Taking a Break

Hi everyone,

I won’t be blogging for a while (just when I thought I was going to start blogging again).  So, no need to keep me on your radar.

I’ll be checking-in with you, though.  Have a great Holiday!

ReQueening My Heart

“August lifted the lid off a hive.  ‘This one is missing its queen,’ she said.  I’d learned enough beekeeping to know that a hive without a queen was a death sentence to the bees.  They would stop work and go around completely demoralized.” – from “The Secret Life of Bees” by S.M. Kidd

While I sat reading that passage on some random sunny afternoon last summer, my heart burst.  I could feel a pressure, starting in my chest, and rising with searing emotion up through my neck.  Hot tears running down my cheeks felt like ripe tomatoes splitting open in an August heat.  It was like the truth was swarming and could no longer be contained. 

My heart was a hive without its Queen.

I kept reading…

“The bees were sitting out here on the landing board looking melancholy.  If you see bees loafing and lamenting, you can bet their queen is dead.”

Yes, my spirit droned, too; somehow lost inside its own home.  I could almost hear the buzzing, like mental static stealing my clarity.  It was the depression – no, MY depression, for I had fought for so many years that it was now my own.  Painfully, I wiped the tears away and pulled more words into focus…

 “All they (the lost worker bees) can do, really, is lay unfertilized drone eggs.  They’ll fill up the combs with them, and as the workers naturally die off, there are none to replace them.”

Was my chronic tiredness like those bees?  Were all of my hopes for joy as empty as those unfertilized eggs?  How could so much effort to overcome depression lead to so much tiredness?   Would my future hold only more and more work as I watched more and more of me disappear?

I have been doing the work of managing my depression for almost 15 years now.  Many times, it feels like a giant puzzle, and I just can’t get all the pieces to fit together at the same time.   One strategy might fit for a while – say, maybe exercising consistently.  But other pieces always pop out – maybe my meds wouldn’t work or my thoughts became a tornado of confusion.

I’d hoped something would have worked by now, including this blog about “Radical Authenticity.”  But, honestly, I’m in a place today where I feel like I’ve just been bottling ideas and putting them on a shelf.  (See my pretty collection of ideas?  Don’t they just sparkle?  Please don’t look behind us – that shadow is always there.  Just ignore it.  I do.)

These ideas have kept me company for a while.  But, I’ll let you in on a secret…I wanted them to do more than that.  I wanted them to change me, like some Love Potion #9 you might pull out for a hot date.  I guess I just wanted to slip myself a mental Mickey and make it stick.

But the only thing that feels stuck is me.  I’m not trying to be too harsh, either.  I’m just trying to write about what it feels like to come to an end of myself; to see how all of my efforts at finishing this puzzle have only kept me busy; to understand – and be still in that understanding – that I’m missing my Queen.  I am missing me.

For that, there is only one other thing to do:  go find me.  I caught a hint of this truth when I finished reading that chapter last summer’ when August explains to Lily the power behind her symbol of hope, a statue of a black Mary she calls “Our Lady”…

“Our lady is not some magical being out there somewhere like a fairy Godmother. She’s something inside you.  You don’t have to put your hand on Mary’s heart to get strength and consolation and rescue…you can place it right here on your own heart.  Your own heart…And whatever it is that keeps widening your heart, that’s Mary, too, not only the power inside you but the love.  And when you get down to it, Lily, that’s the only purpose grand enough for a human life.  Not just to love – but to persist in love.”

Amen sister.

For anyone out there reading this…now that I’ve looked over my shoulder and beheld my shadow, I invite you to share in my awakening.  I’m going to feel what it’s like to embrace all parts of me.  I’m not all together sure of what I’ll find.  Maybe I’ll discover a new Queen bee.   I’ll let you know.  Please keep checking back.

Recession, Reinvention, Revival

Over two months has passed since my husband lost his job.  Our lives have merged with the global recession and plunged into the onerous stress of unemployment.  Although we’re sharing common worries with our neighbors, those burdens don’t ride willy-nilly upon our shoulders.

 

This has been an extremely difficult time for me.  Most days, Frank’s insistence on finding a better mind in the midst of the unknown has buoyed me up.  But, some days, I find that this unpredictable, untamed thing we called life tends to prove my compunctions about finding the mysterious silver lining in all these clouds.  Honestly, it takes sweat and tears to mine that kind of silver. 

 

That is why I’ve hesitated to blog about this time in the depths of my pain.  Sour grapes and off notes in the minor key of doubt don’t seem to do anyone any good.  And it’s overwhelming to think of even trying to corral all of my thoughts into a comprehensible blog.  Yet, writing has been such a gift – to me and my friends.

 

I didn’t really know how I would find the words again.  How could I remain authentic without donning a mask of pumped-up faith?  Hope floats.  But, sometimes, hope hurts.  How could I be true to both realities?

 

I think I found a way.

 

Last night, I read an article in a past-issue of More magazine in which 63% of readers reported that, if they lost their job, they would use that opportunity to reinvent themselves, to realign their profession with their passion.  To these readers, job loss holds the promise of a more meaningful purpose.

 

More magazine readers, I know how you feel.  I remember that yearning for permission to throw off years of accrued responsibility and just follow my heart.  I’ve stretched out on the proverbial hammock of self-determination.  Unfortunately, I found that flowers don’t bloom and the grass doesn’t grow just because I’m there to enjoy the scenery.  It takes focus.  It takes a healthy sense of self to know where to place my efforts.  Finding that sense of self, that reinvented definition of who I am, can send me rocking back-and-forth in confusion.  Sometimes, I fall off the hammock, left with only a sore ego and nagging regrets.

 

So, neighbors, here we are in the tumultuous swing of a global recession.  Some hopes have fallen; some egos have been bruised.  We know that something is fundamentally wrong.  Our ways can no longer be the way they’ve always been.

                                                       

As a global economic machine, we’ve confronted the ugly fact of our lostness.   But which way do we go from here?  How do we turn our recession into a reinvention?  How do we redefine ourselves?

 

I don’t know.  But, I do know that the American Church is not immune to this global shake up.  As lovers of Christ seeking an authentic path in this world, we are asking the exact same questions.

 

For the Church (I use a big C for the organized collection of denominations and Sunday morning faithful.), these questions are coming due right alongside the bankruptcy bailouts of our nation’s economic structure.  We know that something is wrong with the traditional church structure.  Just like that 63% that yearns for a chance to reinvigorate their profession with purpose, we’ve been looking for revival.  Yet, we are not seeing it.  In fact, as traditional church models began to hemorrhage members years ago, we suspected that something was fundamentally wrong.

 

Today, as a Church, I think we know that our ways can no longer be the way they’ve always been.  As a Church, we are beginning to confront the ugly face of our lostness.  And, like me and my neighbors, the Church is confused about how to redefine itself.  Some are trying new ways and new models of spiritual service.  Yet, we fight amongst ourselves about whether or not those ways are valid.  Some are renting out church office space just to pay for heating bills.  Yet, others find maintaining a church building increasingly suffocating as they feel the pain of the great need rising outside of those four walls.

