S.O.S. 

I’m stuck in Metro Diner on 34th Street.

How am I stuck, you ask?  

Well, I’m wearing a sundress and sandals and my car is parked clear across the parking lot.  This is a problem because as I write this Gainesville is being pounded with severe thunderstorms for the next few hours. 

How did I get here, you wonder? 

1. I don’t have the sense to check the weather before I go places. 

2. A beautiful group of ladies from my place of work invited me to join them this morning for a bible study devotion at the diner. 

3. I had the brilliant idea of dropping off my dry-cleaning at the cleaners next door after we finished our study, just as the storm came crashing down on south Gainesville.

So here I am. Stuck in the diner, afraid to run out in the rain and fall on my face, and drinking my third cup of coffee (this one black because I’ve had too much creamer this morning already.) 

If you have talked to me in the past few days, you would know my stress levels have had me looking like a robot on the fritz—twitches and sparks flying from my ears and not speaking coherent English. 

My mama has been warning me that my soul is at risk for becoming dry if I don’t take time to water it. But who has time for ‘soul-watering’ when your time is being stretched like the last few pumps of your favorite hairspray? Who has time to tend to your own soul when you’re somehow expected to make miracles happen with your obligations to everyone and everything else?

Considering the state of my to-do list, you can imagine the annoyance I feel right now as I nurse my black coffee, now cold.  Why can’t this rain hurry up and finish already? 

As I was telling someone I hold in high regard last night about my current emotional state, I found myself apologizing to him for not being at my best right now. I told him how afraid I was of feeling so down, mostly because I wasn’t sure when it would come to an end. Would it go away when my list of to-dos are checked off? When I finally catch up on sleep? When I can work in balance with my schedule so I can exercise regularly, meal-prep, make time for friends, pick up a new hobby, make home-made jam, and learn how to sow all my future children’s clothes? (Who am I kidding? I’m a Millennial. I just want to learn how to sow back on a button.)

After our conversation ended, and despite everything I had pressing in my thoughts, the things I should be doing to prepare for the week, to address what I would consider all that will make me better and more efficient, I opened my Bible. 

Actually, to be fair, I googled the words from a verse that kept coming to mind, and then opened my Bible:

“A psalm of David. When he was in the Desert of Judah.
1 You, God, are my God,

    earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

    my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

    where there is no water.”

Psalm 63:1

One of the beautiful girls in our bible study this morning brought up the question of why God allows us to get tired, to reach our point of can’t-keep-going-on-like-this. Why does God let our souls get tired and dry?

Because He wants to Be the rest we need. Because He wants to Be the rain we so thirst for. 

The funny thing about rain is that we know we need it, we need it consistently, but we could never handle it if it were constantly pouring down on us. This is not to say we don’t need God constantly. We really do. 

But, we also get ahead of ourselves and attempt to go stretches of time without depending on God’s outpouring. When God sees us do this, he adjusts his rain accordingly. 

When we seek Him consistently, he provides the rain our souls need consistently. When we don’t seek Him consistently but finally come to our senses and turn to Him for our souls needs, His outpouring can feel like a thunderstorm. 

That’s where truth breaks through. That’s where conviction happens. That’s where grace rushes in and washes our hearts clean. That’s where souls that were dry and crusty and just barely functioning become soaked and saturated and vivacious with life.

Update: my coffee was on-the-house (I think the Metro Diner owner felt for my situation, seeing my obvious poor dress choices and the lightning outside), and I made a “careful shuffle” for it across the parking lot to my vehicle. 

I’m drenched. My makeup and hair are both ruined for the day. But my soul? It is well, because I Let the Lord have time to rain on me. 

Social media is the worst these days.  If it isn’t political hate and slander, it’s troubling stories of those hit in the face by political hate and slander.  It’s mud-slinging at its virtual worst.

Then, outside of the mud ring, we find the sappy-sweet circle of friends populating our newsfeed: the wedding photos, the engagement photos, the “Man-Crush-Mondays,” the baby photos, the graduation photos, and so on.

