused as the current circumference of my thighs). So what's a distractable gal to do?

Start over.
And over.
And over again.

Well, actually, that's step one. Step two is a little harder:

Forgive yourself.
Again.
And again.

I'm working on it. I'm not necessarily off to a flawless start, but that shouldn't really matter since I've removed "achieve perfection in all things" from my list of priorities for 2013.

So, what does matter most? Good question -- and our answers will vary. But answering that question for ourselves is a great place to start. For me, that night last week when I realized that my baby boy has become a young man in what seemed like the blink of an eye, I knew that one thing that matters to me is enjoying my current assignment in life as Jaden's mom. These years are blazing by -- and while photographs are great at capturing a moment, they cannot freeze time. I quote the great 1980's philosopher Ferris Bueller: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

So, this is me, stopping. This is me, admitting that I'd forgotten to look around. This is me reminding myself: I don't wanna miss a thing.

And this is me hoping you might just stop and do the same.

To the Last Virgins Standing: a guest post by author Emily Wierenga

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 18:33:00 +0000

Jena's note: Friends, I could not be more excited to share with you this post today, reprinted by gracious permission of my friend and fellow author, Emily Wierenga. The piece you are about to read is 32-year-old Emily's letter to her sixteen-year-old self. When I read it, it brought me to tears, and I believe it will touch many of you in a similar -- or perhaps entirely different -- way. I will not cheapen it with a lengthy introduction, but rather let Emily's beautiful prose speak for itself; suffice it to say, she is the real deal, and it is my prayer is that her heart, through these words, will make its way through to yours.

Dear sixteen-year-old Emily,

In a few days Brent will dump you. The coolest guy in school. A basketball star. And you will wonder if you should have let him. If you should have pulled the Kleenex from your bra and the bra from your body and let him.

But you didn’t, and I know you feel like the last virgin standing —

but you’re not. In two years you’ll meet a man at Bible School–a place you said you’d never meet anyone because it’s too cliche–who is waiting for you. Who’s only kissed two other girls, who will wait six months to kiss you (his Dutch grandmother will kiss you on your lips before he does) and the only time you’ll ever see him cry will be when you tell him what you’ve done with other boys.

He’ll cry because he wants to marry you. And even though you didn’t ever let anyone make it home, they still tried to round the bases. And he’s waited his whole life to hold your hand.

Shortly after he dumps you, Brent will get another girl pregnant and they’ll have a baby together.

It’s not worth undoing your buttons for, honey.

In a few days your mother will hear you sobbing on your bed, after he breaks up with you in the courtyard of the school because “you’re just too nice,” he’ll say.

She’ll knock on your bedroom door and bring you a bouquet of red roses, and when you take them from her, your fingers will bleed a little, just like your body will on your wedding night, when you give it away to the Bible School boy who dressed up in his army uniform and showed up on your doorstep and asked you to take a walk with him.

The boy who will teach you not to be afraid. The boy who will kiss you, finally, in the rain. The boy who will hold you while you can’t sleep for the insomnia and the anorexia and the anxiety, the boy who will bring you ice chips as you give birth to the first of two sons, the boy who will ask you to take walks with him every day of your life, for the rest of your life, till death do us part.

Dear past self, in a few days you’ll be crying on your bed —

while your mum holds you and you grip a bouquet of bloody roses. But this too shall pass. Don’t remove that purity ring. Because it’s more than a ring. It’s a declaration that you believe in the kind of love that saves. A salvation kind of love. A love that lasts longer than a few dates and a few passionate make-out sessions.

The world has all but given up on that kind of love. And in a few years, your boy and you will share with a bunch of Young Life students about how you waited. And they’ll ask if you wonder what you missed out on, by having sex with only one person.

And you’ll look at them and say, Do you know what you miss by having sex with more than one person? Have you ever wondered what it’s like to know that the person you’re with has only ever seen and touched you? That when they make love with you, they’re only thinking about you, and that you’re beyond compare?

Then you’ll take each other’s hand.

Yes, you will say. We’re glad we waited.

And the students won’t respond, but in their hearts, perhaps they’ll be applauding.

For the last virgins standing.

Love,
Your Future Self, at 32.

(See original post here: http://www.prodigalmagazine.com/last-virgins-standing/)

Emily Wierenga

Emily Wierenga is a wife, mother, artist and the author of Chasing Silhouettes: How to help a Loved One Battling an Eating Disorder, and Mom in the Mirror: Body Image, Beauty and Life After Pregnancy (releasing Mother’s Day 2013). For more info, please visit www.emilywierenga.com. Find her on Twitter or Facebook

This Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 15:48:00 +0000

I'm a bottle of water
Thrown into the ocean
You're in me, around me, and through

You fill me and hold me
And shape me and mould me
You contain me, yet I contain You

Reveal to me
This mystery
I long to comprehend

How You can be
Inside of me
Savior, Master, Friend

Reprinted by request: "The Best of Jadenisms"

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 04:21:00 +0000

Okay, people, you've been asking for it . . .

For over three years now, my Facebook friends and followers have been encouraging me to write a book of "Jadenisms" -- quips and quotes from my sharp-tongued son, Jaden. I found a way to search archives of my Facebook statuses dating back to 2009, and compiled the following list both for posterity and for your amusement. As for me, I get to live with this kid; my biggest challenge is knowing when to laugh and when to wash his mouth out with soap.

Without further ado . . .

The Best of Jadenisms, 2009 through 2012:

"Mom, you're pretty. (pause) No, I mean it, you're actually kind of pretty. I don't know why guys aren't just gagging all over you." (age 6)

"Mom, can I have some strawberry milk?" (Me: How do you ask politely?) "Can I have some strawberry milk . . . if it be thy will?"

Jaden to Spike (the cat), who was freaked out by fireworks on July 4, 2009: "Aw, don't worry, Spikey. Relax, boy . . . it was just a bomb."

(Talking to himself in the mirror, age 6, as he wiggled his first loose tooth: "You got this, Jaden. Just grab and pull. Gotta take this like a man, damn it." (I really can't remember how I disciplined him for the swearing . . . )

Stylist told Jaden he had the thickest hair she'd ever seen on a seven-year-old boy. Jaden replied, "Oh, don't be so melon-dramatic."

Jena to Jaden: "Get your fingers outta the peanut butter jar!" Anne to Jaden: "Go get a spoon and I'll make you a peanut butter lollipop like Pastor Clem likes to eat." Jaden to Anne: "Miss Anne, I need more women like you in my life."

Second grade math homework assignment asked the students to write a math story problem and show the equation. Jaden wrote "Mom + Dad = Baby." He likes to think outside the box.

Jena to 7-year-old Jaden: "Please take the garbage out and put your bike away." (Jaden rolls eyes.) Jena to Jaden: "Remember, I let you live in my belly, rent-free, for nine months..." Jaden to Jena: "Fine, mother. I'll go get my checkbook."