 

I know this confusion – intimately.  It is the same fear that grips at the site of a random reminder of my financial vulnerability.  It is the same unknown that echoes through my head each morning in bed, when I wake up to another unsafe day of not knowing how we’ll support ourselves.  Some days, I want to seek shelter in old ways, just because the out-dated known feels safer than the new unknown.   Other days, I don’t want to get up at all.  Sometimes, it feels like putting my feet on the ground will mean that I have already lost. 

 

But, even more dreadful than the loss of things is the loss of self.  Who am I in this new realm of uncertainty?  Where is my place?  How do I connect the dots?

 

For the Church, the same questions remain unanswered.  How do we redefine ourselves as a spiritual force?  In this new day, with mankind simultaneously connected and separated from one another, more than ever, where is the Church’s place?  How can we really help?  I think we know that our old ways were for old days.  But, we don’t know how to become new.  We sense the emptiness of “revival” just for the sake of getting people back into the buildings.  But we haven’t mustered the courage to reinvent and get ourselves out of those buildings.  We’re just not there yet.

 

There is a void right here, right now.  The void is felt by all:  personally, economically, and spiritually; just like the personal despair of my family’s and neighbor’s unemployment; just like the global confusion spreading around the world; and just like the Church that seeks a new identity for how to be a spiritual force in this great time of need.  We are stuck, for now, in the void, while we figure out how to connect the dots and move forward.

 

Now is when all of the propaganda of entitlement prosperity just doesn’t cut the mustard.  Now is when we need the one promise, the only promise that God made, to be true: “I will never leave you or forsake you.”  That’s our Creator’s message; our universal vow:  “I will never leave you or forsake you.”

 

Now is when we need to stand true to each other; to not forsake our husbands, our wives, our children, our neighbors, our pastors, or even our politicians.  Now is when God’s promise can illuminate our hearts, and we can become lights to ourselves and to the world. 

Shelby

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

What Would Bobble-Head Jesus Do?

I don’t care if it rains or freezes

‘Long as I got my plastic Jesus

Riding on the dashboard of my car

Through my trials and tribulations

And my travels through the nations

With my plastic Jesus I’ll go far

–  “Plastic Jesus” by George Cromarty and Ed Rush, later rewritten by Ernie Marrs

 

Listening to Jazz music turns me into a bobble-head doll.  Normally, I’m not a fan of jazz.  It defies definition.  I cannot predict the next note, which is exactly why my only choice is to bob my head in unthinking rhythm with the musician’s fleet fingers.

 

I’m not a fan of jazz music, but I am a fan of going out with my husband.  Lately, we’ve enjoyed “Jazz Martini Night” at a local joint.  Each Sunday evening, The Badlander bar turns down the fluorescents, strikes a match to thirty votive candles, and lets the haphazard beats of big base, acoustic guitar, and soft cymbals settle folks into a Sunday slow down.  The classy tang of Manhattan comes to town, and I slip into my heels and tap my feet to the beat of Madison Street.

 

On a recent Sunday night, as I sat there tapping and bobbing, I thought of the classic country song “Plastic Jesus.”  Sometimes, divine help comes from odd places.  Say, for example, in a bar.  Listening to jazz.  Drinking a dry martini.  But, help always comes when I need it the most.

 

Today, I need help now.  A dark tenor has settled over our household.  My husband, Frank, lost his job last week.  In this current economic down-spiral, that’s disconcerting news.  But, even worse, the way it all went down has broken our hearts.

 

Frank worked for a non-profit that anchors our local-food/sustainability community in Missoula.  We’ve always believed in the mission of this place.  Frank’s chance to work in their bakery felt, to me, like coming home.  These were my peeps.  Every morning, the most educated, gifted workforce of pizza makers, cookie bakers, and deli chefs would plug some funky groove into the CD player and prepare delicious, wholesome food for our town.  Frank loved baking breads with his colorful co-workers, and I think they loved him, too.  In fact, his supervisor praised Frank’s decadent wheat-free, sugar-free, vegan chocolate coconut cake.  They still sell pieces of that cake.

 

Last week, heartbreak came at the hands of two higher-ups.  Two middle-management supervisors (who do not bake alongside Frank in the kitchen) had cornered, accused, and judged him.  They said Frank stole food.  They said he ditched work without notice.  But their reasoning was obtuse at best.  They refused to listen to the real story behind their assumptions.  They didn’t want to hear about any miscommunication that was the ultimate cause.  They didn’t even write him up.  Frank got a call last Wednesday.  It lasted about two minutes.  “Don’t come to work tomorrow,” he was told.

 

It has been a week.  Today, I can only think, “What would bobble-head Jesus do?”

 

Frank worked alongside exceptional people.  Many of them would roll their eyes at the oft-repeated, “What would Jesus do?”  Not many of them professed to be Christian, but we learned so much from them.  They humbled us; not by judging us, but by showing us more of God, in their own ways.  They enriched our lives with their ideas, stories, and outlooks.

 

In that spirit, by their example, I’d like to ask you to join Frank and me in praying for the two managers behind his firing.  I don’t understand how these managers could execute such swift judgment, without discussion, without a heart towards bettering the whole bakery.  I can only think that they must have been victims of injustice in the past.  Perhaps, having received little mercy, they are unable to give mercy.

 

Please help us break that cycle.  Let’s break the chaotic melody of hurt with a clear chorus of love and forgiveness.  Please lift up these two managers in your hearts and pray however you pray – by keeping them in your thoughts, sending positive vibes their way, or reciting scripture in supplication to God.  Whatever works for you. 

 

Our family does not need retribution in order to move forward.  With your help, we can choose faith over fear. 

 

I think that’s what bobble-head Jesus would do.  He would bob along with us over the pot-holes in the road of life.  He would sway in time to the treacherous turns.  He would remind us that life does not always follow a steady rhythm.

 

And, like the unpredictable music of Jazz Martini Night, bobble-head Jesus would remind us that there’s a time for everything.  A time to work at your favorite business and a time to leave.  A time to look for a new job, and a time to recommit to your current job.  A time to love and a time to forgive.

 
Shelby

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

When Things Go Awree

My bladder doesn’t give me much warning these days.  From the initial pang of “gotta go,” I have about one minute to find a bathroom.  Such was the case as I shopped for groceries last week.  On high alert, I abandoned my cart next to a row of canned corn and dashed towards the nearest restroom with my tell-tale wiggle-waddle.

 

Throwing open the heavy bathroom door, I quickly scanned underneath the stalls – empty.  Making a bee line for relief, I entered my default stall.  My question this week is:

 

Which stall do you think I chose?  And why?

 

Now, this question, in the expansive universe of all questions, doesn’t seem to merit much thought.  Except, I always pick the same one:   the second stall from the entrance.  As I rushed to the second stall that day, I got to thinking, Does everyone pick the second stall when all of the bathrooms are empty?  Have any curious sociologists done a study on poddy-picking?  Is there a common choice and, if so, then why?

