My son began his senior year, yesterday.

And his freshman year.

Because, you know—nothing can be normal around here.

The realities of living in a family with chronic illness means hard choices must be made. Buddy knows this all too well.

But he also knows hard choices can lead to good things.

So my son begins his senior year, not at the Christian school where he’s grown up, but online with the local college—collecting credits that will set him up nicely to be able to (PLEASE SWEET JESUS) finish the double major he’s planning within four years rather than five.

This is a good thing.

In a good-hard kind of way.

People have asked my husband,

“is he doing this because of Lorie’s health?”

And the answer is no.

And yes.

My son made this decision on his own after a month or more of frank conversations about a number of factors. His decision was his decision. And he had his reasons.

Which leaves ME feeling torn.

Torn because I’m so proud of him and the wisdom and discernment he’s displayed. So proud of his clear-headedness. So proud of his ability to weigh all the factors and make a difficult decision and be at peace with the losses that come with it, either way.

He’s an amazing young man.

But.

I still feel like it’s my “fault.”

And my husband having to field such questions doesn’t help.

Because, to be quite honest—it causes emotions to collide in me like a warm front hitting a cold front and threaten to cycle out of control.

I am ANGRY.

What if the answer to that question was only YES?

What if he did make that decision solely because of MY health?

WHAT WOULD BE WRONG WITH THAT?

And what kind of people value my life so little that they would even ASK such a question?

And I am SO, SO SAD.

Because what IF the answer to that question is only yes?

What if he DID make that decision solely because of my health?

What if I am part of the reason, yet again, for his loss?

These are the thoughts that twist and turn and threaten to entwine—the results the difference between destruction or just a good, hard rain.

My son had to write a poem a few years ago for his English class.

It had to be modeled off of a famous poem titled, “Where I’m From.”

After some initial conversation to collect his thoughts, he became very guarded about writing this poem.

I didn’t see it again until he was finished.

Until he brought it to me to read.

Until I sobbed in my bed,

marked by the beauty and the

agony of his words.

He gave me permission to share a portion of it—

it goes like this:

I am from silence 

From a family that watched a childhood wither and die 

A sibling that lost touch with the outside world 

I am from late night tears and unending prayers 

Prayers for healing, joy and energy 

Most of all for energy 

I quietly denied mine and sank into the shadows 

Hoping, praying that I could somehow reignite her vitality

By suppressing mine 

I am from a family that simply is “out of spoons” 

I am from an unending chorus of “ugh, fines” and “just this onces” 

“Only because I love yous” and “how can I help yous” 

I am from years of wear and tear on lives and relationships  

Wrought by words like “Fibromyalgia” and “Myalgic Encephalomyelitis” 

Nevertheless, my family still stands united— 

One in our pain, one in our laughter 

Chronic illness has left an indelible mark on BOTH of my children—

one WITH it,

one affected BY it.

And I HATE this.

And yet,

I watch my son…

This young man who just wrote in his college application essay that his highest goal was to foster communities where everyone and their opinions were welcomed, and all became better for having been there.

This young man who received last year’s alumni award and scholarship for his leadership.

This young man who was chosen as a house leader to create community among his peers.

This young man who helps to lead and build community within the high school Bible study that meets at our house.

I observe this young man who had the maturity a few days ago to say to me, “Mom, I understand _____, but I felt you kinda bit my head of about it.”

This young man who I trust implicitly to be where he says he’s going to be.

This young man who thinks deeply about his friendships.

This young man who builds worlds within his mind and transforms them into games.

This young man who writes things like,

I am from a strong foundation:  

assiduously built by a counselor and a communicator, 

founded on faith

I am from dinner table debates and hard questions 

I am from punny humor and poetic posts 

I am from family traditions and road trips 

I am from healing cuddles and kisses 

I am from love 

And I remember.

God is bigger than this.

And my son is better than this.

Coronavirus.

Chronic illness.

Card games.

Christian school.

All have conspired to build a young man of great character.

A young man of whom I am immensely proud.

A young man I love deeply.

And a young man I will miss desperately

when he leaves “where he’s from”

for where he’s going.

The post The First Day of the Last Year appeared first on Functionalish.

There’s a gentle breeze blowing, rustling the honeysuckle, nudging the wind chimes, joining the chorus of birds and bugs that makes you forget the dull hum of the freeway in the background—its volume controlled by whichever way that gentle breeze blows. I am in my sanctuary, my refuge, my “safe place”—surrounded by nothing but green, every bit of it waving at me where I sit, hoping to once again find peace in this sacred backyard space.

But like the testosterone-induced revving of motorcycles on the interstate, worry cuts through the reverie in jarring clarity, reminding me there is a disturbance just past the serene trees in my spirit—its volume, as well, dependent on which way the wind blows.

The gentle breeze in my yard belies the hurricane happening here on the porch—the savage swirling of my thoughts at speeds that snap telephone poles like toothpicks and uproot my trees as if they were affixed to the ground like mere Legos, nothing but six little pegs holding them down.

And the one thought that rises above them all, the ONE thought that I can hear with motorcycle-like clairty is this—

I didn’t want to ever have to do this again.

When my daughter became sick to the point of not being able to attend even a full week of school, I was faced with a decision:

did I keep her in the private, Christian school she’d attended since pre-school where she had made the kind of friends you keep for a lifetime and had been prayed for daily by the staff and was on the honor roll and on the cheer squad and the worship team for chapel and in the drama club and the student council and was known and respected and loved and FORCE them to make accommodations for her, no matter how hard they might be for her to maintain—

or did I pull her out, away from her friends, away from the musicals, away from the choir, away from the tumbling, away from her proms, away from the Lifer Banquet, away from an actual graduation,

and keep her at home?

EVERYONE had an opinion. The school counselor didn’t think there was any way Keira could continue given their scholastic rigor and how far she was behind. The pediatric osteopath thought that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER should we pull her out of school and homeschool. The principal didn’t think the school could make the necessary accommodations. The pediatrician thought we were overblowing things and thought the school should just make the arrangements. My friends and family HAD opinions, but they mercifully kept them to themselves. My husband would go with whatever I decided.