Jaden to Jena after putting up their Christmas tree, 2009: "Mom, I hope this doesn't make me sound too girly, but can we just turn off all the lights and lay under the Christmas tree and just . . . talk about our feelings?"

Jena, while making vegetable soup, said to Jaden, "I wish you would be my taste tester. This soup needs something." Jaden replied, "Mom, I'm not gonna taste that soup, but I will tell you what it needs: meat."

Another one for the books... Jena: "Do you understand why you were sent to your room?" Jaden: "Because you have no patience today."

I was just torturing Jaden by pinching his cheek, and he yelled, "Help! This is kid adultery!" (I, uh, think he meant 'child abuse.')

Me: "Argh; she left my hair longer on one side than the other." Jaden: "Welcome to the real world, Mom. Nothing in life is perfect."

Jaden woke up singing "Blessed Be the Name of the Lord", so I asked him what he had been dreaming about. He told me: Darth Sideous, dolphins, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Of course.

My parents have been divorced for 28 years. Tonight is my dad's birthday celebration, and Jaden told my mom she should go because "after all, he's your long lost husband."

Jaden (singing): "I could really use a wish right now..." Me: "What would you wish for?" Jaden: "That this would be an all-girls school but they'd let me in anyway."

Jaden: "Mom, can the average man lick his own armpit?" Me: "Ummm... I don't think so." Jaden: "I knew it; I'm talented!"

Jaden: "I would never want to be a teacher. You have to get to school at like 6AM to grade papers, plus you never get to pee. Mrs. Deeter literally NEVER pees. It's freaky."

Me: "So, what goes on at a boys' sleepover?" Jaden: "Can't tell; it's part of the Guy Code." Me: "What's the Guy Code?" Jaden: "Can't say; that's classified information."

Me; "How was your day?" Jaden: "Good." Me: "What did you learn?" Jaden: "Nothing." Me: "What did you play in gym?" Jaden: "Mom, I get it; you care about my day. I'm just tired of speaking."

Jaden and Jackson are wrestling upstairs. Me to Jaden: "Please don't kill each other." Jaden to me: "Is it okay if we badly injure one another?"

Jaden: "Okay, from now on, we're all gonna get along and stop arguing. So let's just, I don't know... pretend to be other people."

Jaden: "I mean, what if there is no Santa? What if all those presents are just dropped off by some guy named, like, Bob Shinkenheimer?"

Just had to have the Great Inevitable Santa Talk with Jaden. His response: "That explains why I never get coal even though I'm bad every year!"

Jaden, at bedtime on the eve of back-to-school: "Not... Feeling so well... I don't think... I'm gonna pull through..." *Falls to floor*

Jaden: "I can't go to school today. I'm not throwing up anymore, but I think I have Brownchitus." *fake cough*

Me: "Jaden, you are not leaving this house until you brush those teeth." Jaden: "Come ON, Mom. I promise I won't smile at anyone today. No one will know."

So, my work is hiring RNs, and offering a referral bonus. Mom suggested a friend of ours, but I said "she hasn't nursed in a while" -- to which Jaden replied, "Not from the looks of things; she doesn't even have kids!" *slaps forehead*

Jaden: "Alexis' sister Alyssa almost broke my thumb today. I should have told the teacher, but I figured that might ruin my chances with Alexis. So I make sacrifices; big deal."

Jaden: "A teacher at my school had a baby two days ago. He's a boy and his name is Cameron. Or Henry. Definitely either Cameron or Henry."

Jaden: "What if we switched bodies while we were sleeping?" Me: "You wouldn't like it. You'd have to be a girl." Jaden: "Yeah, but YOU would have puberty all over again, so the joke's on you."

So the boy has Strep. When the doc told Jaders he was contagious, he goes, "Do I have to wear a cone on my head?"

Jaden: "I heard on TV that our president keeps giving Mexican people free stuff. I'M Mexican! I know I don't look like it, but geez, take a blood test!"

Jaden: "I saw a teacher from my school when we were in Target. She was looking at fancy dresses and holding a bra. My guess is she has a date with that special someone tonight. (Deep breath) Awwwwwkwarrrrd."

My kid was crabby today, but he just made an amends: "I know I was in a bad mood today. Sorry. I think I have boy PMS."

Got a letter in the mail informing me that Jaden has been accepted into the accelerated programs for math and language arts. His response: "Oh, great. Now I'm gonna have to think."

Jaden: "Mom, please have another baby, and make sure she's a girl." Me: "I tried to make sure you were a girl; didn't work." Jaden: "That's just cuz Dad is so hormonal."

My mom to Jaden the night before the dog was to be neutured: "Tomorrow morning is Toby's surgery." Jaden: "That's okay, Toby. Sooner or later, we'll all get our b---s cut off." (Um... WHAT?! Should I laugh or ground the kid?)

I'm trying to raise this boy into a proper young man. Y'all pray for me!

TOP TEN SIGNS THAT YOU NEED MORE REST (from personal experience)

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 13:10:00 +0000

10) You've talked yourself into believing that Red Bull actually tastes good in lieu of the milk you once used in your Wheaties.

9) Drinking coffee will no longer suffice; you must now keep a stash of coffee grounds inside your lower lip, and you tell yourself that maybe carrying a spitoon will be considered classy one day.

8) You've mastered the art of resting one eye at a time -- while driving.

7) When you finally climb into bed late one night, you find a stranger sleeping there -- and your bed actually says to you, "Look, it's been a while. I assumed we were seeing other people."

6) You consider putting it in your will to have your tombstone say, "Asleep at last -- DO NOT DISTURB!!!"

5) The last time you completed a thought was

4) (See what I mean?)

3) You've considered buying a medic alert bracelet and having it engraved with the word 'narcolepsy' -- so that when you nod off while someone is talking to you, they won't think you rude.

2) Every time you pass a Rest Stop along the highway, you bitterly shake your fist at all the sleeping truckers as you lay on your horn.

1) And the number one way to know you need more rest: You started work three hours ago and reading some snarky chick's blog is the only thing you've really accomplished.

No More Prayer-as-Usual . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 01:38:00 +0000

Someday I think I might write a book entitled Everything I Need to Know About Authentic Prayer I Learned From My Moody Fifth-Grader. I never have to guess how Jaden is feeling toward me; when he’s angry, it isn’t a mystery. When he’s sad or disappointed or any other variation of bummed-out, he says so. I’m sure he may become more and more enigmatic as puberty moves in like an intrusive houseguest over the next few years, but for now, Jaden still seems to want me to know when he’s upset. And why? Because I’m his parent -- and while I seem to become less cool by the day in his opinion, he still believes on some level that I am capable of kissing his (emotional) boo-boos.

Motherhood has helped me, over the years, to understand Father God just a little bit better. I am now better able to identify with Him as “parent” – as One who allows circumstances to befall me, allows life to happen to me in all its complexity, so that I will learn and grow and develop character, etc. But don’t be too impressed; that’s a very tidy description of a very messy process.

