Church and the therapist's office

I need to start by saying that I love my church. I love the people there and the community. I feel we have a greater than average share of eclectic, quirky people when compared most churches I have been to. We are accepting and welcoming more than I feel is normal for a church. Those people are my family and I love them! But we still have a long ways to go, in my opinion. And I feel that "the church", in the broad sense of the word, should be more like the waiting room at the therapist's office.

Yesterday I spent a little more than an hour in the waiting room at Fraser. Fraser is a mental health specialty clinic for kids. They are mainly known for their amazing work with autism, but they work in all areas of mental health. It is a wonderful place and one for which we are very, very grateful! I have spent Thursday afternoons there for almost a year now, (for a while we spent time there on Friday too, but we've weaned down to once a week!). The woman that we see there (who we are adore, and care about, and are so, so thankful for, and who has made a huge difference in the life of one of our kiddos and, thus, in the life of our family as a whole) had surgery earlier this winter and so this was our first week back since before Christmas. (7 weeks off of therapy, especially in the midst of a major home remodel, is really tricky for a kid who has a significantly hard time with changes to routine and unpredictability!) So, after that break, I feel like I was seeing things with fresh eyes yesterday.

Many of our same "friends" were there in the waiting room with me. Familiar faces. But there were new people that I didn't recognize as well. The Fraser waiting room is a unique place. So very much diversity! Ethnic diversity. Economic diversity. Age diversity (the woman sitting next to me, who I have had short conversations with from time to time, brings her GREAT grandson to his therapy each week). Language diversity (there is always at least one interpreter in the room to relay information from therapist to parent). Diversity of abilities. Diversity in the issues that bring us each to Fraser. It reminds me a bit of what I imagine heaven to be like.

It is the least "calm" waiting room I have EVER been in. Kids throw major fits there. Sometimes they lay down, refusing to move, in the middle of the floor. It is loud! People often act in ways that would not be socially acceptable in any other setting. Loving therapists and parents can be found sitting in the middle of the floor trying to engage with a kiddo they care about and want to help who has shut down or is being oppositional. If people need to get by them (because they are, quite literally, sitting in the middle of the floor of the small waiting room) they just step over or around and give a sympathetic smile. It is the least judgmental setting that I have ever been in. It has a vibe of we've-been-there-too, keep-up-the-fight, you-can-do-it. Solidarity! Parenting is hard, hard work! That is universal. But some kiddos are even harder than average.

Everyone in that waiting room is desperate. They realize they can't do it alone and need help and wisdom and support. They are at the end of their ropes and knowledge and ability and are acknowledging their needs just by walking through the door. That fact brings an amazing feeling of unity and also an inability to put on any air of pretense or having things all together. Just by being there, we are all saying that we DON'T have it all together and that we're pretty much a mess. And we need help. No one there is judge-y. People give a sympathetic smile and let you know you aren't alone. People own their "stuff" and don't attempt to be fake. I imagine we all spend enough time faking it in other settings and it feels good to be real for a bit.

Isn't that how church should be too? Aren't we there because we are acknowledging that we need Jesus? That we can't save ourselves? That we are all sinners and are a bit of a mess -- possibly even a huge mess! When people ask me, on Sunday morning, "How are you?",  can I say that I had a shitty week? Would I get in "trouble" if I said shitty in church? A big part of me wants to be authentic, but instead, I almost always default to "Good. And you?" This is not completely false. I AM good. I am healthy. I have a wonderful family that I love (and who, if we're being honest, I want to murder at least once a day). I have food to eat and clothes to wear and a roof over my head. I have wonderful friends and a great community. But, also, life is hard! It isn't easy to convey all of this in church (or anywhere), so I default to "Fine." or "Good." But I wish church were more like the Fraser waiting room. Where we could drop the pretense and be more real and have it be ok to do so. Where other people would be that way too. That we all would. Where we could just sit (often completely wordless) with our crap. Where just by walking through the doors we would be admitting what a mess we are. I think Jesus would be in favor of that. My Jesus would, anyway!

*photo credit to my friend Margaret 

A journey of a thousand miles (or maybe just one). On running and life.