In the end, the decision fell to me.

And that decision meant the loss of all I had dreamed of for her and her high school and college experience.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve second-guessed that decision in the seven years since, well, just trust me. I’d have LOTS of dollars.

ALL. THE. DOLLARS.

The one thing I took solace in was that at least my son would be able to have a “normal” high school experience.

And the Universe, ever so quietly, chuckled under its breath.

Enter COVID-19.

Just in time for my son’s senior year.

And please—make no mistake, I know the coronavirus is messing up EVERYONE’S senior year.

But we don’t have the benefit of the school district making decisions for us or the option of staying within the same school but just taking his classes online.

No, WE put our son in the very same school where we knew he’d make the kind of friends you keep for a lifetime and be prayed for daily by the staff and have smaller class sizes and be on the honor roll and in the choir and the band and the show choir and the drama club and be a leader in their student house system and go to prom and attend graduation and be known and respected and loved by his teachers and peers,

BUT WHERE THEY DON’T HAVE TO FOLLOW THE SAME TYPES OF MANDATES AS PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

Because it’s what we thought was best.

And it was.

Until it maybe wasn’t.

My son’s school, like the vast majority of private schools across the country, is reopening in-person, five days a week in a few weeks.

And we’re not comfortable with their reopening plan.

And I’m immunocompromised.

So, we’re faced with the big “now what?”

Does he stay at the school where he’s grown up, graduating with friends who are like family, wearing a mask at the risk of ridiculed by other students, forced to go through an elaborate decontamination ritual every time he comes home, while we all wear masks when he’s at home and we don’t see his grandparents until next spring when we can sit outside, several feet apart?

Or do we pull him out—losing those senior year memories and moments, losing prom and the Lifer Banquet and graduation, losing choir concerts and the spring musical, losing his leadership roles in band and choir and the house system, losing a diploma from the school that shaped him—and enroll him in college dual credit online?

Did I mention I didn’t want to do this again?

Ultimately, it seems like it should be an easy decision, right?

But there is no easy decision when it comes to kids and their physical and emotional well-being.

Not when Momma is a therapist, anyway.

When every decision is weighed on the scale of “how badly with this scar them for life?” or “what is their best opportunity for the kind of growth that matters?”

When every decision comes with loss of one kind or another.

When every decision churns around me at gale force, churns WITHIN me at gale force, churns with no eye to this storm.

We have ten days to make a final decision.

We are keeping up on the latest statistics and recommendations.

We are registering for the college courses just in case.

We are “taking the temperature” of other families.

And we are praying.

A LOT.

The breeze, as is apropos, gave way to a gentle rain turning into a downpour now ceding to the sun once more, all as I sat here, writing, wrestling, wrangling thoughts and words.

A reminder, for one who might consider the divinity within the weather, that wind and rain, clouds and sun—they all have a place and they all take their turn.

Everything in its season,

everything for a reason.

My thoughts drip from the branches, sparkling in the sunlight—

finally finding a place to land.

The post Going Back to School in the Age of Covid appeared first on Functionalish.

By Keira

If one has ever spent any amount of time with children, you well know how much they love their parents. Ask an elementary class who their hero is and every sticky hand is thrown in the air, proud to announce to the world that their very own parent is the best in the world. I was no different—my beautiful momma was my best friend, my favorite teacher, my most respected confidant. 

If one has ever spent an amount of time with middle schoolers, you well know they are not particularly fond of their parents. Their coveted position of hero had, more often than not, been gifted to their favorite sports icon or successful celebrity.  But not me—never for me. I still threw my hand in the air to proudly announce that my momma, beautiful and wise, was still the best person in the world. That my respect and admiration of her had not waned, and it never would. She was the best mom for sleepovers, the coveted carpool driver, the favorite class trip chaperone, the one my friends all called mom. 

If one has ever spent time with high schoolers, you well know they pretend their parents do not exist. They don’t particularly believe in heroes—cynical towards figures of authority, convinced that their parents are out to get them and make them miserable. But not for me—never for me. My mom was still perfect, my family was still untouchable, her position of idolization still set permanently in stone in my mind. 

While my peers struggled with their families and shouted that they hated their moms, my love for her only grew stronger. While my friends grew apart from their parents, I grew closer. While nearly every other teenager spent less time with their families, my illness made them my life, my every hour of every day, my closest community. 

To me, my mother was still as perfect and as strong as the woman I adored at age five. She had no noticeable faults, she never tired, she never made bad choices. She was everything I wanted to be. She was a fighter, a hard worker, a coveted friend, a respected leader. I had the best mom in the world. I knew it. Our family was rock solid, untouchable, even by the illness that shook me and my loved ones. 

By 2018, my perfect family was looking up again. My health was on the up-rise, my parent’s careers were taking off, my brother was thriving in school, we were finally achieving the success that I just knew my perfect family deserved.

Then a blip in the plan—a blood clot. While away for a weekend with my father and brother, my mom was escorted to the ER by a friend and only upon returning did we learn of what had happened. But my hero mother was brave—she worked as hard as ever, in spite of the fear and pain she felt.

The blip in the plan soon became another blip—she fell ill and spent a few days in bed. This blip became another blip, then a season, then it began to set in that this was the new way of life. What started as an accident because of some medication she was prescribed created a change in my mom’s body that none of us saw coming. Sick days turned into sick weeks, after work naps turned into fifteen-hour nights. 

Sick leave was granted, accommodations were made, but it didn’t get better. Her pain got worse, her relationships became strained, our perfect family began to fall apart. You see, it was her that made it work—her patience, her wisdom—she made us the poster family. 

I felt immense pain for my mom, the losses she was experiencing, the fear she was living in, the pain that plagued her. I also felt immense pain for me—I missed my perfect mom, I missed her input and our late night chats, our target shopping sprees. I didn’t know this woman that lived in our house, that lived in the room at the top of the stairs. 