For those of us who refuse to engage in the mud-slinging and have no comment to offer up in the major-life-event department, we find solace in cute animal videos.  But, I have to admit, even the endless puppy videos give me puppy-envy.

So why am I hooked to social media?  I know I’m a Millennial (and you are too if you were born between 1980 and 2000–stop denying it already and just help us make a better name for ourselves, here), but I’m not exactly what you would call “social media savvy.”  If anything, I rely on many of my friends to keep me “in the times” and updated on social media trends and innovations.

The truth?  I’m a real big sucker for comparison.  That’s why social media can be so addicting despite never posting a single comment, photo, or post.  It’s intriguing to see into people’s personal lives and play the comparison game, especially in regards to happiness.

Here’s what I mean: It’s so easy to pick up my phone, open my Facebook app, and immediately find one person within seconds of scrolling who has something I don’t have, whether that be an opportunity, a significant other, a family, a house, etc.  And, because of the nature of the post, I also know this person is happy in conjunction with having this something I lack.  And so, in that moment of comparison, my brain tries to make sense of what I know: Person A has a thing.  In their post, Person A is happy. Therefore, Person A is happy because of their thing.

Meanwhile, here I am without a thing.  So where does this leave me if I follow my own silly logic?

Or, find say an entirely different person posting negative commentary on world events.  My brain takes an entirely different approach to this person.  Here, I find myself comparing my own beliefs and emotions around the subject of the post to that of the author’s.  Sometimes I agree, sometimes I don’t.  And because of the nature of the post, I also know this person is angry or upset in conjunction with having their belief or opinion.  And so, in that moment of comparison, my brain tries to make sense of what I know: Person B has an opinion.  In their post, Person B is angry/upset. Therefore, Person B is angry/upset because of their opinion.

Meanwhile, here I am lost in my beliefs and emotions around the subject, struggling to come to terms with how I might offer hope and light from my position in the world.

Sitting in my office this morning, I got hit by a couple of comparison bombs thrown my way after a quick scroll through social media.

And I have to tell you, I wasn’t carrying a shield.  I was sensitive and vulnerable.

I envied the newly engaged beauty, the incredibly successful communications guru, the couple with the adorable toddler, the girl who makes time to really do what she loves.  Yet, my heart also broke for my students confused by what was being said about Christians in light of the actions of an elected official, for friends who voiced serious fear about their futures in this country.

And I cried.  I cried the most honest prayer I have prayed in quite a while, mostly because I wasn’t actually praying to get a response.

“When will I get my happy ending? When will my life reach that place of happiness?”

He immediately answered me.

“I AM your happy ending, baby girl.”

The comparison game that social media offers us to play provides false answers.   The lack of having things does not dictate our joy in life any more than having those things can.

What is happening currently in the world also does not have to steal our joy or hope for happiness, although it should still engage us in our role to bring about hope and happiness for those in effect.

But here’s the good news.  We don’t have to rely on getting something or achieving something or moving beyond something or even waiting four more years to guarantee our happy ending.  You know why?

Because He is my happy ending, today.  He wants be yours, too.

My new “tribe member” here in Gainesville is kicking my butt these days.  She’s a hard-core weightlifter with an absolutely GORGEOUS sleeve of tattoos, a passion for the outdoors and a “take no lip” attitude.  Please do not take offense, but she really does deserve to be called a bad a$$ with the highest admiration.

Right now she’s reacquainting me with the gym and lifting weights (I competed in weightlifting in high school and was okay), but through this reacquaintance comes a ginormous swallowing of pride.  I’m dependent on her to show me the ropes again so that I don’t hurt myself.  I’ve had to tell her my limits.  I’ve had to admit where I’m too soft and be okay with that for now.

It’s more humbling than what is comfortable, but I would rather be unashamedly  humble and dependent for now so that I can one day deserve to be called a bad butt too. 

About two years ago, I wrote a blog post entitled “Staying Soft in a Hard, Hard, World” as a way of raising my sweet fist to the world for questioning the value of sensitivity and emotional tendencies.  LOL.  It was actually a major hit with those who read it, but that’s not the point.