 

Ahhh… why?  That’s the real question; the question to stump all questions.

 

I have some other “why mysteries.”

 

For example, whenever I read the word awry (pronounced “uh-rye”), why do I always want to say “aw-ree?”  I’m caught in the clutches of a mystery novel’s dangerous climax and, suddenly, circumstances go “aw-ree.”  My brain feels like Wild E. Coyote duped by the Road Runner into another foolish fall.  I do it every time.  Do any of you do this, too?

 

Or, why do I think that arguing with my computer will make it work?  Can someone please, please prove that verbal lashings make microchips respond faster?  Here’s a short list of my impatient outbursts.  “Come on!”  “No, don’t do that!”  “Why are you doing that?”  “Stop it!”  “Uuuugghhh!”

 

I hope I’m not alone in my quirky habits.

 

At least I know I’m not alone in asking, “Why?”  Little kids have that skill mastered – to the point of gorgonizing weary parents who cannot keep up with the revolving door of repetitive questioning.

 

I bet you know what I’m talking about.

 

“Mom, why is the water blue?”

 

“Oh, that’s because it’s reflecting the sky.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, because the water in the air reflects the light, and that makes the sky blue.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, because the shape of the water parts and the position of the sun make it a blue color.”

 

“Why?”

 

And so on, and so on…

 

A few years back, God played the Why Game with me.  This time brought unprecedented clarity about the drives and motivations behind everything I said or did.  Understanding renewed my mind, as if God pulled back heavy curtains and scrubbed window panes clean of decades of dust.

 

Basically, God mimicked the wisdom of a curious child.  God just kept asking me “Why?”  The conversations went something like this…

 

When I would offer a cheery morning “Hello” to a coworker, in my head, God would ask:

 

Why?

 

Well, I want to say hello.

 

Why?

 

Because I want them to know that I see them.

 

Why?

 

Because I don’t want them to think I’m ignoring them.

 

Why?

 

Because I don’t want to be thought of as rude.

 

Why?

 

Because I want them to like me.

 

Why?

 

Because I don’t want them to dislike me.

 

Why?

 

Because I need to be liked.

 

Why?

 

Because I want to feel loved.

 

Over and over, the conversation would go like this; when I thanked the grocery store clerk; when I opened the door for someone; when I tried to join a conversation with a witty comment; when I tried to say something smart in a meeting.  No matter the moment, they all ended with the same answer:  I need to feel loved.

 

After two weeks of intense introspection, I began to feel like ground meat.  I was getting tired of the Why Game.  But, most of all, I was growing sick of myself.  Was I really that self-centered?  Were all of my good deeds really about me?  Wasn’t there anything genuinely giving in me?  (Notice how all of these worries were still about me.)

 

In the end, however, I saw God’s wisdom in giving me a glimpse into my own psyche.  Just when I was about to give up on finding any virtue within, God replied – in the most loving, maternal, soothing tone you can imagine –  “My child, my beautiful dear one.  If you could see, if you could truly know, how much I adore you, how much I am completely for you, then you wouldn’t be driven by all these needs.  You could rest in my love for you.  I am here for you.”

 

Wow!

 

I got it.  I could taste the sweet sap of Heaven in those words; so kind, so eternally faithful.  Suddenly, I didn’t feel selfish at all.  I just felt – loved.

 

After soaking in my newfound reality, I also felt relief.  After a while, God mercifully closed the curtain again.  But, this time, the window of my mind remained clear.  I now knew the deep see of need that swelled underneath the current of my everyday actions.  But I didn’t have to hold that knowledge in shame.  I simply became more aware; more free.

 

And, something inside unclenched.  I could rest in others’ company.  Listening became easier, as I wasn’t trying to think of the next thing I was going to say.  I could see beauty in the bright smiles that emerged when I opened doors for strangers.  I could look the cashier in the eye when I said, “Thanks.”

 

I still rush to the second stall door, however.  When I don’t quite make it, things still go “aw-ree.”  And, just now, I decried my computer for deleting that last sentence I typed.

 

I still wonder why.

Shelby

 

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com

Evil Shmeevil

In response to Minnowspeaks’ recent blog on “So How Did Evil Get Here?” I thought I would post a poem which I wrote a few years back called, “My Captain Has Already Won.”  At the time I wrote the poem, I had been around traditional Christianity for quite a while and had become, well, to put it bluntly, disgusted with the repetative, rhetorical reasoning I had heard over and over about evil.  There were only about five statements I heard people say over and over again, like they had these in their back pocket just in case someone asked them about evil or the Devil.

For example, administrators at my daughter’s Christian school felt compelled to constantly warn these innocent, timid 5th graders about the Devil seeking to devour them at any minute (1 Peter 5:8).  Or, preachers would turn scripture into doctrine by blaming the Devil over and over for every ilk in people’s lives, as if the whole world is enslaved in a trance by the Evil One.  And, fellow church-goers would repeat Ephesians 6 incessantly, as if repeating the scripture would actually clothe them with the armor of God in the spirit.  And, maybe it did — for them.  But for me, it was like sawdust in my mouth, or a bad B-movie spin-off of Star Wars.

“There’s got to be more than this,” I prayed.  Part of my prayer became the poem “My Captain Has Already Won.”  I also painted the picture you see at the top of this blog.  The most prominant figure is a strong woman clothed in the armor of God.  But, you’ll notice that the armor is light, not stiff.  She’s powerful in her femininity.  She holds out a shield with the symbol of love, as that is her ultimate directive.

At the side is a girl — the one I used to be who saw scripture only in black and white, who dared view the world only through a tight lense of wrong and right.  She’s worn out, bruised, and exhausted from her fight.  Her armor is stiff, not allowing her to move freely or with a light heart.  She’s defeated.

Another inspiration for this painting was an awesome quote by S. Weil:  “Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotanous, barren, boring; imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”

And here is the poem, My Captain Has Already Won…

The beast feared at every door –
I’m devoured by my captain’s love
That stole the lion’s roar
When demons ask His permission to run
I know
My captain has already won

 

Legends of an enemy fallen
Revived again by blame
Give evil too much credit
My post is at His feet
My tears to wet it
Where truth and mercy meet
In my captain who’s already won

 

Shadow-boxing in the dark
Makes busy soldiers of a way-gone war
Until I ask “why?”
When my armor breaks
Into edges cut with judgment
Wounded then, I lay down my sword
Before my captain who’s already won

 

Brokenness bends in a quiet place
Hurt mends and I see His face
If I’ll stand, I’ll see my reflection in His eyes
His name on my lips, His sword in my hands
Minions fall across my mindscape land as I cry,
“My captain has already won!”