I began to grow to resent the person that was once my mother. I resented the loss of my hero. My patient mom snapped at the smallest inconvenience, my hard-working idol yelled when the wrong groceries were bought, my strong untouchable role model hardly stood on her own two feet. 

In the midst of her struggle with illness, our family community fell apart. A once-thriving safe space for the four of us became a battlefield of hurt, anger, and miscommunication. Then the church where my mom was hailed as a respected intelligent leader, where I grew into adulthood and into a deep, personal spirituality, the place that was the common factor in my most beloved friendships and relationships—it became my greatest source of anxiety. 

This season of chaos wreaked havoc on me and on my family. Not only did cause me hurt, but it caused my hero the same, if not more. For the first time in my life I saw her hurt—not just the processed hurt that we share once we have healed, but raw unbridled anger. We processed alongside one another, we made mistakes together, we were the iron to one another’s iron—and I hated it. 

For the first time in my life, I began to see my mother as human. And it scared the shit out of me. The idol I had built in my mind throughout my childhood was being deconstructed in front of my eyes and it wrecked me. She wasn’t perfect. She made mistakes. She was prideful, she hurt people, she spoke without thinking, she yelled, she cried, and for the first time in my life,

I didn’t want to be like my mother. 

In my mind, the things I admired about my mom had been swallowed up and destroyed by illness and by conflict. My hero didn’t exist anymore.

And I was forced to consider that, maybe, she never had. 

Then, one day, it all changed—

and in a matter of minutes, I realized I was wrong.

Because on that fateful day, for reasons I can’t even remember, my mother and I sat on the couch together—and she cried in my arms. I held my hero’s head in my hands, and for the first time in my life, I carried her. I held her. I gave to my hero expecting nothing in return and it hit me in the gut like a brick. 

She had held me my whole life. In fact, she had held every member of our family together for as long as I could remember. She worked night and day to make us feel loved, to be that perfect mom, the perfect wife, the perfect friend. She had never been held the way she held everyone else in her life. And it broke her.

In an hour, on that couch, I gained a clarity I had never fathomed. 

She had hurt like this her whole life—she’d had crippling fears and anxieties the whole time. She’d struggled to find worth and meaning through her abilities from the day she was born. She had been trying to be perfect—and to prove she deserved love as best as she knew how.

My perfect mother wasn’t real.

But on that couch that afternoon, I didn’t mind. 

She had loved and led even in her insecurities, she had just never let anyone see. Especially not me—she had to be strong for me, she had to be my hero. 

There is a great danger in having childlike faith in a hero—in wanting to see someone as perfect. Expecting them to be untouchable, unbothered, inhuman. 

And there is just as much danger in trying to be that hero. A lesson my mom and I learned the unbearably hard way. But a lesson that has changed my life.

With my momma’s snot on my shirt, her tears dripping in my lap, she became my true hero. Not the hero that I threw my hands up in class to brag about, but the hero that I knew I wanted to be. 

The years of hell leading up to the afternoon on the couch had destroyed my idealized idea of a hero and gently placed in my lap a real one. A human, hurting, mistake-making, hero who loved even in her own personal hell. Who watched her children suffer and work through suicide attempts, who watched her job suffer and her relationships dissolve, and still held me, still heard me. 

And so, to my hero, for her birthday:

I love you momma. You are still the person I want to be most like, you are still the woman I look up to. You choose to love deeply, even in the midst of pain, and that is the most heroic thing in the world to me. I thought that you being imperfect disqualified you from being my hero, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

You are my hero because you are learning to be patient and appreciative towards our family, even when we don’t listen well. You are my hero because you play MTG with Korey and listen to me explain memes for hours. You are my hero because you cry with me and you tell me about your heart and your fears and your hurts. You are my hero because you open your home and your heart even though you are exhausted and miserable. You are my hero because even in your mess, I see you choosing love and choosing Jesus every single day. 

You deserve to be loved, you deserve to be seen, and you deserve to truly know that you are worthy of respect and love—not in spite of your weaknesses but because of them. And I hope and pray that you grow to have a new understanding of a hero as well—that you see that being perfect doesn’t make you happy, it makes you lonely. 

I am more proud of you than I know how to express momma. I am honored by the trust you have had in me and I am incredibly grateful for the vulnerability you have shown me. It has been a devastating journey we have had. Trying to learn our worth in the midst of failing bodies and dangerous, learned self-expectations. It has been the greatest honor in my life to have been able to be on this journey with you. To hurt with you, to fight with you, to cry with you, to learn and to love with you. 

Happy Birthday to my best friend, my greatest teacher, my hero. 

I love you. 

The post Heroes: Rising, Falling, and Rising Again appeared first on Functionalish.

Relentlessly prune nonsense, don’t ever wait to do the things that matter, and savor the time you have. That’s what you do when life is short.

Paul Graham

I will admit I’ve ALWAYS had this “life is short, cram it all in NOW!’ mentality, even as far back as childhood. I’m convinced, in fact, that it’s part of my dysfunctional relationship with sleep—there was too much DAY to still get in, too much time left in the movie we were watching, too much going on in the sky outside my window, too many of my friends still awake, too much of my book left to read…

There as just SO. MUCH.

And I was missing it.

I’m pretty sure whoever invented the acronym FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—knew me in high school and college.

Because I had a TEXTBOOK CASE.

Some of that, in part, was because I HATED being left out—I think because, subconsciously, being left out felt a LOT like rejection or abandonment.

And there was just cause for this—I remember the first time I found out my group of friends had all gotten together at one of the guy’s houses and they had been explicitly told not to invite me or to let me know about it. (Yet another male who considered me to be TOO MUCH because I had the nerve to 1. have a emotions and a strong personality and 2. call him out when he was a jerk.)

But what I remember even more was the second revelation:

the understanding that none of the rest of my friends even stood up for me.

Not a one.

This, unfortunately, was a pattern that continued with several of the guys I went to high school with for over two decades.

(A pattern I should have pruned from my life MUCH SOONER.)