Unconsciously taking a few pointers from my ten-year-old and his shameless emotional transparency when in distress, I guess I’ve changed up my prayer life a bit in recent weeks. For many years, somewhat unknowingly, I had adhered to a respectful, albeit formulaic, method of communication with God, most often probably adhering to the A.C.T.S. (Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication) structure that so many of us were taught in Sunday School. And while I believe it’s important to praise and confess and enter into God’s presence with gratitude, I guess I just . . . had enough. I had to get real. Truth? It hasn’t been pretty.

And I thank God for that. Seriously. Because I think I’m finally catching on about what it means to approach Him as a child, just as Jaden approaches me – and it is far less polite than prayer-as-usual. When my kid has an issue – especially an issue with me – he walks right in and lays it out on the table, daring me to do something about it. And yes, he’s ten, and some of his approach might have to do with a ten-year-old’s capacity for impulse control. But nevertheless, it’s honest – and that’s what I want to be. In fact, at this point in my journey, I don’t feel like I can afford to be anything less.

Prayers lately look like this: “God, where were You when . . .?” and “How could You . . . ?” and even “How dare You . . . ?” Bold, I know. Shocking? Not to my Father. He knows me. He knows what is really in my heart and on my mind, ugly as it is sometimes. And he welcomes my outbursts. He can work with brutal honesty. It’s the pious politeness – censorship, really – that ties His hands. He won’t force me to get real with Him. He receives me as I come to Him, He listens as I spout off my pre-cleaned, sanitized sentiments, seeing my heart all the while – and He waits. For me to lose the mask. For me to get real. Maybe even for me to get mad.

I often hear women say to me, “I’m really mad at God, and I know that’s wrong.” Whoa. Hold the phone; where’d we get that idea? Read the Psalms. David was one emotional dude; the Psalms read like a rapid-cycling bipolar diary. And yet we read that David was a man after God’s own heart. God was especially fond of David – and I suspect that it was his emotional transparency that God found so endearing. He was mad at God a lot – and he never really pulled any punches or minced any words. And now we have this amazing chronicle of one man’s journey with God, and it gives us permission, in a way, to get real. Or, at least, it does for me.

So, here it is, shocking or not: I’m mad at God. For a lot of things. I’m disappointed. I’m confused. I disagree with Him on several points, and we’re duking it out, Him and me.

A friend asked me yesterday, with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow: “How are you doing, really?” And I answered her slowly, carefully: “I am wrestling with God. And it’s . . . okay. It’s a worthy struggle.”

And I think . . . I think I really believe that. I’d rather be shaking my fist at God, fully relying on the unlimited access I’ve been granted through Jesus, than to be poised and proper, hands folded into a very prim, pretty, tightly-clasped lie. Truth is, things between God and me are not all that smooth right now. There’s some tension. There’s disagreement. The air is not yet clear. But, we are on speaking terms. No more silent treatment. It’s raw, it’s ugly, and it doesn’t feel good. I feel out of control.

And that's something He can work with.

Learnin' Lessons . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 19:45:00 +0000

Okay, okay -- so I've dropped the blogging ball lately. I admit it. I have a problem -- and admitting we have a problem is the first step to change, right? Right. My problem is this: I start strong and finish poorly -- in pretty much everything I do. So, somewhere in the middle of a thing, I need to intentionally give myself a check-up from the neck-up and turn it back around.

Wanna know how I know this about myself? Because I've slipped up a lot, and dropped a lot of balls. And every slip-up is an opportunity to learn something. Which leads (almost seamlessly!) into this blog of mine from last year that the amazing Constance Rhodes asked to feature over at the FINDINGbalance blog this week (nice segue-way, huh?). Do me a favor and check it out -- and while you do that, I'll start thinking about actually writing some fresh material for this blog again. I mean, it could happen.

http://www.findingbalance.com/2012/08/top-10-life-lessons-i-learned-by-age-35/

Because there is still time before Labor Day . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 20:49:00 +0000

Seriously, people . . . Where has this Summer GONE? This one has to have been the busiest -- and shortest -- Summer on record. And it is with much regret and a heavily bummed heart that I tell you that I made it to the beach a whopping ONE TIME this season (in part due to the fact that my offspring spent the first half of Summer in a full-arm cast, and dragging him to the beach to watch me play might have been cruel and unusual punishment).

Anyway, enough about ME; what about YOU? Did you take time to play in the sand this Summer? If not, it isn't too late . . . And, because I used to be so diligent about reposting my guest blogs and columns here and I have majorly slacked off in the past year (I'd insert a masterfully crafted excuse here, had I such an excuse), I shall use this, the penultimate week of beach season, to repost an offering I wrote back in July (link below). Huge thanks to Dr. Maria Rago (author of "Shut Up, Skinny Bitches", which I urge you to go buy and read) for inviting me to contribute to her blog. (And huge amends to Dr. Maria Rago for neglecting to re-post it on my own blog, which is sort of, like, Writers Etiquette 101. But I digress . . .)

http://www.shutupskinnybitches.com/365-days/2012/07/02/shut-up-and-go-to-the-beach/

That Awkward Phase

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 23:47:00 +0000

We've all heard it: "Oh, bless her heart; she's going through that awkward phase." Knowing glances and head-nods follow such a comment, usually, as all eyes fall upon said awkward child, often a mess of braces and gangly limbs and overgrown feet. Were you her? Did you overhear those comments and pray for a trapdoor to appear in the floor beneath you and swallow you up?

The Awkward Phase occurs at different times in a woman's life, I think. For some, it hits with puberty and erodes the self-confidence for three or four years before giving way to a rebound of teenage promiscuity. Or for others, maybe it swoops in during the high school years when there never seem to be any seats left at the "cool table" in the cafeteria, leaving you hunched over a brown paper bag or styrofoam tray surrounded by freaks and geeks: your people. It seems Awkward Phases are as unique and individual as the women and girls they strike.

My own Awkward Phase had its unfortunate genesis at age three and became tangible and obvious around age six. Prior to age six, I was (quite frankly) rather adorable. But the cuteness factor wore off around the sixth year of life (See archived post about this tragedy here: http://jenamorrow.blogspot.com/search?q=the+day+the+cuteness+died) and gave way to clumsiness and self-consciousness and about 29 years' worth of blurted-out faux pas I wish I could take back. That's right--29 years. See, I don't think I've ever quite outgrown my own personal awkward phase. Oops.

I still trip over my own feet and have very little awareness of my appendages (constantly bruised elbows and hipbones attest to this), and I still wish I could retract approximately 40% of the things I say, the emails I send, the comments I leave on people's Facebook statuses. Basicially, I second-guess everything I do -- or, wait, maybe I don't. Maybe that's an exaggeration. (See what I mean?)