 

Where or when does the battle rage
When my captain has already won?
My fight is to stay at His feet
Where in crimson, scarlet shame
My captain the victory keeps

 

Shelby

 

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

 

 

Body and Soul Fitness

“New Year, New You!”  I’ve seen and heard these words many times, but this year, I’m seeing and hearing them a lot more than usual.  Maybe it’s because I work at a health club now.  Or, maybe I’m more sensitive to the marketing blitzkrieg stalwartly aimed at my own self-conscious qualms.  But, maybe, just maybe, it’s because I really do feel like a new me.  Yeah, let’s go with that last one.  I’ll tell you why…

 

2008 was the perfect storm for physical and spiritual challenges for our family.  In the spring, my husband had to have some emergency dental surgery.  While his tender gums were healing, a random visit to his doctor revealed heart troubles.  The follow-up exam became a caution flag, as we discovered that Frank’s arteries were about as tight as a Nascar 500 turn in rainy weather.

 

Then, in May, I spent several days on the couch with (what I thought) was the flu and ended the week in ICU.  I was admitted with anaphylactic shock, acute rheumatoid arthritis, and double-pneumonia.  For an entertaining read about that experience, check out my blog titled, “Letting Go.” 

 

But, all that turned out to work for good because it led my doctor to realize to question my depression diagnosis.  I was tested for Sleep Apnea instead.  The CPAP mask has given me back my vitality – and provided a few kinky jokes in bed about sexy alien chicks and Captain Kirk (“I need more power, Scotty!”)  Anyway…I was enjoying a boost in mood and energy when…wham!  Some chronic pain got worse, I took a bad fall at the local hot springs, and an EXTREMELY PAINFUL MRI revealed a herniated disc.

 

Lord, I hope I’m not a hypochondriac.

 

Let me just say this…2008 has been a challenging year, but it has also been one of the most thankful and joy-expanding years of my life.  I haven’t been this happy in a long time.  For every setback in my physical body, I’ve received a spiritual blessing sevenfold.  Would I do it again?  You bet (and probably with a better attitude).

 

Just writing that last paragraph has made me realize how connected our physical bodies and spiritual souls really are.  At times in my life, I’ve preferred to relegate my body to a vessel, a a mere tool for my eternl soul.  Christianity strengthened this hierarchal idea because of the idea of Heaven:  one day, the body would pass away and I would be pure spirit.  At times, I used this idea as permission to neglect my body.  Now, I’m learning that how I treat my body directly affects the condition of my spirit.  In fact, I’ve learned some principles that apply to both my body and soul.  I thought I would share a few…

 

First, both exercise and our spiritual relationship with God are not about reaching a goal.  Ooooohhh (insert shudder here).  I detest the word “goal;” it’s such a loaded word.  Whispers of “expectation,” “disappointment,” and “failure” creep in the shadows, hanging tightly behind the word “goal” — no wonder the marketing dudes have figured out that January is the best time of year to make money on fitness.  And, how many of us have, once again, promised ourselves that we’ll read the Bible in one year (“And this time, I really will do it.”)?

 

If we could trash the world “goal” and replace it with something more reachable, something more here, something more now, that would sure make me feel better right away.  But what could that word be?

 

Hmmmm…let’s move on to another lesson I’ve learned:

 

It’s about showing up and paying attention.  I once read this article about a world-class runner from Africa.  I don’t remember his name, but I remember his sleek figure, shiny, ebony cheekbones, and long list of long-distance running accomplishments (we’re talking marathons.)  Someone asked him for his “secret” to running so long so well.  He said that he runs every day, and he promises himself only one thing:  to run only one mile.  One mile.  That’s it.  If he feels like running more, he keeps running.  If he feels like quitting, he stops.  Not only has he become one of the fastest, strongest runners on the planet, but he did it with minimal injuries; one mile at a time.

 

That runner’s “secret” has also become my most profound, yet simple, lesson of 2008.  In the fitness realm, I made a  daily commitment to just get moving.  Move anything – just get my heart pumping a little bit faster.  At first, I started moving only 15’ a day.  Then, I quickly built-up to 30’.

 

This was a huge change for me. In the past, I’ve planned my exercise schedules to the day, the month, even the year.  I could’ve told you what race I hoped to run in six months.  Of course, I was no piker.  I broke it all down into doable, reachable goals (there’s that word again).  But, honestly, I spent more time planning than moving.  And, a terrible heaviness began to fester in my spirit whenever my plans would fall to life emergencies, workplace demands, or everyday boredom.

 

So, committing to just moving for 30’ a day took a lot of mental cajoling on my part.  Accepting the movement, no matter what form it took, was a healthy step.  I remember one day when I wasn’t feeling so well.  Frank and I took a walk around a park.  I held a hot mocha brevé in my left hand and a doughnut in my right.  But I was walking!  Did I count it?  You bet!

 

This same self-acceptance translated into my spiritual life, as well.  Instead of pressuring myself to serve in the traditional church pipelines (nursery, volunteering, etc), I pared down my focus to just looking for a chance to connect with God today.  I started to pay attention.  I noticed what was going on around me and became engaged; watching for whatever crossed my path.

 

You know what…there’s a lot going on out there; outside of my busy, list-making mind!  I think I’ve seen more of God this year than I can remember of the past five years.  I’ve had more opportunities to sincerely help others than I can count.  And, I’ve willingly received help (just as important) more than I’ve ever allowed myself to before.

 

The benefits of focusing on today, both physically and spiritually, are just starting to unfold before me.

 

One cool bennie:  being in the moment totally trumps failure – that idea can’t even get a foot-hold.  Failure requires one thing before it can exist:  a goal.  When your only goal is to take the day as it comes, to be fully engaged, then failure cannot poison your body or your spirit.

 

For example, when I found out I had a herniated disc, I didn’t have a single, gnarly thought of failure.  I marveled at this buoyant void.  After several seeks of increasing pain, I realized that I had viewed my injury merely as a “setback.”  I guess I realized that my commitment for the day really hadn’t changed.  I would still move; just differently.  I spend a lot of time running in the deep end of the pool these days.

 

In previous years, my mind would have been burning with the “unfairness” of my injury.  “Great,” I would have moaned, throwing my hands up in the air.  “Now I won’t be able to train for (insert your goal here)!  Why does this always happen to me?  Life sucks! Etc, etc, etc.”  Nasty thoughts would have quickly morphed into a blanket judgment that life was against me.

 

But not this year.  I’ve brought the finish line to me, right where I’m at today.  As such, I’ve stopped setting myself up for disappointment.

 

Another benefit of being “in the now:”  no gritty build-up in my spirit over missed goals.  A classic example of this is the “reading the Bible in a year” syndrome.  I call it a syndrome because failure to stick to the daily schedule has, in the past, made that Bible feel like dead weight to me.  When I missed a day’s readings, I would tack it onto the next day’s.  Then, I would miss that day’s readings and have three days to make up.  Pretty soon, I felt like making my own Exodus from the burden of expectation to which, as always, I would eventually succumb.