The second reason I hated missing out was because THERE WAS SO MUCH LIFE TO BE LIVED AND I WANTED TO LIVE THE HECK OUT OF IT.

I wanted to see magnificent places. I wanted to have meaningful conversations. I wanted to experience new things. I wanted to encounter extraordinary beauty. I wanted to laugh hard and sing loud and think deeply and play all out and love with complete and total abandon.

But there just wasn’t the time and resources to do it all—so I lived my young adulthood and early parenting years doing all that I COULD. Chasing the adventures within our grasp. Savoring the moments we were able to make. Pausing to take in the sunset. To hold the baby longer. To linger in the waves. To let the fire totally die out. To remain at the dinner table longer than my restless body could stand. To ask the deep questions and tell the stupid jokes and teach my kids to harmonize and to recognize what really matters.

Besides,

I told myself,

I’d have plenty more time for the bigger adventures when the kids were older and we had more resources.

Then Keira got sick in my late 30s.

And I got sick in my mid-40s.

And suddenly pruning crap from my life and making the most of each and every moment we had the energy to make took on a whole new meaning, because those bigger adventures, though never truly guaranteed, were now much, much less likely.

And, tbh, I grieved that.

Hard.

But I’m slowly but surely learning to live the life I’ve been given in whatever form that takes from day to day.

Now, I’m weeks from turning 50.

And I feel like I’m beginning to really GET IT.

(Largely because I’ve had NO CHOICE.)

(But GETTING IT nonetheless.)

I am finally coming to grips with the reality that there is only so much time and energy and resources and motivation and physical ability to go around.

And time is of the essence.

So I MUST prune relentlessly—I’ve been forced (which seems like a strong word but really isn’t)—to take the clippers and do what I’ve never been willing to do in my own garden: cut it ALL back, farther than ever before.

And only preserve that which bears fruit.

And, truthfully, my garden looks much the same, just a bit smaller.

Because I’m still the same 8 year old and 19 year old and 25 year old and 32 year old and 43 year old who wanted to see and hear and engage and experience with the best of what this world has to offer.

That will likely never change.

But I look at my garden differently these days—

And I see glimpses of “best” where I never saw them before.

And when I do,

I stop,

and I soak it all in—

and then I wring it all out into my spirit,

quenching its thirst for life

with the dew of the present moment.

The post Pruning appeared first on Functionalish.

Time is a manipulative little buggar.

Stretching out the days here, speeding by a year there—an hour is almost never the same length depending on how he doles out the minutes.

And oh, how Time likes to play with those minutes.

We know, from the Broadway musical, Rent, that five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred of them make up a year.

But we still don’t REALLY know just exactly how LONG that actually takes.

In daylights, in sunsets

In midnights, in cups of coffee

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife

In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

Just how DO you measure a year of life?

This year, Time has played his most cunning trick yet—on the 25^th of this month I will be turning fifty.

And I don’t know HOW THE HECK THAT HAPPENED.

I don’t FEEL fifty.

(Well—some days my BODY does… Heck, some days my body feels EIGHTY…)

I feel like the same woman who moved here 20 years go—our newly minted two-year-old along for the ride and Buddy still two years from arriving on the scene.

And I have to confess—sometimes it’s quite shocking to remember that I’m NOT.

That very same year I started working at my church.

I was 30 and we’d been here in Cbus for six months.

I’ve spent almost TWENTY years on staff now—and here’s the weird thing: my senior pastor, other pastoral colleagues, fellow members of staff—both younger and older than I—many of them are still here with me, 20 years later. It’s REALLY cool. But here’s what I can’t figure out:

If THEY’RE not any older, then HOW AM I?

That is, perhaps, the deception of working with the same adults for decades.

They just don’t seem to age.

Therefore, I didn’t feel like I had, either.

And this, again, is Time playing his little tricks on us.

And the trick is this: adults are just adults until suddenly they’re OLD PEOPLE.

They don’t actually GET OLDER, they just get more lines and the occasional grays, while the world just keeps going on around them.

Until, all of a sudden—BOOM—they’re inexplicably OLD.

And nobody knows exactly HOW it happened.

It just DOES.

And Time snickers behind our backs.

Time, you see, only shows his hand with the young.

I remarked to my husband once, six years into our marriage, that if our cats were children, we’d have a first grader by now.

This was mind-blowing to me.

(Time has many cards up his sleeve.)

Enough time to make a FIRST GRADER had gone by and I’d barely even NOTICED.

But if my cats had been children?

I WOULD HAVE SEEN IT.

And, truly, that is the only way (besides those lines and stray hairs) I have to validate the actual passage of Time—my children are no longer babies.

My daughter is legal.

My son is taller than me.

THIS is how I know the minutes have been passing into years.

I see it with my own two eyes.

And it makes me wonder what this is like for my parents.

Did I at some point become “just an adult” for them, as well?

Did I stop aging for some mysterious period of time, as they did for me?

Or do they look at me and SEE the work of Time—thinking,

“How did this happen—our firstborn is FIFTY?!?!”

I wonder.

I am, of course, not the only one to ponder Time’s artful dodgery.

Yasunari Kawabata writes that, “Time flows in the same way for all human beings; every human being flows through time in a different way.”

James Gleick writes that, “We go back and forth between being time’s master and its victim.”

Stevie Wonder writes that, “Time is long but life is short.”

Albert Einstein writes that, “Time is an illusion.”

And Dr. Seuss asks, “How did it get so late so soon?”

This is where I find myself—looking into July, staring down fifty, knowing that my life is but “a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes” (James 4:14), and asking, along with Nina Simone,

WHO KNOWS WHERE THE TIME GOES?

…and finding no one really has an satisfactory answer.

The post Turning 50 appeared first on Functionalish.

The Serenity Prayer is not The Power of Positive Thinking.  It’s not The Happiness Project.  And it’s certainly not How to Change Your Life in the Next 15 Minutes.  (Yes, that’s REALLY a book.)  What it IS, is an earnest prayer by a man who understands that there are things in this world outside of our control but within the control of a God who takes these bumps and roadblocks and deep pits of our lives and transforms them—IF we allow him—into something of eternal worth and beauty. 