Two years later, I sit in my office at the University of Florida on day two of Spring semester classes reflecting on the flood of students who came to my office today to hug me and tell me all about their holiday break and their plans for the semester ahead.  They came back because they knew the response they would receive from me, a response of genuine love, excitement, hugs and tears and all the feels.

Yet, as I take inventory of a majority of my friends who I actively surround myself with for my own support and needs, I find myself utterly and completely sensitive to the fact that I am known as the one who is sensitive.  The one with the hard-core soft core.  The sappy one.  The one with extreme joys and extreme pain.  The one who can’t always put her foot down or be confident or own who she is proudly and audaciously.  The one with one too many feels.

And so I have to tell you the honest truth.  I hate being that friend among my friends.

Sure, it’s easy to play the part well—I being that friend who “needs” someone else to tell me how it really is, to tell me to suck it up, buttercup, to give me the pep talk of a lifetime that should probably be made into a Pinterest pin or something.

But here’s the thing.  

While I love those who love me enough to want to lift me up and shake me until I snap out of whatever emotions I’m experiencing at the time, deep, deep down, I (the emotional one) do not love feeling like I need emotional crutches.  And, I REALLY do not love feeling like my friends think I need them to be my emotional crutches.

It’s a matter of pride, folks.  We all want to be proud of who we are and own who we are.  And we don’t want to be dependent on other people because of who we are.  No one is proud of dependence.   

Noticeably, there’s a widespread fascination and obsession with personality types.  With my own fascination of personalities and behaviors of people comes the thought that perhaps narcissism is what draws us to studying our own personality type and others.  Perhaps deep down we hope that in studying all types of people we can justify our own actions and believe we are better for who we are naturally.

Or maybe I’m wrong about all of that.

But, I don’t think I’m wrong about the dependence issue.  I think we as people (who since the beginning of time had to figure out that we need each other to survive) do not like having to depend on someone else to move forward in life, to become better ourselves.  We see it in toddlers as they want to do everything themselves despite the fact that they wouldn’t know how to do anything had it not been modeled for them by someone ahead of them in life.

In my Jesus Calling devotional for today, January 5th, a passage stuck out to me and struck a chord on my heart strings, a chord I wasn’t sure made a pretty sound.

(Yahweh speaking here:)

“True dependence is not simply asking Me to bless what you have decided to do.  It is coming to Me with an open mind and heart, inviting Me to plant my desires within you.  I may infuse within you a dream that seems fay beyond your reach.  You know that in yourself you cannot achieve such a goal.  

Thus begins your journey of profound reliance on me.  It is a faith-walk, taken one step at a time, leaning on Me as much as you need.  This is not a path of continual success but of multiple failures.  However, each failure is followed by a growth spurt, nourished by increased reliance on Me.  Enjoy the blessedness of a victorious life, through deepening your dependence on Me.”

I believe God works in my life in many ways, through prayer, through examining and analyzing and meditating on His word, and through circumstances.  He also works through my friends, through my tribe.  

I want to be utterly and completely dependent on God’s hand and provision to move me forward in this life.  If I’m changing things about me, I want it to be because He has worked and provided in such a way that I am moving forward in a direction He is leading me.  If I’m becoming something different than who I am now, I want to be more like who He made me to be.  And that applies to my soft core, too. 

But, as I am moved towards becoming a better me, I am liable to misstep.  I will fail somewhere along the way.  Two steps forward, one-and-a-half steps back.

In that failure though, in that humbling moment of realizing I need help, there is an opportunity to move forward even faster and stronger if I am willing to rely on HIM and how He works, including through the love and support of my friends.

I have a handful of “ideas” to adopt for 2017.  I won’t list them all here, but I will share with you this one.  I want to be unashamedly humble in my weaknesses and reliant on God’s ways to help me become stronger, whether that’s in the weight room, in managing my feels, in becoming more audacious and confident in who I am, or whatever.