 

The best advice I got on this came from a pastor a few years ago:  if you miss a day, just skip it.  Yes!  Bringing the schedule into the moment of today is a great way to actually read the Bible in about a year.  In fact, it exemplifies our desire to be faithful.  When we focus our spiritual life on today, we can commune with the Great “I am” and become “I am, too.”

 

Which brings me to my last benefit:  success.  When I told my mom about my newfound method of exercise (“just move it”), I remember saying, “Just wait and see.  I bet you that I’ll have more success this way than I’ve had with any other plan I’ve created before.”  Well, we’re still waiting, and we’re still seeing – especially now that I’m scheduled for minor back surgery.  But, hey, I haven’t given up hope.

 

As far as the spiritual realm, living in the now has revealed God’s abundant provision in our difficult circumstances.  I’ve found purpose all around me, everyday.  Before, I would have missed it as I pushed my own spiritual agenda forward.  In this regard, all that I wanted was already there, already in my hands.  It was the reaching that took it from me.  It was the grasping that made me feel empty-handed.  It sounds cliché, but all that I wanted was already mine.  I just had to slow down long enough to see it.

 

Maybe that’s one reason for all the crazy medical emergencies this year.  They’ve definitely slowed me down long enough to see that life is fundamentally good.  And, at my core, I am fundamentally faithful.  In truth, my body was made to be my temple — to the bone.  These are thoughts I never had while I was redoing my work-out schedule or praying for God to give me a purpose.

 

So far, all of the nagging pressures to be fit, both physically and spiritually, have been absorbed by a force more powerful than all of my good intentions combined:  time.  Time is on my side.  It is on everyone’s side, Lord willing.  Time is constant and our best catalyst for change.  This year, I’ve learned to work with the only real, tangible part of time I have:  now.  Being in the moment has taught me to be vulnerable enough to hope, honest enough to encourage, and brave enough to love.  Now that’s real change.

Shelby

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

What If We’ve Been Doing All This Backwards?

My journey towards radical authenticity has sometimes required a lot more of me than I originally thought I would have to give.  One of those requirements was to first walk with God through my own heart before actually living out any kind of “purpose driven life.”  But I wanted it the other away around.  Give me the purpose, then I’ll feel like I’ve got LIFE.

 

“Here I am, Lord!  Send me!”  I remember proclaiming those words with the coals of ambition blazing in my heart. And, really, many of us, after reading that oft-quoted passage of Isaiah 6, feel the call for a more meaningful ministry.  I think we honestly want to meet God’s awesome impact on our lives with an equal amount of dedication and service.  We feel so changed (kind of like we have that “new car smell” on the inside) that our shiny new souls feel destined to do something good for God.  Let’s take this cruiser for a test drive, Jesus!  Naturally, Isaiah’s vociferous volunteerism resonates.

 

There’s only one problem:  Isaiah 6 doesn’t actually match those expectations.  In fact, God didn’t respond to Isaiah with an anointed thumbs-up.  Instead, God sent an angel to put a hot piece of coal to Isaiah’s lips.  Ouch!

 

That hot piece of coal is what I want to write about today.  I think modern Christian belief promotes an expectation of being “released” into ministry to directly increase the number of believers, like some exponential math formula for saving the world.  But, in the case of Isaiah, God chose the cleansing fire first, long before any message to the masses.  

So what was that fire, and what was it cleansing?  I’m not sure most Christians understand the answers.

 

Unfortunately, I read and hear about my fellow Christian brothers and sisters who interpret the light of that fire as permission to scorch the nose-hairs of my otherwise-minded neighbors.  There’s a religious spirit that can get downright mean:  threatening my neighbors into Hell, judging my friends’ behaviors, and essentially setting the community conversation ablaze with acid accusations, like a wild brushfire in harvest season.  This brand of salvation burns me the most because, honestly, I used to think just like that.  Instead of being salt of the earth, I staged an assault on the earth.

 

Looking back, I think those kind of threats come from a religious spirit disguised as righteousness.  It may not overtly reverse the Truth, or God’s Word.  Instead, it reverses how we use the Truth, how we apply God’s word.  This same spirit is the one that gives us permission to rub salt in the sores of the walking wounded around us — and it tells us that this kind of hurt will win unbelievers from the clutches of darkness.  But how can darkness illuminate darkness?

 

I recently read a prime example of such a situation in a recent post from Minnowspeaks.  In her post, Minnow describes how her son was invited to join the gay/lesbian club at high school because the members of that club sensed his non-judgmental spirit and thought they would enjoy his company.  When Minnow’s son told his Christian friends about the invitation, they immediately responded with a surge of self-righteousness and told him that he should tell “those people” that they are an abomination and they need to accept Christ or go to Hell.

 

Minnow’s post went on to ask a question extremely relevant to our times:  How do we treat people who don’t profess Christianity:  With love or with the fiery judgment of God’s word?

 

Legit concerns can land us on both sides of the argument.  We want to love our neighbors.  It feels like that’s what Jesus would do.  But, how can we just ignore the guidance and moral teachings of the Bible?  How can we stay true to God’s calling and love our neighbors at the same time?  That stiff-necked religious spirit, gravid with lines of black-and-white, write-and-wrong, tries to convince us that we must choose between these two extremes; that there is no in-between.  Well, maybe it’s not about one, the other, or the in-between.  Maybe both are right.

 

Here’s where I got an idea that totally rocked my face off.  What if both are right, but modern Christianity has just reversed the application of these truths?   We judge our neighbors, but what if that judgment should be aimed at us instead?  We love ourselves and understand our own mistakes, but what if that kind of unconditional love is meant for everyone?  Have we been using the two-edged sword of the Word of God to judge unbelievers when, in fact, it is meant for us, the ones who already know God’s unconditional love?  Have we been too quick to understand our own mistakes and bargain for God’s mercy, but hold it back from those who need it most?  As much as we understand and see God’s ultimate intentions, what if we’ve been doing this business backwards?

 

In an honest response to this possibility, I’ve made a resolution.  I’ve promised God that I would treat all others with as much unconditional love as I can muster — whether they profess Christianity, another religion, or nothing at all.  This includes my family, friends, coworkers, and strangers I meet at the grocery store.  I will view them and respect them as a fellow child of God and let God worry about the rest.  In contrast, I’ve asked God to search my own heart and reserve the most pivotal portion of scripture as the coal to my own lips.  I will save the hard stuff for me and me alone.

 

While considering this move, I prayerfully asked God to show me what the Bible has to say about my decision.  Here’s what I’ve found so far…

 

In support of focusing the Word of God on exposing myself…

1)  A good start is Isiaih 6.  The angel put the coal to Isiaih ’s lips.  If the coal can represent the purification of Isiaih’s testimony by the Word of God, then we can feel confident that God cares so much about unbelievers that God is willing to do a little work on the messengers before they start delivering any kind of divine diatribe.

2)  Search me, O God and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts:  And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.  (Psalm 139:  23-24).

3)  Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves; be ye therefore wise as serpents… (Matthew 10:16).