Whatever it is you are dealing with—whatever it is that drains your tank or clogs your engine—I believe there is a word for you in this scripture-inspired prayer. 

Catch the entire series below!

The post The Serenity Prayer Series appeared first on Functionalish.

Hi! Welcome to Functionalish! In response to the growing anxiety world-wide about the Coronanirus, I’ve added this post to make available to you four previous teachings I’ve done within the last 10 years on fear and anxiety. Two are in outline format, and two are full transcripts. The full transcripts are also accompanied by the actual taping of the teaching. (Spoiler alert: I was 70 lbs heavier when these were taped, so I look a bit different.)

For some, this may be overload. But for others, these may be helpful. I discuss, among other things:

• the physiology of fear
• the difference between anxiety and worry
• what happens when our natural defense against danger becomes a full-blown anxiety disorder
• what the different anxiety disorders are and a few tips for dealing with each
• both practical and biblical ways to deal with and eradicate anxiety and worry.

I sincerely hope you find them helpful to you during this time. Feel free to share them with others. All content is my own unless noted.

Peace to you, my Friends. I am praying for us all.

Freedom From Fear, Living Free Series, 2014

(A word of warning: when I copied this one into Google Docs the formatting of the outline got slightly wonky. I tried to fix it but it made me cry. I might have some cabin fever. And pms.)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vRQGVVcLZOmR9FVsiOOoP2zaGC9sEB7WfEdi5kv1-B0EKWAQqxPDq1Yi4atnwiXZMuHC847fTpWKAyP/pub

Called to Trust When Trust is Hard, Women’s Conference, 2017

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vT3iwaEeNkJo-Is5FTxe_TdToz4zcNprjv6SkX2MqgiKcJJSeqjHO0j3QX3QSJFv5PLbZbrx7Fp3-6t/pub

The Truth About Fear, Women’s Conference, 2015

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vQiSt76MqQQrdSheW4GgyPH4d1O5RW34ARWVbxxpvKD51umukxSu0PiA9flGvvSqIHs37onxoB5Wtqd/pub

When Fear Goes Too Far: Anxiety Disorders, Women’s Conference, 2015

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vRP0wQutANdsZjWynKbERE889vnBwptFDrueT_EGyhN0xjZbsk6IsTLoN_joatX5EDXBNSBCWhkq0nV/pub

The post Fighting Back Against Fear appeared first on Functionalish.

(Special guest post)

From the Book of Job

It is good that we have gathered here as brothers and sisters tonight. We share this space together on one of the darkest nights of the year. We share God’s spirit and experience his presence as we participate in this worship service. And, we share the light of hope we have in Christ Jesus even as we remember and celebrate his coming.

Have you noticed, there is a great deal of darkness not only on this night, but in the world? The world we inhabit is a troubled place.

In the English Standard Version John 16:33 says this,

“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome the world.” (16:33b NIV)

Have you noticed, there is trouble in this world?

There are those who are troubled with loneliness. There are those who are troubled with emotional wounds or physical sickness. There are those who are troubled by loss and a grief that never seems to go away. There are those who are troubled that grief will resolve and life will feel somewhat normal again. There are those who are troubled with depression. There are those who are troubled with unfulfilled dreams. There are those who are troubled with an addiction that enslaved them. There are those who are troubled with the fear that their loved one’s addiction will never recovery from an addiction. There are those who are troubled with uncertainty. There are those who are troubled with insecurity that locks their potential away. There are those who are troubled with family conflict. There are those who are troubled with conflict among friends or co-workers.

Trouble.

Trouble is everywhere and it is not new. The Old Testament list of saints who faced trouble. That list includes a man named Job. There is an entire book named after him. Job suffered. He suffered from trouble that just kept coming.

His name is synonymous with suffering and Job, like many of you, wonders why. He asks, “Why?” He asks, “Why me?

Maybe you can relate to his question.

Why did I never married? Why did I experience divorce? Why am I sick? Why was my family so dysfunctional? Why have I never become pregnant? Why did I suffer injustice? Why did my loved one die? Why am I so blue? Why? Why? Why?

He puts his question directly to God. And, he is persistent in asking his question. He refuses to take silence for an answer. He refuses to take clichés for an answer. Job is in some ways a precedent for Jesus, who cried out his hard question from the cross:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46 NIV)

What you need to know is that the story of Job is a story of a person who has lived a godly life. God states clearly about Job at the beginning of the story that,

“There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil.” (1:8 RSV)

He did everything right and was blessed, and then, without warning, is plunged into a dark pit of loss. Disasters wipes out his livestock, his children are killed by a sudden wind storm, and to top it off, his health fails.

Pause here again. Notice that Job has done nothing wrong. He is living an exemplary life of faith in God. Still trouble finds him.

Job is innocent yet he suffers. He wonders “why”? He wonders where God is in his circumstance. Job struggles to make sense of the trouble he is experiencing.

Job is having a God crisis. Trouble is all around and he feels abandoned. Job has questions and he will settle for nothing less than an answer from God himself.

Friendly Advice

If you had a friend having a God crisis, what would you say? What do you say? What will you say to each other outside the doors of this chapel as you leave this service tonight?

Job’s friends tell us what not to say. Their “comfort” leaves a person struggling with more questions and feeling more alone than ever.

Eliphaz is the first friend. His reasoning goes like this: sin causes suffering, Job is suffering. Therefore Job is a sinner.

Eliphaz has a point of sorts. Sin does cause trouble. And concluding that Job has trouble because he has sinned isn’t necessarily a wrong conclusion. Except, that Eliphaz hasn’t listened to Job. Eliphaz doesn’t listen to Job’s protest that he is innocent, which, in fact, he is.

“Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.” (5:7 RSV), says Eliphaz.

Where there is smoke there must be fire.

Eliphaz is a fundamentalist who uses other people’s suffering to support his black and white view of God’s kingdom. Job’s loss and poor health is evidence of Job’s sin.