And now that I'm turning 35 (how the heck did that happen?) in a couple of months, I've decided that maybe the Awkward Phase isn't going to wear off at all. Maybe it's who I am. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that this world is not my home and was never meant to be all that comfortable. Or maybe I'm just my own brand of weird -- just like you are your own brand of weird. Maybe it's totally normal to brush my teeth in the shower and sleep with my childhood blankie and habitually sing harmony along to annoying jingles on the radio and listen to Christmas carols in August just because they make me happy. Maybe you second-guess yourself just as much as I do and you just don't blog about it. Maybe the fact that I do is just part of my weirdness and maybe I should just keep on truckin'. As a woman said in a group I led last week, "Jus' do you, baby. Jus' do YOU."

I thought that by the time I reached thirty-five, I'd be The Woman I Always Wanted To Be. Here's a thumbnail of her: Long legs and a graceful stride, delicate features and a certain uber-feminine grace, and everyday is a good hair day and her house always smells like clean laundry and vanilla cake, and her children respect her always and her husband finds her lovable and endearing, and she is both professional and domestic all at once, and she is respected in her community and in her chosen field, and you can just tell that's she's been with Jesus . . .

Wait. That last part -- maybe . . . Maybe it's enough. Maybe that last part erases a multiude of "awkward." Maybe it eclipses all the other qualities, anyway. Yes . . .

Maybe we are who we are -- broken, weird, strange, unique, imperfect, wayward, wind-tossed sojourners in a land that is far from our home. Maybe we don't outgrow that awkward phase until we are reuinted with our Maker, made complete in His arms, clicked in like a puzzle piece that fits just so. And maybe when I am feeling especially awkward, it's because I've spent a little too much time away from Him . . .

I don't know: it was just a thought. I'm already second-guessing it.

By Popular Demand: The Best of Jadenisms!

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 15:35:00 +0000

My kid was crabby today, but he just made an amends: "I know I was in a bad mood today. Sorry. I think I have boy PMS."

Got a letter in the mail informing me that Jaden has been accepted into the accelerated programs for math and language arts. His response: "Oh, great. Now I'm gonna have to think."

Jaden: "Mom, please have another baby, and make sure she's a girl." Me: "I tried to make sure you were a girl; didn't work." Jaden: "That's just cuz Dad is so hormonal."

I'm trying to raise this boy into a proper young man. Y'all pray for me!

Top Ten Life Lessons I Learned (so far) Before Age 35

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 23:15:00 +0000

10) People who say they don't care what people think about them are usually saying that because they are desperate for people to think that they don't care what people think about them.

9) If you are worried about what others are thinking of you, you can relax--because they are probably too self-absorbed to be thinking about you anyway.

8) Everyone you meet and everyone you know is going through something. So don't be a jerk.

7) There is no such thing as the perfect church, so stop looking. And if you do find the perfect church, don't become a member or you'll mess it up. God can work with imperfection; in fact, we give Him no other choice.

6) When it comes right down to it, relationships--with others, with God, with ourselves--are all that matter in this life. Everything else is just details.

5) Never take life too seriously. No one gets out alive, anyway. Besides, if you are a Christ-follower, your life isn't even about you. It's about Him.

4) Never take yourself too seriously. Laughter can be lifesaving.

3) Smile at people. It shocks the heck outta most of 'em.

2) Take inventory of your blessings frequently. Anything and everything good that you have, embody, or experience came to you through God's hand. What if you woke up tomorrow with only those things that you thanked Him for today?

1) Prayer is the most powerful resource we have--and yet we usually resort to it last. That's kinda dumb.

Receiving Graciously 101

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 21:00:00 +0000

I don't know about you, but I rather like the ring of the words "self-sufficient." They make me feel strong. Able. Invincible. Untouchable. If I am self-sufficient, I am self-sustaining. Self-reliant. Independent. Respectable.

Sounds a bit like the American Dream, doesn't it? We as a culture praise and esteem such qualities. We are a nation of self-proclaimed "self-made men." We are all about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness -- which is often interchangeable with self-sufficiency.

Here's the thing, though -- it's an illusion.

Who do you really know who is self-sufficient? Who is able to keep his own heart beating even one blip longer than his creator intends? Who is his own source, his own provider, his own wellspring of wealth? No one that I know. And yet I have aspired to this, and come to expect it from myself in the process.

Enter unforseen circumstances. Enter the crash of the housing market (and the industry that was making me appear so self-sufficient not too long ago). Enter the mysterious will and plan of God, whose ways I still grapple to understand -- and the mirage of my self-sufficiency, my arrogant needlessness, dissolves like salt in water.

I did the math recently; I am now living on $30,000 less annually than I earned four years ago. And I would love to tell you that, because of that, I have achieved a new level of humility and grown marvelously as a person. But the truth is, I remain prideful. And that fact becomes unavoidable when others offer me help.

Enter more unforseen circumstances -- opportunities to face my needs, and to admit I have them --and then, enter (one by one) a procession of God's people, whom He seems to have placed quite intentionally in my path for such a time as this. People offering prayer and support and friendship and assistance of all kinds. People showing up and saying "Remember the time you were there for me? Now it's my turn." Beautiful reciprocity, indeed.

If you are a prideful person steeped in guilt, you know the default response: "Oh, no, no, no. Thanks, but I can't accept this. Or that. Or anything at all. But thanks anyway." False humility. Leaves a bad taste in the mouth, doesn't it?

I'll let you in on what God is teaching me these days; I seem to be enrolled in an accelerated course in Receiving Graciously 101. Lesson One: do not turn away a gift (time, resources, a favor, etc) given in love and obedience to God. Ever try to give someone a present and had them shove it back in your face? Well, me either -- but if I had, I think it would hurt something terrible. I like to give people gifts; I wouldn't want anyone to rob me of that joy. Would you?

I'm learning what true humility looks like. In so many ways, it is not what I thought it was. And it turns out that receiving graciously is a great way to cast down pridefulness -- and, as a dear friend told me just yesterday, receiving graciously will enable us, later, to give graciously. After all, none of us can give what we don't have.

Need a more practical application? 1) Open mouth. 2) Insert pride. 3) Swallow.

Repeat as necessary. I know I will.

Signing Up for Heartache

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 06:19:00 +0000

If I were to create a soundtrack to tell the story of my life, a lot of tracks would be courtesy of the late Rich Mullins, an amazing songwriter known by most for his magnum opus, "Awesome God." The man had a way of painting with lyrics, of telling every believer's tale of stubbornly wrestling with an almighty God -- and telling it so well that you almost wonder if he'd ever had a peek at your diary. Rich wrote a lot about human weakness. A few of my favorite lyrics:

We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made / Forged in the fires of human passion, choking on the fumes of selfish rage / And with these our hells and our heavens so few inches apart / We must be awfully small, and not as strong as we think we are.

And another:

Well everybody used to tell me 'big boys don't cry' / But I've been around enough to know that that was the lie / That held back the tears in the eyes of a thousand prodigal sons . . .