The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them;
    he delivers them from all their troubles.
The Lord is close to the broken-hearted
    and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Psalm 34:17-18

For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:10

At any given moment, I’m probably a little too much.  I probably identify too well with anything that even conveys “too much.”  I’m probably carrying too much in my hands.  I probably think too much.  I probably say far too much.  I feel far too much.  I laugh way too much.  I’m probably wearing too much makeup.  I’ve definitely put too much time and effort and hair product in my hair in the morning.

Balance has never been my strongest suit, and simplicity has never been my style.

I’ve been slow-cooking some deeper musings about how to achieve the balance and simplicity so admired and respected by seemingly everyone else, how the virtue of humility and enhanced emotional intelligence could be the key to balancing the scales when my “too much” is showing.

In Academic Leadership Land where I live and work and learn, these concepts seem to be the cure for everything.  Having trouble communicating in your relationships?  Try using your emotional intelligence and seeing the other person through a humbled lense of yourselves.  Want to lead your organization better?  Be humble about your strengths and shortcomings as a leader and exercise and encourage emotional intelligence in your teams.  Boom.

I’m not knocking the power of humility or E.Q., nor am I denying that I could probably use a whole lot more of both in my life.  In fact, you could probably never have too much of these things.  

I’m just wondering where the “too much” is actually derivative from.  Is it because there is too much of something else?  Too much passion?  Too much creativity?  Too much ability?  Nah, that’s not right.

Maybe the “too much” happens because there isn’t enough of something else.  

Jesus called out a dear sister named Martha for being a little too much at a house party she was hosting. #BeOurGuest

She was probably the perfect hostess in many ways.  She had probably cooked and prepared the perfect meal, putting a little too much food together as what was actually needed.  She probably cleaned a little too much considering her guest was the King of #NoJudgment.  She probably was thinking too much about making her guest happy through all the details she had control over—through perfect lighting, perfect decor, perfect party planning.  She was probably a woman known for being a little too much.

Her sister Mary on the other hand??  That woman couldn’t care less about all the things Martha was worried about.  She’s known for being a free-spirit.  A simple soul.  Able to live-in-the-moment without worrying about the future.  If Martha was too much, then Mary was like the third everything in “Goldilocks & the Three Bears”–just right.  Mary was charming for all of this, and I’m sure Martha could appreciate her sister for these qualities.

That is, until Martha’s too much wasn’t being appreciated because of Mary’s just right.

Here Martha is trying to keep her well thought-out party rolling in the kitchen, while Mary is being Mary again–sitting on the floor at Jesus’ feet like the charming little hippie she is, hanging on every word he said and completely forgetting that SHE lives here and should be part of the hosting responsibilities. #MuchToDo

“Later, she stepped in, interrupting them. ‘Master, don’t you care that my sister has abandoned the kitchen to me? Tell her to lend me a hand.’“

Jesus, in all of his kindness and ability to see right to the heart of our issues, saw Martha’s too much for what it really was.

To All My Haters:

I thought I had a fairly accurate list of your names.  The list really started when I was really young, after I was openly teased for unashamedly dancing at a five-year-old’s skating rink birthday party.  I agreed with you then that I was silly and worthy of rejection; I just happened to write down the wrong name.

The list of haters was but a few names added here and there until you found me in middle school, awkward and blooming perhaps, but more than that anxious and balancing everything I wanted to do and be.  You told me then I was a joke of a basketball player–too aggressive and passionate despite my lack of real talent.  You told me then I had little hope of ever being considered beautiful by any boy whatsoever.  You told me then I was weird for spending my time playing with younger kids or talking to older adults.

Each of you followed me into high school, and still I added even more wrong names to the list.  However, these names were different from those I first wrote down.  You convinced me these were the names of those I had only thought I could trust to love me and believe in me, to encourage me and work with me and not against me.  And yet, it was you, not them, who told me I was too sensitive, too over-the-top, too intense, too scatter-brained, too fat, too ugly, too smart, too “Christian,” too above, too beneath, too much, and yet never, ever enough.  You almost had me do myself in a few times too.