Have you ever had a friend say this to you? A friend who in the midst of your trouble tells you that the source of your trouble is mess in your own life.  There is little comfort here.

The second friend is Bildad. Bildad’s argument goes something like this: the reason that we cannot understand many things is that God is so great and we are so insignificant. How can we hope to understand his purposes and intelligence?

“Even the moon is not bright and the stars are not clean in his sight: how much less man, who is a maggot, and the son of man, who is a worm.” (25:5-6 RSV)

Which is to say, God can’t be bothered with something as insignificant as your suffering. In magnifying God, Bildad minimizes his friend Job. God has bigger things to think about than a person in despair or pain.

Bildad is an intellectual who can’t empathize with a person’s pain and probably can’t remember his mother’s birthday either.

Zophar, the third friend, turns out to be a moralist.  He advises Job,

“If you set your heart aright, … your life will brighten. (11:13, 17 RSV)

Zophar’s mission is to hustle people down the road of good works. Job must do more for God! If Job increases his good deeds, and then his problems will be solved.

Zophar doesn’t listen to Job or walk through his pain with him. His message is this: “Just keep the rules. Do more for God and things will get better. ‘It’s that simple.’ Earn our way into God’s favor and life will go better.

So much for friendly advice.

Eliphaz with his fundamentalist altar calls for repentance. Bildad, the intellectual offers his big ideas, and Zophar the moralist judges with his condescending self-righteousness. Little comfort for Job. Little comfort for us.

God – Out of the Whirlwind

Still Job persists. He will not deny God. No, he still believes in God. But, he wants answer from God. Why is this happening to me?

Finally God shows us and to be honest God is a little edgy and a bit harsh. This isn’t quite the God most of us are hoping for when we are in the middle of trouble.

Job has questions for God. He demands responsiveness from God. And God does respond, but not on Job’s terms. Instead of showing up like a comforting shepherd God comes storming into job’s presence!

“Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:  ‘Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you and you shall declare to me.” (38:1-3 RSV)

“I will question you.”

Instead of answering Job’s questions, God challenges Job with questions of his own. God turns the tables not with answers but with questions:

He questions Job.  

“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?” (38:4 NIV)

Sixty one questions follow. Job is overwhelmed. Job retreats. Job relents.

Then he states,

“I am unworthy – how can I reply to you? I put my hand over my mouth. I spoke once, but I have no answer – twice, but I will say no more.” (40:4-5 NIV)

Again Job states,

“Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things to wonderful for me to know. My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.” (42:3, 5 NIV)

Then something unexpected happens.

Something shifts in Job. Something changes. Job is suddenly at peace.

His losses are still there. The pain has not gone away. Yet, Job is not demanding anything anymore. He is not shaking his fist at the heavens. He is no longer raging at the apparent injustice that he has suffered.

Something has shifted. Something has changed.

Job realizes something. He realizes the real question that he was asking. He was never really asking “Why”? He was asking “Who”!

Who will God be to me in my pain? Who will God be in my suffering?

Who did Job need God to be for him in his suffering? He need to be reassured that God saw him. He needed to be reassured that God cared. He needed to be reassured that God would show up.

At the end of it all, Job desperately needed to know that in all of his disappointments, God would not disappoint him. He needed to know that despite all of his losses in life, he wasn’t abandoned by God. He needed to know that he hadn’t lost God too.

The easy answers of Job’s friends are a cruel substitute for God himself. We live in an age abounding with such talk, such answers. Everyone has an opinion about our pain, our losses, and our disappointments. Everyone has a perspective. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has an answer. Good Lord we talk a lot.

Just like Job’s friends we often think we have the solution. Sometimes we record them so that everyone can have the benefit of our perspective. Sometimes we become enamored with our resources putting faith in education, technology, counsel, moral programs, philosophies, and spiritual techniques.

When it is all said and done, Job declares that solution to our pain, disappointments, frustrations, and losses is not another answer, another book, another counselor, another sermon, another speech, another scientific breakthrough, but in a personal encounter with God himself.

Answers are good in their place, but when the chips are down, when trouble surfaces, when doubt gnaws in our innards, when anxiety threatens, then only the presence of God will do.

Immanuel

Long ago, out of the whirlwind of human brokenness and chaos God saw that his people were in trouble. He determined to save us. Isaiah foresaw this work of salvation and prophesized that God would begin his salvation plan with a sign.

“The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.” (7:14)

Immanuel. It means “God with us.”

In the end, this is what Job most desired. In the middle of cascading losses Job needed reassurance that he was not alone. He needed to know that he had not loss God as well.

Immanuel. “God with us.” God with you!

Whatever trouble you are experiencing, you are not alone. Immanuel. God is with you.

Wherever answers seem to be falling short of the question you are asking this one thing is certain. Immanuel. God with you. You are not alone.

Imagine

Close your eyes for a moment. Then breathe deeply. Be still. Know that God is near right now. He sees you. He stands with you. You are not alone.

This is what we most need. We need to know that we are not alone. God with us.

Think of one thing that troubles your soul tonight. There may be many, but choose one right now. Then turn your face and tell Jesus about it. He is right next to you. Tell him about your trouble. Experience his care for you. He stands with you in trouble. He understands. Feel his comfort.

Immanuel.

The post Out of the Whirlwind appeared first on Functionalish.

It’s not unusual for me to cry at choral concerts.

Like, a slowing sliding down in my seat, shoulders heaving, teeth clenched, deep breathing, trying not to sob, unable to stop, wishing the floor would swallow me up type of cry.

Frequently.

A bit on the odd side, I know.

As I’ve told this part of the story before, I’ll keep it brief.

Singing has always been my first love. I’ve sung in a choir since I was five. Some really top-notch choirs. Our high school choir, under my original director, had a statewide reputation. Our college chorale was known nationally and internationally. The professional ensemble we sang with in Toledo was nationally recognized. As were all the directors. TOP. NOTCH.

And there is NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING, like spinning liquid gold together with people you love at a level that makes you feel, for just a fleeting, other-worldly moment, as if you are truly angels.