I wrote this a couple months back. I wrote it mainly as a way to process my thoughts and feelings and life (because writing helps me do that). I wrote it mainly for myself. I shared it with my husband after I wrote it, but other than that it has just been for me . . . until now. Lately I have felt that I should share it, even though it is vulnerable and hard and I don't really want to do it.

It may be what someone else needs. It may be what the Lord uses to encourage someone else during a tough time. It may be what makes someone feel a little less alone or sad or isolated, or a timely reminder that they are not the only one who is struggling. For me, personally, things have turned around a bit now that the seasons have shifted from summer to fall (summer is always, always hard for me). I still have some stuff to work through and to work on, but I'm in a better place than I was when this was written.


So here you go. My heart ::


5 years ago I couldn't run for more than 30 seconds at a time without thinking I might die. Little by little by little that changed. In 2013 I ran a half marathon. I was a "Runner". It took me a long time to embrace that I was legit and could own my title of "Runner", but I finally got there. These days I'm much closer to the person I was in 2011 than the person I was in 2013, as far as running goes.

Probably a little more than a year ago now, something shifted in me. I started becoming more anxious than I had ever been before. I started feeling "off", not like myself and struggled to do normal, everyday things that I had never even given a second thought to before. I had a few hard life and relationship situations that took a significant toll on me. A couple times I tried being brave and authentic about one particular struggle and the authenticity backfired on me and seemed to make things worse. Since it was a pretty big deal for me to work up the courage to do that in the first place, that set me back. I didn't feel alive inside at all. At some point in there I'm pretty certain I crossed the line into depression. One Sunday, earlier this summer, I couldn't even go to church with my family because I, literally, could not stop crying (and church is one of my very favorite things!). A few months before all this, I had stopped running. I would try, sometimes, but I couldn't do it. Mentally. Physically. It just didn't work any more! I have some pretty significant physical pain (hip, knee, foot, hand, wrist -- not all at the same time, thankfully, but it was always something . . . or a few somethings). I don't know if the pain brought on the depression or if the depression lead to physical pain. I went to PT for a while, but it wasn't helping and was costing a lot, so I quit. I have also had a few panic attacks over the past year or so. If you haven't ever experienced one, those things are horrible! So painful and scary. I really think that it is one of those things that you can't understand without having experienced it for yourself. All of that weighed on me and sucked the life out of me.

If someone were to ask me today if I was a runner, I wouldn't know how to answer them. I own running shoes and technical running clothes, and running-related gadgets, but that is not what makes someone a runner. It's been hard to adjust to this stage: something that had, at one point, been a big part of who I was no longer fit. I can't agree to a group run with friends because I would never be able to keep up with them anymore (even thought I know they would never leave me behind). Since I also struggle to admit all of this to anyone, my running friends probably just thought I was blowing them off or didn't want to run with them. But I don't know any of that for sure, since I never opened up to tell them what was really going on.

The other day I ran a solid mile without stopping. That was huge! Even though not that long ago I could run 10, even 15 miles, this one solid mile seemed even more significant somehow. It was a solid 3+ minutes per miles slower than I used to run, but I ran the whole time without stopping. I still have a long way to go and I don't love (or even like) running like I used to, but I think that getting back "in the saddle" is something that I need to do if I want to get better. Both as a runner and as a person that I would actually like to be.

Things that make me feel alive are being outside, my family, creating things, meaningful music, good books, making note of the (seemingly) small blessings in each day, authentic relationships, writing, encouraging others, hanging my clothes out to dry, reading a good book -- and I wasn't doing enough of any of those things. Often, I couldn't muster up what it took to get off the couch, which makes it hard to create much or spend time outdoors or be with others or do any of those things.

I think legitimately admitting to the struggles is a good place to start to get better. I have been reading things lately that have been helpful with different aspects of my struggles. I know that I am not alone in this. I should get off the couch more often. I should go outside more. I should make more stuff. I should probably get on some drugs.

Writing helps me to process my thoughts. But getting things out on paper (even if only for myself) takes vulnerability that is scary. Until you say it out loud or write it down, it is easier to pretend that it's not real. Or that it's just a "rough patch" or a "tough season", rather than an actual ongoing problem that needs addressing. Here's to the first step of putting it out there!