I thought I would never have to add a single name to my list of haters after high school when my dreams came true and I achieved the highest of my goals–success in the one arena I worked so hard to be accepted into and come out as a worthy contender.  Instead, I felt forced to write down the names of those I admired most, those whose judgment would come back to haunt me every time I speak a word out loud.  These names became the members of a hard-and-fast jury in my head, condemning me for my shortcomings in the realms of what I once considered to be my innate strengths.  And I completely accepted this standing jury’s judgment as withstanding truth.  After all, as fellow arena members they were supposed to be my people, and those “strengths” of mine certainly should have been flawless by now.

For years, I carried that list around in my soul and let it rip me to shreds from the inside out.  I hated myself because that whole list of names told me I should.

That is, until I finally saw who you really were. 

You were never who I thought you were.  Yet, you fooled me all the same.  Worse, you had me join you in the hate-club, join you in the destruction, join you in your goals against me.

You robbed me of myself.  You stole the little girl who danced unashamedly on skating rink benches.  You stole the girl who threw elbows and dove for basketball balls on the court.  You stole the girl who had wild confidence and bold presence.  You stole the girl  who led others with compassion, with creativity, and with character.  You stole the girl who was deemed worthy from the start and had her believe all along she wasn’t ever worthy.

And I let you get away with it, too.

It’s still a habit of mine to want to carry around that old list of names as though they are to blame for all you have really done to me.  I think you prefer it that way.  I still want to believe all the things you told me about myself because my experiences seemed to prove your words to be true.  But that is really just me joining you in the fight against me.

But, at least now I know who I’m really up against.  And, I know just Who is really supposed to win here. So fair warning: I see you, and I’m doing my best to burn the list of names for good just so that you will no longer be able to hide behind them.

Just so we’re clear: That girl you hate, that girl you stole has been ransomed for by Someone Who Loves Her.

Haters, you’re gonna hate.  I know that about you.

I’m just not going help you have your way with me any more.

SIGNED,

A former hater

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” -Ephesians 6:12

A young mother of two was just diagnosed this weekend with Leukemia and was rushed to the ER to begin chemotherapy; A father who had lost a daughter already way too soon would be finding out soon about his son’s passing upon coming home from work; A family friend with breast cancer;  Another friend on life support; A list of women who are in the process of being set free from their hurtful and dark pasts…

All of these demand a perspective from us to be understood as they should.

Our perspective leads us to our thoughts.  Our thoughts lead us to our behaviors.  Our behaviors lead us to our habits.  Our habits lead us to our reality that in turn feeds our perspective.

Almost two years ago next month, I purchased a gorgeous, breathtaking, turquoise-and-maroon-colored betafish from the College Station, TX PetCo.  I cried (in my typical, Kristen Bell meets a Sloth, fashion) the moment I realized he would really be mine.  I named him “Winston” after Jameis Winston in the hopes that he would be a real hoot to watch.

I told stories in my lectures to my college leadership classes inspired by my crazy fish (such as the time Winston decided he would not be an authentic fish and stole some crab legs).  He made me feel autonomous in my new life on my own so far away from my Florida family.  I had purchased him with my then boyfriend who enjoyed helping me set up his aquarium and make up funny things about his character.

Winston moved back to Florida with me, my living keepsake to remember Texas and my tribe there by.

After a long and emotionally-charged weekend, I found myself  in route to south Florida to spend some needed time with my grandparents in the Keys. As I drove Winston rode in his “traveling tank” that sat on the front passenger floorboard of my Equinox, when suddenly I was forced to slam on brakes due to an accident just in front of me.  Winston’s tank flew forward, splashing all of his water out and throwing his poor body against the lid.

I quickly scooped him up and tried to revive him with the only water-like substance I had, some melted ice from my Diet Coke cup.  I pulled off on the first exit I could, parked my vehicle by a roadside ditch, threw off my favorite strappy sandals and ran straight into the mud with Winston’s tank in tow to scoop up some rainwater.  Minutes later, I found a nearby 7eleven and bought a jug of spring water to wash out both of my panicked attempts to save my fish and provide him with something clean instead.