When we moved to Columbus, our daughter was 18 months old, and we didn’t have any options for evening babysitting. There was a professional chamber group holding auditions—we agreed that first tenors are typically in higher demand, therefore Tom auditioned, made the group, and continued to sing. With a few gaps here and there, he has continued to enjoy that privilege and delight.

I had hoped, being an alto, whose voices mature and are at their best in their 40s and 50s, that I would one day return to that level of music-making. Gold-spinning. Joy-creating.

But, unfortunately, my instrument is in disrepair, my body can’t even make it through an entire worship set from my seat in the congregation, and the only voice it appears I will be using going forward will be the one that flows out through my fingers, not my vocal chords.

So, when I cry at concerts, it is usually the heart-rending ache of having lost my first love, never to be restored. They are tears of grief, of deep, deep sorrow that my heart and my spirit will forever be singing along but my voice—my BODY—will never again know the joy of joining them.

This angel has, well,

fallen, I suppose.

And heaven is a bit farther than my keyboard can reach.

But this past concert—this most recent public moment of utter devastation and humiliation—was different.

On Friday night we had the joy of hearing the Anderson University Women’s Chorus sing the world premier of a piece written by an AU music alumnus, Douglas Beam.

The piece, entitled “Letter from Ann,” honored an alumna named Ann Smith, who, now in her 90s, started her #myAUstory in 1971. Smith, who spent many years in both local and international service and ministry, had an interesting practice.

Hadley Duke writes, in The Andersonian,

Every year, Smith sets a theme for her life that she wants to pursue. One year, her theme was, “I want to show up where my body is. Be present.” That is the main theme of “Letter from Ann.”

Dr. Joani Brandon, director of the women’s chorus, has been friends with Smith for decades, worshiping at church together and attending the same Bible study. Over the years, Brandon has collected these “themes” by which Smith has attempted to live her life, posting them all over her office walls.

When she and Beam began talking about collaborating on a new piece for the women’s chorus, he told her he could write the music and the arrangement, but words weren’t really his strength. Brandon eventually found her way to collecting several of these “themes” into a poem, which then became the text for the piece.

The piece that UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY UNDID ME.

Because this piece…

Oh, my friends, this piece.

Here is the poem upon which the song revolves:

Letter from Ann

I want to show up where my body is… be present.

To see a sunrise, to hear a new song,

To celebrate a new day to sing, play, love;

To take a breath, to hold a child, to sing a song,

To live with expectancy, not expectations.

To dance with God who is bigger than my questions,

A whirling, spinning, messy, masterpiece.

Free, thankful, blessed.

I want to show up where my body is.

(Ann Smith, Poem by Dr. Joani Brandon)

I. COULD. NOT. BREATHE.

I cannot begin to tell you—as a person who has struggled with life-altering chronic illness for over six years—as a person who has seen her daughter struggle with even MORE life-altering chronic illness for over TEN years—what happened within me just within those first 40-some seconds of hearing I want to show up where my body is sung over and over and over as if an incantation meant to snap me into focus.

To cause me to be present.

I can’t even get past this first line, right now. Its too painful. Too immediate. Too vulnerable. Too REAL.

I want to show up where my body is… be present.

I have never wanted anything LESS yet wanted it MORE.

That longing alone—never mind the rest of the piece, chock-full of enneagram four-ness with all of its desire for the fullness OF IT ALL— for the SWEET, GLORIOUS ALLNESS OF LIFE—is enough to split my heart wide open in grief…

…and it did.

Right there in Park Place Church of God.

With the president of the university sitting right behind me in a suit and tie as I wiped tears and snot on the sleeve of my sweater because I failed mom school and neglected, as usual, to have tissues on hand.

Many of you reading this are still trying to figure out what that line MEANS, let alone why on earth it set me into the silent ugly cry in the middle of a concert.

And that’s okay.

Be glad—be so, so glad you don’t get it.

But there are those of you reading this who DO.

Those of you who know what it is to be desperate to be away from your body.

And those of you who know how to make that happen.

Who know All. Too. Well.

And those of you, like me, who know you need to come back,

but TBH you just really, really, REALLY DON’T WANT TO.

Because it hurts too much.

Because it’s scary and unpredictable.

Because the pain has broken you.

Because the fatigue has emptied you.

Because the darkness has swallowed you.

Because it’s just easier to be somewhere else.

And that’s all true.

It’s all true.

And then, as if that weren’t enough, the rest of the song reads as if it were straight out of my journals—the longings of my own heart set to music expressive yet somber yet joyful yet serene.

BUT.

But it’s these three lines

that sum up the hard, heart-work of my last year and a half:

To live with expectancy, not expectations.

To dance with God who is bigger than my questions,

A whirling, spinning, messy, masterpiece.

Perhaps the work of the next year will be to be free, thankful, blessed.

Perhaps.

Because I’m not sure the current work is even close to BEGUN, let alone to completion.

And then the song concludes where it began—

I want to show up where my body is.

And I wonder again at this line—at its importance, at its impact upon me.

Why?

Why must I be where my body is?

Where my body is.

This knit vessel made of yarn yet of clay.

Made of flesh yet of Spirit.

Made of mud yet of God.

Where my body is.

This tent within which camps the Divine.

This wriggling sacrifice upon Love’s altar.

This bread within which resides eternal life.

Where my body is.

This frail shell not unlike the one taken by an infant king.

Not unlike the one worn with callouses and splinters.

Not unlike the one unable to sink, unable to drown.

Not unlike the one kissed by blurred betrayal.

Not unlike the one nailed to a tree.

Not unlike the one that lives again.

I want to show up where my body is.

Because where my body is…

is where the Healer is.

It’s getting late, and my cracked, light-leaking vessel is reminding me to take a breath.

To be present to the weariness.

To be present to the way in which the spinning and swirling within is slowing, slowing, slowing.

To be present to the Presence within me.