 

In support of treating all others with unconditional love…

1)  …and harmless as doves.  (the rest of Matthew 10:16)

2)  We loved Him, because He first loved us. (1 John 4:19).  And when you think about it, how many of us met God because someone threatened us into Hell?”

3) Or despiseth thou the riches of His goodness and forebearance and longsuffering; not knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance (Romans 2:4).

4)  Jesus says that the greatest commandments are to love God and love each other as ourselves.

 

Perhaps the most telling Biblical example of how to treat others was written in the sand, with Jesus’ own finger tracing words before the feet of a religious congregation out to snare and stone a prostitute.  In that moment, when the Ten Commandments and the legalistic padding of the Jewish Mishna would have condoned such an act, Jesus decided to love.  Just what was Jesus writing in the sand?  I believe he etched eternal truths in the hearts of that crowd, truths that still light the way for us today:  love the unlovely and pay attention to your own brokenness.

 

When Jesus challenged, “He who is without sin, throw the first stone,” heavy pebbles fell from guilty hands and thudded to the soft earth.  As the religious scorners walked away, acrid dust lifted to their nostrils.  I imagine it was a smell they never forgot.

 

Seeing these Biblical examples, it makes me think that love is so much more powerful than any of us realize.  Love has the power to dissolve barriers and reconcile the most broken of us to wholeness.  After that, love has the power to keep us safe as we confront some of the ugliest, darkest parts of ourselves.  That doesn’t sound watered-down, lukewarm, or compromised to me.

 

So, I’m choosing love.  Recently, I made a new friend who happens to be a lesbian.  She has confided in me, and I want to honor her by listening.  I thank God that she has a devoted partner who loves her through hard stuff.  Also, I work with a young woman who confessed of having an abortion.  She has a lot of opinions about that topic, and I want to continue asking her questions.  I want to understand her choice   Lastly, on a daily basis, I’m surrounded by all sorts of loving people who profess different beliefs.  They have taught me humility, not by making me any less, but by helping me see more of God.

 

Like I said, continuing on the trail of radical authenticity has required a lot more of me than I ever thought I had to give.  But the decision to give unconditional love to everyone outside of my own skin – that’s a no-brainer.  I admit:  there might be risks; all sorts of dangers.  But, to me, the greater risk is creating more separation, more barriers, between people and an authentic relationship with God.  Who knows, I may even break down a few walls I have between me and understanding myself.

 

Now who’s getting saved?

 

Shelby

 

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

 

Radically Authentic Seed

Most Christians know about the parable of sowing the seed:  some fell on good ground,  rocky ground, etc.  Well, there’s another way to scatter seed that’s not included in that parable.  I’m thinking of the bear scat my husband and I spotted on a recent hike in a pine forest this last week.  Yep, that’s right – some good seed can actually be spread through a lot of crap. 

 

That basically describes where my life was about five years ago.  I’d like to share some of the good fruit that came out of an extremely messy situation.  Namely, I was in the midst of having an affair.  There’s too much history to fit into one blog post here.  So I ask for your grace in simply pondering the idea that my sin came not from devilish rebellion but from simple spiritual exhaustion.

 

I was tired of doing the stuff.  As part of a tight, legalistic church, I had worn out my ability to walk the narrow path of rules and regulations.  I remember telling God, “That’s it.  I’m not good enough to do this God thing.  I’m clocking out.  From now on, church is just a social club.”  From that moment of separation, it didn’t take long to discover my potential for breaking almost all of the Ten Commandments in under six months.

 

That’s the crappy part.  Let me tell you about the seed.

 

It was a Saturday night during music worship.  Melody and praise had filled the sanctuary for a while when the worship leader started a new song.  I remember some of the lyrics: “I’ll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross.”  As I heard these words, I stopped singing.  I felt uncomfortable.  Everyone else sang with abandon, but I couldn’t.  Some shred of integrity kept me from singing words that I didn’t believe. 

 

For over ten years, I had claimed to know God.  But, I have to admit, before that night, I never understood the Cross.  I didn’t get it.  To me, the Cross had been only a pass gate to perfection.  In truth, I didn’t get the Cross because I didn’t think I needed it.

 

That night, as I watched others worship, I knew my sin.  I had been steeped in its boiling soup of lies and deception.  More than any other time in my life, I needed the Cross.  The glaring clarity of my need broke through my religious mind like a battering ram through brick.  In desperation, I raised my hands to God.

 

As a practiced church-goer of over ten years, I was used to parceling my soul into bits of good and bad, so I defaulted to my mental quick-check of which parts to bring before God.  But there were no parts to bring; only the whole.  I had to bring all of me; all my messiness; all my confusion; all my hope.  With my arms raised, I surrendered in total transparency to God.

 

Then, I’m not kidding you, I felt a presence draw near.  It felt different from me; even different than the chorus of souls in the sanctuary.  I could surmise only one thing:  it must be Jesus.  With my eyes closed and mouth shut, I quieted my mind.  That’s when I heard these words in my head.

 

“Let me take it again,” a soft, gentle voice summoned.  “Let me take it again, all your sin, just for you.”

 

What kind of love must it take to make such an offer?

 

Tears rolled down my face.  I was so undeserving, so messed up.  Yet, Jesus was serious.  If I would let him, Jesus would do it all over again and take my sin to the cross.  This time, he would taste my death.  He would feel my hurt.  He would carry my shame.

 

As much of me as I could mentally, spiritually, and emotionally muster, I gave.  I gave it all.

 

Then, he left.  He went somewhere.  I don’t know where, but I could feel his absence.  I continued in my offering, not wanting the moment to end.  Then, I sensed his distinct return.  Again, words filled my head.

 

“You no longer have to manage your sin,” he said authoritatively.  “Your only job now is to fall in love with me.”

 

Imagine that kind of forgiveness.  In two short sentences, the Lord wiped away my shame and gave me permission to do nothing more than love Him.  Just loving Him was enough. 

 

For the first time in my life, I understood the Cross.  I am free to simply love because I know God loves me just as I am.  The Cross means I am enough.  Loving God is enough. 

 

That truth is the seed that began to transform my spiritual diet.  Up until that point, my Christian walk had left a pithy taste in my mouth, like I was eating from  the tree of “the knowledge of good and evil.”  Receiving God’s unconditional love that night began to sprout, in me, a Tree of Life.

 

What Jesus did trumped all my empty efforts to do things right – because I was doing everything wrong, and he still loved me.  When Jesus gave me permission just to love him, all of my religious reasoning had to answer to a new standard.  Out with the vintage fellowship based on strict lines of right and wrong, and in with a radically-authentic, questioning, curious heart full of wonder and ready to be rewritten.

 

Shelby

Shelby Humphreys recently finished her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

Letting Go

In her book, “Eat, Pray, Love,” Elizabeth Gilbert insightfully quips, “Life, if you keep chasing it so hard, will drive you to death.”  I bet most Americans would painfully agree with Ms. Gilbert.  Our recent economic struggles have highlighted, to me, how hard we work to keep our safety net of happiness from unraveling.  We tirelessly knit and re-knit threads of reassurance to keep the worry and stress at bay.  Ironically, all of our efforts can actually create worry and stress.  Our safety net can quickly fray into a tattered tease.  It’s never enough.