Rich had learned a little something about himself in his brief 42 years on Earth: he had learned that he was dust, that he had a tender heart that broke all-too-easily -- and that God Himself had created him -- and all of us -- that way. Vulnerable to heartache, prone to tenderness. Our hearts were not created to mechanically or stoically endure the obstacle course of life; on the contrary, it seems God designed us to feel deeply, to have hearts of compassion for our fellow sojourners, and even (and sometimes I'm not thrilled about this part) to share in His sufferings.

When I was a teenager, new to this journey with Jesus, someone had given me a keychain that said "Let my heart be broken with the things that break the heart of God." I proudly carried that keychain; I was willing to share in Christ's sufferings like a good girl -- and I wanted everyone to know it.

But I didn't have a clue what that meant.

Working in a treatment center, I find myself surrounded daily by "things that break the heart of God." Addiction. Depression. Grief and loss. Crippling anxiety. Unbelievable deception. People haunted by their past. And most tragically, people desperately striving to overcome their past and create a future -- apart from God. These women are His precious creation -- and I feel His passionate desire that they might also become His daughters. His holy heart breaks for them -- and my own seems to be following suit.

This past week, I've wept at work on more than one occasion -- and from time to time, I spend my commute home from work in tears and in prayer. I have had co-workers tell me that I'm going to need to "toughen up" if I'm going to stay in this field -- but then I look around me and see that the co-workers who seem to be making the greatest difference in people's lives are those who are not necessarily all that "toughened up" themselves. As my friend psychologist friend Allen has told me, "In this work, tears are professional." (Read some of Allen's blog archives here: http://www.christianpsychologisttalk.com/) And as my own counselor recently said to me, "May your heart never become hardened. You will pay the price not to have a hard heart -- but as Christians, we have the heart of God for others. So welcome appropriate emotion."

It isn't the easy way of doing things, mind you; I think learning to suck it up and stuff it down might make life appear a little less painful in the short-term. To pick a rose, you ask your hands to bleed. But in the long-term, we would miss out -- oh, God, would we miss out -- on experiencing the heart of Christ toward His creation. He is such a passionate lover of ragamuffins -- slow to anger, abounding in love and mercy, so crazy about us broken-down, bedraggled rascals that He gave His best even when we were at our worst. He knew what perfect love was capable of, and He saw us not only as we were, but as we would be. But, even knowing the end from the beginning, He wept. And He weeps each time we stray.

Toughen up? Yeah, it's tempting. Self-protection is always tempting. But if Jesus never saw fit to harden His heart toward the wounded and wayward, how could I possibly justify doing so myself?

So here I am, signing up for heartaches to come. But I believe I will continue to find that, as my heart breaks for the things that break the heart of God, I will know Him a little more and a little better with each new painful twinge of compassion. I'd be lying to say I'm jazzed about it. But I could carry that keychain much more honestly today.

Breathing Lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 06:45:00 +0000

There is a technique in choral singing called "stagger breathing", wherein the choir is able to sing long phrases of music without an audible break in the phrase for a breath, because singers of the same vocal part (sopranos, altos, et al) essentially take turns breathing; someone's voice is always filling in the blanks and representing that vocal part. The result is something of a sonic mirage: it sounds as if the choir never stops singing, even for a split second. It is continual sound -- ongoing music.

A couple years ago, I sang in an eight-voice vocal group for a church event at Christmas. We were singing "O Holy Night", acapella (sans accompaniment, for the non-musicians out there). If you're familiar with the song, you know that the musical phrases are written to be long and stretched and dynamic, with a great deal of arc and shape to them. Take an obvious breath in the middle of one of those gorgeous phrases, and you kill the song and ol' Adolphe Charles Adams turns over twice in his grave. Needless to say, we decided to "stagger our breathing."

Now, there's a certain amount of compassion and sensitivity required on the part of the vocalists in order to pull this technique off. There is no such thing as "every man for himself." For example, my friend Shauna and I were the two sopranos singing the melody line. In order to ensure that Shauna didn't run out of steam and fall into a lifeless heap on the stage beside me, I had to be sensitive to her body language, the timbre and tone of her voice, and her physiological requirement for oxygen. She, in turn, had to do me the same favor. Working together this way, side-by-side, with a purposeful, intentionally keen awareness of one another's moments of strength and weakness, we were able to compliment one another and empower one another to give the best of our voices (and ourselves) to the song. We were working separately -- and yet collaboratively - toward a common goal.

It's a pretty cool model of successful inter-dependent living, really. In a sense, it illustrates the way God has intended for human beings to "do life." In any close relationship -- that of best friends or partners or husband and wife -- there has to be a certain climate of give-and-take. The key, I would surmise, is that both partners should not generally be on the giving and taking end at the same time - or worse yet, all the time. And this, of course, is where the compassion and senstivity come into play.

We can do that, can't we? If Shauna and I, as singers, were able to be intentional enough about being sensitive to one another's condition to make pretty music, then surely we can carry that same principle with us into our non-musical endeavors like, say, life. Surely the integrity of our relationships is as important as the integrity of a song. And maybe getting along with one another and enabling one another to be the best that we can be, so that we can give the best we have to give, is as elementary as learning to breathe.

The God of Do-Overs

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sat, 07 May 2011 22:37:00 +0000

The truth? Sometimes I still secretly (or maybe not so much) wish I were Perfect Woman. You know her; you know her well. You envy her. She has perfect hair, the perfect body, the perfect husband, perfectly-behaved children who never mouth off or sass back or put their muddy shoes on the back of her leather seats in the car. She graduated Summa CumBaya with her PhXYZ from The University of Amazing Awesomeness. She is a professional. And a mom. And the best friend anyone could hope to find. Oh, she makes mistakes of course; if she didn't, you wouldn't want to be her friend because she wouldn't be "relevant" and "approachable" and "down-to-Earth." Oh yes, she makes mistakes. Once.

Okay, the jig is up: I am so not her. And this week, just to keep me good and humble, I was reminded of that.

I screwed up on a promise I made to myself this week. It's really not important for our purposes here to share the gory details; suffice it to say, right at this moment, my humanness is showing. And it's a little embarrassing.

Perfect Woman makes mistakes once. Imperfect Me makes them over and over, as many times as it takes, evidently, to remind myself of my desperate need for mercy. For grace. For friends who love me anyway. For the heart of Jesus, who is such a fan of do-overs that He commands us to forgive one another 490 times a day (70 x 7, for the non-mathletes out there). So why is it that each time I screw up, I tend to think it must be my 491st foible of the day, and that surely this time He'll be good and ticked off at me?

Truth is, I am so much harder on myself than God is. He already took my punishment, all those centuries ago on a stormy Friday afternoon. And I believe that as He hung there, thinking of you and me, doing what He did for us out of obedience and unfathomable love, He knew even then that I would mess up and go back on my word this week.