After calling my parents in tears (I can be such a Millennial) that I was going to lose my fish after all my stupid attempts to keep him alive, I found myself laugh-crying (another famous Val-ism I’m known for apparently) at the fact that I really wanted to pray–yes, pray–for my Winston.  With a bit of tongue-in-cheek dry humor, I called upon folks to #prayforwinston, really just drawing attention to the fact that while it’s socially acceptable to mourn over the loss of a furry dog or cat or horse it is really absurd that I would feel so much for a fishy.

I pulled up into the drive way of my Okeechobee home where my parents greeted me with sympathetic hugs.  Dad recommended I blow bubbles into Winston’s tank to give him oxygen the way his boat pump provides such for his bait fish.  With this hopeful thought I found a straw and blew bubbles on and off into his little tank for the next hour.  (I have really nice parents who were willing to refrain from videotaping this crazy stuff.)  His little body was still fluttering, his gills still moving, but he could not keep his body completely turned up without falling back on his side.

As my sweet parents lovingly supported my crazed efforts to keep Winsten alive, they proceeded to tell me about some of the folks they have been recently ministering to: A young mother of two was just diagnosed this weekend with Leukemia and was rushed to the ER to begin chemotherapy; A father who had lost a daughter already way too soon would be finding out soon about his son’s passing upon coming home from work; A family friend with breast cancer; Another friend on life support; A list of women who are in the process of being set free from their hurtful and dark pasts…

Twenty-four hours ago, I prayed for God to help me fix a mistake I made and to help me locate an object I could not find.  Today, I half-jokingly prayed for a betafish’s life. Plenty of times before, I have prayed for things that were really just plain selfish, having not looked at the bigger picture of what I was really asking for.  I have also prayed prayers for victory or for a near-flawless performance – and with these prayers I have felt the disappointment of God not coming through on my behalf.  Note: I am admitting my shameful prayers to you.

How many prayers have I prayed with a wrong perspective of myself or others?  How many times have I cried to the Lord to hear me and make my wish come true just to keep my false reality happy?  (More than I want to admit right now…)

It would be easy to wrap this up with a call for us all to never pray a selfish, stupid prayer ever again – to only lift up prayers that carry Mother Theresa’s perspective on life.

After spending the evening with the family who lost another child, my father came home this evening, saw the sadness in my eyes as I watched my fish struggle to live, and walked right back out the door to go purchase an air pump for Winston’s tank.  Let me break that down for you: My father, the Pastor who spends hours upon hours of every day ministering and loving on people with real hurts, cared enough for my petty heart to go out and buy a dadgum air pump for my dadgum betafish. 

This reminded me of a truth I really do know to be true: God, despite ourselves, understands us and cares deeply for us.  God, hearing our pettiness and self-centeredness and perspective-less prayers, still cares.  God, who runs the world and goes before us and after us in time to orchestrate His purposes, hears me cry for a fish called Winston. 

While more than anything I long to be a woman known for her perspective, a woman whose reality encompasses God’s perspective as she thinks and behaves and adopts habits shaped by truth over personal feelings, I also know I am imperfect.  I know I am not perfect and I will disappoint others and myself when I will inevitably lose perspective and the wheels fall off the bus.  

The bigger question is not how to keep the right perspective at all times but how to quickly regain it when it is lost.

Our perspective leads us to our thoughts. Our thoughts lead us to our behaviors. Our behaviors lead us to our habits. Our habits lead us to our reality that in turn feeds our perspective.

I now gaze into Winston’s bowl, watching him somehow fight to live despite all the trauma he experienced this afternoon.  Then, I refocus my gaze to the TV screen beyond it where Syrian children are shown finally getting a chance to play and learn without fear of dying.  And with that, I forgave myself for the nearsightedness of my first perspective because what I saw beyond it mattered too much to be ignored.