 

How does that relate to Christians like me?  My drive for meaning in a Biblical context doesn’t seem different than the relentless rescue of American happiness that I see around me.  Pursuit of happiness and search for ministry may share some common roots.  For example, purpose is an obvious root.  But, I wonder if there isn’t something deeper at work here.  If Christians were to face a crisis of ministry, much like the financial crisis America faces today, would we discover the same fear and desperation that we see on Wall Street faces in the news?

 

For someone like me, who has sustained a crisis of ministry, the answer is “yes.”  Two years ago, I gave up my worldly safety by quitting my job in search of “Godly” purpose.  To really understand the fervor that caught me up into a frantic faith-walk, you really need to read my last blog, “Crossroads.”  When God didn’t lead me into a specific ministry, I felt just as lost as the Joe the Plumber without a job.  I was worried.  I was stressed.  I didn’t feel like enough.

 

At a spiritual crossroads, when God told me, “We’re going inside you, Shelby,” I wanted to run the other way.  I wanted a PURPOSE, not a psych session. 

 

Doubt began to morph into hopelessness, catching me in a mental tornado of barbed  thoughts.  What am I doing wrong?  What if I’m doing my best to follow God, and it still isn’t enough?  Why won’t God use me? Will I ever be content?  Every idea ended in emotional pain.  I couldn’t find the quiet core where fear would not prick.

 

I lived in the sore spot of my soul.  It was as if the DNA gene for satisfaction was missing, and I fell into that empty space where no miracle, however wisely programmed, could fix the helix of my heart.  I felt broken; permanently.

 

In supplication to my won’t-you-fix-it-and-make-it-better God, I could utter only one word:  help.

 

Soon, I got sick — really sick.  Pain radiated from my spine, deepening into my triceps, wrapping its aching tendrils around my biceps and sending roots down into my hamstrings.  For three days, I writhed on the couch, sweated into the cushions, and became a human TV antennae (I found out what Dr. Phil and Oprah were up to, though.)  Confirming my belief that there is nothing redeeming on TV, I lay there, unable to break away from the mind-numbing pixels.

 

Then came the hives.  The doctors still don’t know the connection.  They can only surmise that the double-pneumonia brewing in my lungs was winning over the sweat lodge sessions on the couch and forced bed-rest — even over the TV preachers to whom I had grown desperate enough to listen.  A few mornings into my sick/spirit-quest, my husband Frank peered over the couch.

 

“Oh my God, your face,” he grimaced.  It had become, overnight, the equivalent of a forgotten farmers-market vegetable, rotten and bruised beyond recognition.  Bulgy blotches stretched my forehead and cheeks into a waxy film.  The back of my head felt as taught and leathery as a football helmet.  Pulling the heady blankets from my legs, I looked down at lava-like trails of rashy boils.  That site cued the itch.  Rising anguish of deep-tissue torment was fueled by the knowing:  there was absolutely nothing I could do about this. 

 

Shortly after, hot pain leached into my fingers and feet as water puddled in my veins.  I couldn’t walk.  I had to crawl to the bathtub, using the sides of my hands like a mountain gorilla.  On my way to a hot bath, I caught my mind whispering:  It is sure nice to have legs that can walk…And a body that doesn’t constantly itch…And a job where I can get paid to do something I know how to do…And a loving husband who cares so much for me, even when there’s nothing he can do…And a life.

 

Thankfulness soaked into my bones as I lay there in the warm bath.

 

I suppose the well-versed religious mind in me would like the story to stop here.  “Aaahh,” it says, “She’s learned her lesson.  She’s finally thankful for the little things.”  But, it’s not that simple.

 

The next day, we rushed to the emergency room.  My wobbly knees, starved for oxygen, barely got down the two steps out our back door. I walked like a puppet with loose strings.  On the way, my mind went flat-line.  I could track only one thought at a time.  The trees.  The road.  The bridge.  I was in anaphylactic shock.

 

When we got to the hospital, I wobbled a few more steps before resting on a pole.  The nurse came rushing out with a wheelchair, stuck a monitor on the end of my finger and announced a panicky “84%” of something.  There was no time for forms, names, or insurance cards.  She wheeled me straight back to emergency, asking Frank questions as we glided toward help.

 

The hall.  The smell.  The doctors.

 

Immediately, a swarm of scrubs set to work on interrupting my quick descent towards complete systemic failure. A searing shot of epinephrine burned up my arm, like a diabolical mad-scientist was stitching a four-inch hot poker just under my skin.  After my throat relaxed open again, doctors prepped a bed in ICU.

 

The next morning, I awoke in the hospital to find my hives calmed and pneumonia weakened under a surge of IV antibiotics.  More TV, though.  And then there was that smell; that anti-septic hospital smell that must be pumped through the ventilation system, soaked in every load of laundry, maybe even added to the food.  If I were to name that smell, it would start with a “b” and end with “yol.”

 

Over the next two days, along with my physical recovery, something else rebounded.  Some other part of me, redeemed, began to bloom in the quiet of my hospital refuge.  It’s as if God decided to pick me up and set me into an incubator for my soul.  I had been violently pulled from all my worry, all my managing, and all my eternal doubt.  This was a safe zone.

 

In the quiet of those hours, I wondered to myself, what really, if anything, had changed?  I could come up with only one thing:  control.  I no longer had it.  And yet, here I was, still alive, doing just fine.

 

This eternal “O.K.-ness” was so palpable, so real, that I could easily see how all of my efforts were just layers of control.  My search for purpose, my anguish over not being “sent out” right away, even my sickness – they all peeled away to reveal the solid core of the being God made, the I am of me.

 

Then, that voice, that inner constant I call God, came to me.  Delivering within it an infinite amount of rest, the voice spoke in my head, “Child, you no longer have to keep control.  Life is for you, not against you.”

 

I knew, in that moment of clarity, that life lived in love, not control.  Having permission to betray control, a glorious emptiness remained.  It took time, sitting there among tubes and sippy cups, to see beyond the emptiness.  But I could begin to believe in the hidden structure of God’s provision that had been there all along.  With God’s voice came a surety that life is not against me, not biting at my heels like a starving junk-yard dog baying for a juicy steak to quiet his neglected stomach.  God made life to support us all.

 

In my head, it looks like one of those wood and rice-paper sanctuaries you might find in a Chinese monastery.  God’s provision, found in friends and felt in love, resembles those aged, earthy beams heavy with strength.  In-between this divine structure spreads a cover of abundance like rice-paper walls.  Their delicate appearance is deceiving, just like it is sometimes hard to peer through our modern culture to see the abundance that is there for us.  But these fragile walls, inexplicably, yet divinely, hold back the hard stuff. 