So there I sat, in my neediness and imperfection, looking around me at the pieces I'd have to pick up from my latest mistake. At first, I started gathering up the pieces quietly, hoping no one would see. Hiding the pieces with my silence, my isolation. But have you ever tried to isolate from God? It isn't easy. Like every good parent, He has eyes in the back of His head. And He is so big that He sees all from where He sits. He tapped me on the shoulder last night around 10:00, just as I thought maybe I had found a good hiding place from Him under my covers in bed. But, metaphorically speaking, He gently pulled my blanket off of me, exposing all those pieces I was attempting to hide under there.

"Give those to me," He said, His eyes smiling tenderly.
"Don't look!" I gasped, hurriedly pulling the covers over the pieces.
"Give them to me," He repeated, just as gently as before. "We'll fix it together."
"I made a mess," I cried.
"I know," He said. "Would you like a do-over?"

I hesitated.
I closed my eyes.
I felt the tears come.
I nodded.

The God of Do-Overs is infinitely more forgiving of me than I am. How I long to be more like Him! In fact, I think I'd do better to be more like Him than like Perfect Woman. She is a myth. He is the real deal. In fact, Perfect Woman doesn't think she needs the God of Do-Overs.

Tragic, really, to be so self-sufficient. She will never know Him like I do.

Put On Your Big-Girl Panties and Cowboy Up!

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Tue, 03 May 2011 04:31:00 +0000

Have you ever noticed how much more credit we give people after they're dead and gone? Artists' paintings suddenly become valuable, musicians' singles start getting more airplay, writers' books enjoy revivals on best-seller lists. It always strikes me as a little bittersweet: "Boy, he sure is successful nowadays. Too bad he's underground."

Today would have been my friend Cindy's 36th birthday. She's been on my mind all week. It isn't just famous people whom we tend to exalt posthumously. Cindy, for example, was never famous at all (except to a very small circle of friends by whom she was adored) -- and yet now, six years after she went to meet her maker face-to-face, I find myself remembering things she used to say and suddenly, even if only in memory, I am listening. Really listening.

Cindy was a true Texan. Her drawl was contagious; Midwestern friends could always tell when I'd spent the night before in a two-hour phone convo with Cindy because I'd have a hard time keeping "y'all" out of my own vocabulary. I used to get a kick out of the phrases that became known as Cindyisms: "Heavens to Betsy!" and "Well, shooooooot!" and "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle!" could always make my giggle. Cindy liked to tell me what to do; two years my senior, she proudly referred to herself as my "bossy-boots big sister." And one of her most common bits of advice for me was to "Put on your big-girl panties and cowboy up!"

Several times this past week, I could almost hear her voice saying that to me. I've had to do some hard things over the last few weeks, and the temptation to give up, cave in, and wuss out has been pretty strong. But it's amazing how the Spirit of God will lead us into portions of His Word where the letters seem to jump off the page at us, just as we need them most -- and this, I suppose, is why I found myself reading James this week. I'm particularly fond of James in the Message translation. Check this out, from James 1:3-5: "You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don't try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way."

I realize now that a lot of Cindy's sisterly advice to me could have been straight out of the NTV (New Texan Version) of James 1. Maybe I should have listened a little more closely all those years ago. But of course, now that Cindy's in Heaven, her words carry a little more weight. And I swear -- I swear -- as I read James a few nights ago, I could almost hear Cindy standing next to Jesus, her hands on her hips, saying to me, "Yeah, Jena! What He said!"

Advice like this is hard to hear sometimes, whether it's from a bossy-boots big sister or from the King of Kings. Stick it out. Suck it up. Deal with it. Don't give up, wear down, back off, or fizzle out. Keep on keepin' on. Um, okay . . . how am I to do this, exactly? Thank God for verse six: "If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and won't be condescended to when you ask for it. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought."

Phew. I'm so glad God allowed for us to "not know what we are doing." 'Cause sometimes, not only do I not know how to put my big-girl panties on, but I don't even know which drawer to find them in! And God knows that. Even when I can't find my big-girl panties, He still covers my backside.

I can do this. All these hard things I'm facing this week, I can do through Christ. I'm puttin' on my big-girl panties and lookin' for my saddle. Happy birthday, Cindy.

Fear Not?

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 00:07:00 +0000

I know you've been there; you know what it's like. Your palms sweat, your throat tightens up, your heart races and you feel like your stomach is about to fall right through your . . . Well, you get the picture. Fear stinks, doesn't it? It's no fun at all to look ahead at something inevitable -- something frightening or foreboding or intimidating -- and to feel your body react with an increase of adrenaline so extreme that you feel like you could either lift a car with your pinky or just pass out cold where you stand, your body falling away from you like an old pair of pants.

I'm not proud of this, but there have been moments in my life where I was so incapacitated by fear that I actually fainted. Fainting itself is a frightening experience. First your vision narrows, blackness closing in on you from either side until the light fades away completely. Then your fingers and toes begin to either tingle or fall off completely -- you can never tell which -- and then your ears ring and your head detatches from your neck and floats up into some wild blue yonder as the floor disappears beneath you. It isn't quite like in the movies. It was once considered very ladylike -- very dainty and feminine and Victorian -- to swoon; the tiny porcelain hand flies up to the forehead as the corseted damsil sighs and slides gracefully down, usually onto a velvet chaise with a virile gentleman caller not far behind. In real life (or at least in my life) it is a bit less romantic. It is less like swooning and more like dying -- or at least that's how it feels.

That kind of fear is paralyzing, debilitating. It feels completely out of one's control. But is it? Almost every book of the Bible includes a "fear not" passage. And I'm not so sure "fear not" is a suggestion; I believe it is a clear command and directive from the One who empowers us to overcome. But I gotta admit: it used to kinda tick me off. "Fear not?" I thought. "What is that, sarcasm?"

Fear not, as in "do not fear." Not as in "try not to fear" but as in "just don't." Easier said than done. For years, I had this major beef with God over His infallible Word: If fear is an emotion, and we don't necessarily choose our emotions, how can God expect us to simply stop fearing? It seemed like a cruel joke to me, to be honest. After all, He doesn't expect us not to get angry -- only not to sin in our anger. He doesn't expect us not to be sad -- only to remember that He bore our sorrows and to allow Him to be the lifter of our heads when we experience sadness and grief. But fear and anxiety seem to be another story. How can that be?

I've searched and prayed and wondered and argued with God (am I the only one who does this?), and here's what I figure: The difference is that fear and anxiety are in such direct opposition to a surrendering faith that God asks us to give the emotion of fear to Him -- and to allow His perfect love to cast it out completely (I John 4:18).

Okay, but where is the practical application? What does surrendering our fear look like in action? In DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), there is a skill called opposite-to-emotion action, wherein we feel the emotion -- for our purposes here, we'll say the emotion is fear -- and choose to act in direct opposition to it, while still experiencing the emotion. "I'm afraid to dive off of the high dive into the water ten feet below -- and geronimo!" Or "there are two hundred people in the audience out there and I'm terrified to step onto the stage -- and here I go." Or, in my case, "I haven't been to the dentist in years and I'm pretty sure I might faint in the chair if I actually make an appointment and show up -- and I'm making the stinkin' phone call." (Honestly, I think I'd much rather dive the ten feet -- or a hundred and ten.)