And to go to bed,

free, thankful, blessed

for having experienced, for those three beautiful, heartbreaking minutes on a Friday night,

the fullness of it ALL.

The post On Voices and Vessels appeared first on Functionalish.

(This is coming from my series on @functionalish over on “The Instagram” called #thisisourstory. Feel free to take a peek!)

I put this post over here because it got waaaaaaayyyyyyy toooooooooooo loooooooooooooonnnnnnnngggggg. A word of explanation, too—it also has LOTS OF CAPS because you cannot bold or italics on Insta and I’m feeling WAY too lazy to undo them all right now.)

As we started our various experiments with homeschooling, which we’ll get to tomorrow, it became quickly apparent we needed to once again address the attention struggles Keira had been diagnosed with in 5th grade. Because there are a variety of subtypes, I’m going to describe specifically what my daughter is diagnosed with: attention deficit disorder, inattentive type, and I’m going to talk about how it particularly impacts girls with changing hormones.

First, it’s important to note that not all attention disorders (and can we just agree we hate the word “disorder?”) include hyperactivity, yet for some reason the vast majority of the literature does. Therefore, although it is equally if not more common for girls to be diagnosed with ADD than ADHD (such as my daughter), I’m going to follow what’s in the literature.

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), as I’m sure most of you are aware, is one of the most common childhood disorders, affecting between 8-10% of children and teens. More boys than girls are diagnosed with ADHD, but this may be because ADHD often looks different in girls. In girls, and especially teens, you tend to see less outward, disruptive (and therefore “diagnosable”) behavior and more things like:

Inattention: Girls with ADHD may find it hard to concentrate, unable to focus long enough to complete a task at home or school—unless they find something interesting; then they can be wholly absorbed by it.

Distractibility: Girls with ADHD may be easily distracted by what is happening outside, or by their own thoughts. (Or by doodling. But I’m ahead of myself.)

Impulsivity: Girls may experience strong emotions, and this may leave them unable to slow down or to think about what they say or do. It can be hard for them to know what is and is not safe or socially appropriate, which can get them in trouble at times.

Executive malfunctions: Organizational skills may pose a challenge—things like time management skills and following multi-step directions or completing a task. They also may often lose items, such as a PHONE or important papers. (Keira lost/broke FIVE.)

In addition to these difficulties, puberty poses another interesting challenge for young women with ADHD because they not only experience the initial onset of hormonal changes but they then also experience monthly hormonal changes, ALL of which impact their ADHD symptoms. Research shows the symptoms of ADHD often intensify for girls during puberty when estrogen increases in their bodies. Sleep problems may develop or worsen, and difficulties such as distractibility, inability to focus, disorganization, and feeling overwhelmed may become more prevalent. All of this can lead to increased self-consciousness and feelings of inadequacy. Self-esteem may plummet as a girl begins to internalize negative thoughts about herself. (Doesn’t THAT sound fun?)

PMS becomes an interesting cycle (no pun intended) (well, maybe just a LITTLE) because the hormonal fluctuations that occur throughout a female’s menstrual cycle can worsen symptoms of ADHD AND girls with ADHD ALSO tend to have more problems with PMS symptoms, which becomes a NOT FUN THING for EVERYONE.

It’s helpful to know that many girls first begin to have their most significant struggles with ADHD when they reach high school—which is interesting, because I had always been taught it was 4^th grade. But apparently, because grades K through six aren’t as challenging as higher grades, a girl with undiagnosed ADHD might do fine in elementary school—and then falter in HS because they could no longer get by with working at 50 percent efficiency. (Especially if being home schooled by a mother who doesn’t know how to home school and leaves you with your work to do for the day and goes off to work. OOPS.) And it can often be difficult for a teacher who has a student an hour a day, or a parent who is working with her back to you and doesn’t know you’re actually just doodling for hours, to pick up on the problem (or know how to handle it).

And while I know this is already long, I would be remiss to not mention that for girls with this diagnosis, ADHD is a constant stimulation-regulating challenge for them. (Think of caffeine and Dramamine battling it out in your brain.) When their brains are optimally aroused with stimulation from the environment, they focus incredibly well (e.g., when they’re engaging with social media). Sometimes seeking greater stimulation, sometimes avoiding it, their hyper-sensitive physiology is difficult to balance.

When overstimulated, they may become irritable, impatient, and yell, “leave me alone!” When understimulated, they may become lethargic, unmotivated, and complain that they’re bored. Seeking “high stim,” many girls impulsively turn to food, caffeine, tobacco, alcohol, drugs, sex, and other high-risk activities. THIS IS BAD and can often lead to painful trial-and-error. Ideally, they discover the right balance of healthy stimulation that allows them to be successful. But this is not always the case, unfortunately. So catching it early and getting ADHD-informed help is IMPERATIVE.

Finally, it is VERY interesting to note that, in addition to POSSIBLE issues like chronic stress, low self esteem, anxiety and depression, and underachievement, girls and women with ADHD MAY ALSO BE AT A HIGHER RISK OF STRESS-RELATED DISEASES SUCH AS FIBROMYALGIA, A DISORDER THAT CAUSES TIREDNESS AND PAIN.

DID. YOU. JUST. READ. THAT? Let me say that again:

Girls and women with ADHD MAY ALSO BE AT A HIGHER RISK OF STRESS-RELATED DISEASES SUCH AS FIBROMYALGIA, CHRONIC PAIN, TICS OR TOURETTE’S, DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY, EMOTIONAL DISTRESS SYNDROME, EATING DISORDERS, AND OTHER ISSUES.

SHUT. THE. FRONT. DOOR.

Because did I mention *I* also have ADD?

And how many of YOU do TOO?

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

I’ve already gone WAY TO LONG (speaking of impulse control—but ALL THIS INFORMATION!!!!!) and I can’t think of how to close this, because my Adderal is wearing off, so I’ll leave you with this:

Our bodies are mysterious things, my friends.

And it’s ALL INTERCONNECTED.

ALL. OF. IT.

The post //WAIT, WHAT WAS I SAYING?// appeared first on Functionalish.