 

In contrast, control, wanting to persuade me of its friendship, its usefulness, its programmed path to success, really offers no such support.  It is a liar.  In fact, I think it does a better job of separating us from God, from each other, and from ourselves.  How often does our honest search for satisfaction actually sabotage any chance to see life simply working for us?  If we’re always trying to make things turn out good, then how can we simply watch good things happen?

 

These are hard questions with answers that take time.  For now, I enjoy the strength of my constant breath, dutifully soaking my healing lungs with oxygen and life.  Yes, there will always be work to do.  But today, I feel the sweet surrender of contentedness.  In this moment, time has thinned out, like a hammock, and let me lie down to rest.

 

Shelby

 

Shelby Humphreys recently completed her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  You can read more at www.shelbyhumphreys.com.

Crossroads

Welcome to a journey of Radical Authenticity.  “What is that?” you might ask.  Well, to be quite honest – I’m not totally sure.  I do know a few things, however:  the answer depends on each of us (Which is why we’re talkin’ radical – no 12-steps here.)  Plus, the answer is already in each of us (can’t get anymore authentic than that).

 

Now, before you think, She sure thinks she’s all that bag-o-chips, let me just say that I welcome you to share this journey with me.  Along the way, I’ll pose some tough questions.  I’ll let you in on any answers I get.  I hope that this blog will become a community of Radically Authentic believers, questioners, and sharers.  I want to read about your journey.  I want to hear your questions.  I want to know your answers.

 

If you’re clicking on over from Minnow’s blog, I offer a special welcome, as you already know about God’s plans for solving my eternal puzzle called “life.”  If you haven’t had a chance to read my guest blog at Minnowspeaks.wordpress.com, I encourage you to check it out.

 

In homage to the Black Eyed Peas, let’s get it started in here…

 

My journey began in the fall of 2006.  One night in church when God brought me to the crossroads.

 

I really didn’t want to be there.  It was the third time I had heard the sermon that weekend.  I just caught the last 10 minutes (AGAIN!) because I was waiting for my husband to get off from nursery duty.  As I listened to the preacher from behind the back row, I sat with arms crossed.  I stretched my legs out and rested my feet on my heels in resistant boredom.

 

Then a picture pops into my head.  I’m standing at an intersection of four dirt roads in flat farm country; their dusty ribbons disappearing where wheat touches the sky.  I look just up and behind my shoulder to see a splintery pole standing in the middle of the intersection.  Crooked, sun-parched street signs loosely hang from the pole.  I can hear rusty nails, sunken deep into cracked wood, whine about the incessant wind.

 

I try to read the signs, but time has sanded away their purpose.  Anyway, in that instant, I know that these signs could read anything.  They are the images I’ve created of myself.  They describe who I’ve always wanted to be.  They are the “if only I could’s” in my life.  They might say “Fit,” “Christian,” or “Super Mom.” —  or anything else.  It doesn’t matter what they read, only that they are not the road home.  I knew this when I saw God turn the signs.  Slowly, in perfect unison, each sign groaned out a squeaky turn until they all pointed in the same direction:  to me.

 

“You,” I heard a voice in my head say.  “We’re taking the road inside you.”

 

That’s not what I wanted to hear.  To begin with, I wasn’t looking to get sucked down some spiritual rabbit hole to the unknown.  I wanted purpose.  I wanted something to do.  I had felt the pungent fervor of Isaiah 6.  “Here I am send me!”  In response, earlier that year, I actually quit my job of 11 years and declared myself “available” for God’s use.  This was my literal interpretation of losing my life for Christ’s sake.  I wanted to be “released,” as we say in church circles.  I was The Purpose Driven Life – on steroids.

 

Going inside wasn’t my idea of purpose.  Here I was, making myself available, and God wanted to go where?  Here’s how the conversation went in my head…

 

Me:  “No God.  You have it turned around.  I’m going OUT not IN.”

 

God:  (silence)

 

Me:  “I thought we were through this already.  I’m finally giving up my life to you.  Isn’t this what you wanted in the first place?”

 

God:  (more silence)

 

Me:  “Aaarrgggh.  I don’t want to do this.”

 

God:  “Shelby, we need to do this.  We need to cover some ground which you’ve been trying to ignore for a long time.”

 

Me:  (silence)

 

Thus began my trip into circumstances that didn’t make sense.  In fearful reaction to quitting my job without any future prospects of gainful employment, I became obsessed with finding the single, divine WILL OF GOD (Insert booming Charlton Heston voice here.)  I spent days with an ulcer in my stomach, plagued by a drive to find God’s purpose for me.  My desperation compelled me to create my own answers.  Although I said I wasn’t trying to push God’s buttons, I looked more like Homer Simpson trying to keep the nuclear plant from blowing up, punching every red, green, and blue light I could find.

 

Four months passed without any firm direction from God.  Desperation distorted faith into doubt.  How long do I have to wait for something to gel? I wondered.  What if I’m giving this faith walk my best shot, and I still can’t do it?  What if I don’t have it in me?  What if I totally bomb out and we lose everything?

 

While supporting my search for a new direction, my husband Frank still zealously guarded his own earning potential – all the more, in fact.  He knew how I felt.  He wanted more, too.  He just didn’t know how to make it happen.  His choice was not to choose and continue working.

 

With climbing blood pressure and chronic narcolepsy, Frank endured a brutal work schedule at the expense of his own body.  He needed rest and I needed guidance.  Rather than waiting for him to rest in a hospital bed, I decided to take action.   Let’s just say I pulled a Lysastrata on him.

 

Frank gave notice within the week. 

 

Now we were both out of a job.  We had made ourselves available.  But we also made ourselves vulnerable, uncomfortable, and completely dependent upon God.

 

After one extremely difficult day, with my emotions sparking like flaming darts, I broke down.  I obviously had no idea how to hear God, I reasoned.  Maybe I was never supposed to quit my job.  Maybe I just wanted too much.  Waving my white flag of defeat, I talked myself into surrender.

 

“Shelby,” I said to myself, “you just have to wake up.  Be responsible.  Stop tempting God this way.  Just get a job, be thankful for what you have, get a paycheck, and love your family like everyone else.  Stop acting like a child.  Let go of these big ideas.  Life isn’t about dreams.  It’s about working, eating, sleeping, and working some more.  Just buck up, go out there, and get a job.”

 

In my mind, I heard God counter, “I want you to rest.”

 

That’s not what I wanted to hear, either.   I had finally surrendered to common sense, and now God decides to talk?  I had taken my big faith leap off of the cliff of the American Dream, and this was God’s answer?  I had bills to pay, and God wanted me to rest?  No way.  I had my laces tied, ready to run my race.  “Let’s go, God!  I’m here!  Use me!  What’s stopping us?”

 

The answer:  I was.

 

Check back next week to find out how God decided to stop me…

 

Shelby

 

Shelby recently completed her first book, “Church Picnic:  How God Saved Me from My Religion.”  Find out more about Shelby at www.shelbyhumphreys.com