I don't exclusively look to modern psychology for answers, but that one idea does appeal to me, because I don't believe some psych guru invented it. "Opposite-to-emotion action" was God's idea; the cross is proof of that. Jesus' willingness to be crucified had nothing to do with His mood. He was as much God as though He were not man, and as much man as though He were not God, so I think we can be certain that He felt enormous fear that Friday -- but He didn't obey the fear. He obeyed the One who commanded Him to fear not -- and He picked up that cross and walked anyway. And that changed everything.

The rest of us don't have nearly that much at stake. In most cases, no one else's life or destiny depends upon our decision to act in opposition to our fear; usually, we're the only ones who suffer if we ignore the "fear nots" in our Bibles. And speaking for myself, it's a darn good thing, because I'm not quite on top of this yet.

Still, I'm learning. It's been years since fear has caused me to faint, and it certainly isn't because I've stopped experiencing the emotion. The difference is that I have taken chances on God, just in case He was right. And it turns out He's been right every time so far. Each time that I have dared to explore what it means to "fear not", it has become a tiny bit easier to choose faith through my fear.

And someday (soon), my dentist will be so proud.

What I've Learned in 2010 . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 17:44:00 +0000

20.) When making brownies, the egg is not optional.

19.) I am capable of doing really hard things and surviving anyway.

18.) Emotional discomfort is part of life, and constantly striving to make it go away is futile -- like trying to soak up rain puddles. There is always more rain coming, at some point. Better to learn to play in the puddles.

17.) When sampling a new brew at the Starbucks counter, it's not a good idea to blurt out, "This must be the coffee they serve in Hell." No matter how awful it tastes. Know your audience.

16.) Songwriting is really fun.

15.) Bodies in motion must, at some point, become bodies at rest. There seem to be no loopholes here.

14.) I can run pretty fast when I have to. In a rainstorm. And in heels.

13.) You cannot drive your car through two feet of standing water. (You can drive your car INTO two feet of standing water, but not through it.) RIP, little red Mazda.

12.) Trying to teach a cat to stop peeing on the carpet is like trying to nail Jell-o to a tree.

11.) Bananagrams may be the most addicting game ever. "Hi, my name is Jena, and it has been four days since I last played . . . "

10.) It is completely possible to absolutely LOVE a job that just barely pays your bills. This is why the Human Services fields remain. (Psst. Have you hugged a social worker today?)

9.) You know that overused cliche, "People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care?" Turns out it is completely and absolutely true. Go figure.

8.) Sometimes vulnerability is its own reward. When it comes to sharing a personal struggle, it seems that honesty begets honesty. This continues to inspire and amaze me.

7.) I'm starting to think that maybe the greatest human need is to be KNOWN, through and through. ("To be unknown of God is entirely too much privacy." -- Thomas Merton)

6.) When you work in a rehab, it doesn't matter if the client is an 18-year-old anorexic or a 74-year-old alcoholic. They are first and foremost people, and if you listen closely, you will relate to them in ways that will knock your socks off -- whether or not you want admit it.

5.) If you want to know who your true friends are, confess something majorly embarrassing and see how they respond to you. Also, my friends are even cooler than I thought they were.

4.) When your pastor's wife can say to you, "Honey, your church family loves you for more than what you can do for us", you know you have a good thing going. And I do.

3.) When you have a book published, people will automatically assume you know what you are talking about. They will also assume you are rich. They will be wrong.

2.) Wisdom and discernment do not always come easily to me. This is why I am grateful for my counselor, my agent, my pastor, my mentors, and above all, my God. (For some of us it takes a village.)

And, whaddyaknow, the same thing that topped my list in 2009 topped it again in 2010. The number one thing I have learned this year was:

1.) I still have more to learn.

Up in the Air

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 02:51:00 +0000

Sometimes, God just picks you up and sets you back down in a place you never thought you’d find yourself in a million years. I’m sitting in one of those places right now.

As I type this, I am thousands of feet in the air, flying out of Springfield, Missouri after an AACC (American Association of Christian Counselors) conference. And, as I type this, I am sitting two feet away (literally; it’s a VERY small plane) from Dr. John Townsend – THE Dr. John Townsend, of Cloud & Townsend, the esteemed team who have given us such Christian counseling classics as Boundaries and Changes that Heal. If I were the gushing type (I’m really trying to curb it), I could have started telling him how his books have changed my life, have challenged me, have gotten thrown across therapists’ offices when I felt they asked me to do impossible things. Instead, I sat beside him awhile, politely waiting for him to wake up when we hit turbulence.

After a few moments, I heard a soft voice from across the aisle. “Did you enjoy the conference?”

I smiled. “Yes, very much, thank you.” What ensued was a brief conversation about the events of the weekend, his books, my book, mutual acquaintances in the recovery world. He extended his hand and officially introduced himself to me. “John Townsend,” he said, as if I didn’t know. He did not say “Doctor” John Townsend.

We agreed to exchange books once we deplaned, and then he went back to his iPad and I pulled out my laptop to work. Because, when all was said and done, he wasn’t some acclaimed psychology guru and I wasn’t some newbie to the field. We were just two people on an airplane.

I love God’s way of leveling the playing field and reminding us all of who we are – His servants, His creations, His vessels, His tools, His voice, His instruments. Common thread here: We are His. We can do nothing apart from Him, and yet we can do “all things” through Him (Philippians 4:13). And He doesn’t seem all that concerned with our lack of credentials – nor does he seem all that impressed with the ones we may have.

Don’t get me wrong: I'd like some credentials. If I had fancy degree, I might just hold it in my hands a while, rubbing its fiber between my fingers just for the sake of feeling it, of grasping it. And that, presumably, is why God hasn’t yet provided a way for me to start my journey back to school. It means too much to me -- or, rather, it means the wrong thing to me. It means significance, and He never intended me to get my significance from a piece of paper.

John Townsend is a wonderful man of God. He is an excellent speaker, a prolific writer, and no doubt a gifted clinician. And yet God has the audacity to ask me to believe that I am every bit as significant as he is. And why? Because of the cross. Simple as that.

I think it’s probably a good thing, actually –my lack of a title at this point in time. Booksignings can get a little heady; everyone gushes and tells you how wonderful you are because you turned something ugly into something that can help people. This is, then, your cue to politely counter that only God Himself can take something ugly and make it beautiful and that you are just grateful to be on His anvil. And it works, telling people that – because it reminds you, each and every time, that it is absolutely true.

I am nothing without God – His hand upon me, His life within me, His words on my tongue and at my fingertips. “Oh, but you’re talented,” people will counter, and I will want to argue, “Please. I’m a college dropout. I’m winging it here.” But instead I say, “Thank you; that’s very kind of you to say.” Because I’m learning, see. I’m following after God like a puppy dog and watching intently as He shows me who I am because of Him, and why it’s okay to take a compliment once in a while, even if I’m not Dr. John Townsend.

So, John and I (he said I could call him John; I asked) shared a bit more conversation before the plane landed; we talked about the role of blogging and social media in the context of writing. And again, we were colleagues, equals -- just two people trying to navigate the waters of public ministry, wanting to do it right.

When I catch glimpses of it, I really dig God’s perspective on things. It takes the pressure off. He looks at you and at me and sees potential. And promise. And hope. Unwritten words, unsung songs, uninvented ideas. Unreached hearts, even. He doesn’t look at what we haven’t yet attained or accomplished, but at what He intends to accomplish through our lives.

And rest assured –He will accomplish His purpose. One way or another. Whether we are bestselling authors and keynote speakers or college dropouts recovering from inferiority complexes. And when we get out of our own way long enough to listen, He will speak.

Even at 30,000 feet.

"Waiting for the Artist"

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 04:36:00 +0000

for the TK girls

She stands beside me,
Waiting for her ride.
Soft downy hair on her
Arms and cheeks
Catch sunlight.
She clutches at her belly,
Hunches over, face a grimace.
"Ohh," she moans, and her eyes
Become strangely familiar --
Mirrors of a sort, they show me
A girl of yesterday.
A girl of sorrows.
A girl who knew too much
And felt too little.
Her eyes remind me of that girl,
Whose body I once occupied,
Whose wasted frame I lived within --
If you could call it living.
"I'm so FULL," this girl
Laments to me now, and I
Smile with empathy. "I know," I say --
Which is to say, I remember.
"It will go away," I assure her,
And she appears to want to believe.
Full, she says, and I have to wonder --
Full of . . . ?
Of fear, of dread, or shame?
Of a tentative, undying hope?
Of a will to go on,
To push, to trust, to try?
This too, I remember, this mosaic
Of emotion -- broken pieces of a life
Once believed to have been whole --
Of a heart, a soul, a self.
Broken pieces, waiting --
As my girl waits for her ride --
Waiting for the Artist to pick them up
And lie them down again
In all new places, with all new purpose --
Waiting to be arranged into something
Even more beautiful
Than they might have been
If they had never been broken at all.

Who's Afraid of a Room Full of Therapists?

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Wed, 26 May 2010 19:08:00 +0000

Well, me, evidently! Tomorrow, I will be representing both my book and my employer, Timberline Knolls, as I head up to the Meier Clinic in Wheaton, Illinois to share my story, introduce myself, and have a little Q & A powwow with their clinical staff. This will be the first of several visits to Meier Clinics across the country, so we're kickin' it off with the one right in by own backyard. I really have no reason to be nervous; I mean, it’s not a room full of drill sergeants; it’s a room full of therapists. Should be a gentle crowd; these folks are encouraging and supportive by trade. They’re nice people, for a living. Right?

But, see, it’s that voice again. That nasty, weasely little voice that likes to chime in and remind me of who I am not: credentialed, official, well-schooled, respected, esteemed. A graduate. A finisher. A someone. A someone with letters – Jena Morrow, XYZ, PDQ. So what do I have to say to a room full of PsyD’s and LCPC’s and LCSW’s and LMFT’s and LMNOP’s? And why do they seem to want to listen?

Good question. But they do. And they’ve invited me. And I’m going.

Do you recognize that voice? Does she creep into your mind and tease and taunt you, too? Does she tell you that you are not good enough, smart enough, and that doggone it, maybe people really don’t like you? She is the anti-Stewart Smalley. She is the author of a bestseller: Negative Affirmations. And the only reason it’s a bestseller is that we keep on buying it. A recent development in my life: I’m sick of it.

In my work at Timberline Knolls (a residential treatment center for women battling eating disorders, mood disorders, and substance abuse), I am becoming familiar with Marsha Linehan’s practical modality known as DBT: Dialectical Behavior Therapy. The term ‘dialectical’ is defined as “holding two seemingly opposite truths together as one” –specifically, holding acceptance together with a willingness to change. (In this case, I am accepting that I am feeling intimidated by a group of twenty well-educated therapists, while also exercising my willingness to change by getting in the car and driving to the clinic to tell my story and speak to the staff.)

The overall goal of DBT is to enable clients to create “a life worth living.” This idea, as I see it, compliments the thesis of Donald Miller’s recent book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: we must live in such a way that we tell a good story with the lives that we live. I’m learning, opportunity by opportunity, to live my life in such a way. I am learning to take risks. Without them, our lives are boring—safe, but boring. Not the kind of story that will hold the attention of our grandchildren one day. Without taking some risks, I’m not even sure I am capable of creating a life worth living. Are you?

So, I’m going. I’m going as I am, accepting that I am intimidated, but being willing to change and not stay stuck in my apprehension.

I’m going.

Can’t live out a good story without conflict and drama and tension and action, right?

Right. And I’m going.

Find out why book reviewer Kristine McGuire wanted to "slap the author upside the head" while reading Hollow . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Mon, 24 May 2010 21:45:00 +0000

http://kristinemcguire.com/?p=4003

Touching book review from a reader (via Amazon.com) . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jena) — Sat, 08 May 2010 00:39:00 +0000

Humbling review of Hollow from a reader named Bobbie . . .

"When I first began reading this book, I almost put it down and walked away. The emotions from page one were so intense.

For anyone who has felt less than worthy - you will find yourself in this book.
For anyone who has struggled with self-image - you will relate to this book.
For anyone who has completed a 12-step program - You know the roller coaster of recovery you will find in this book.
For anyone who has had a friend or loved one who has struggled with a food disorder - you must read this book.

For anyone who has a food disorder, inside of these pages you will find a friend. You will find someone who understands your feelings, who knows your story. This friend will introduce you to Someone who walked with her through her darkest days, who loved her in her deepest valleys, and who holds her hand every single day ... His name is Jesus.

Jena writes the story of her longstanding battle towards recovery in a way that draws you in and doesn't let you go. She explains in great detail exactly how the disease took hold of her life, and the way she hears the siren that calls to her each and every day. The battle of addiction is never over, and her addiction to controlling her body through the disease of food disorder is an ongoing battle.

As a Pastor, I did not expect to have her words resonate so loudly in my own life. And yet, they did. Her battle with a food disorder is all of our battle with sin - the same voice that calls her to disobedience and darkness in this one area is the voice all of us hear calling us to disobedience and darkness and death.

Thank you, Jena, for sharing a story that will live in my heart ... for the despair, the joys, and the struggle that you live every single day. You have given all of us a precious gift."

THANK YOU, BOBBIE! You have the distinction of being the very first reviewer of Hollow on the Amazon website, and what joy your review has brought to my heart. Thank you, so very much, for taking the time.

Warmly,
Jena