Your scars are beauty for others

There is a purpose in trauma, but it’s not about glorifying anything that should not have happened in the first place.  It’s so sad that trauma that every single one of us bears some level of trauma.  We’ll all bear trauma in this life, so the purpose in trauma is to face the shame because it ought not be feared.

“Easy for you to say,” and I hear you.

Before we face our trauma, our scars look grotesque, and they make us feel nauseous.  They disable us.  They cause us to look for peace in substances and harmful practices—these only make our trauma worse.

There is one thing, and one thing only, that stands in our way, sorry two.  We, ourselves, need the boldness to enter the arena of our own suffering—but know this, FACING our pain is easier than we think—if the second dynamic is in play.

The second dynamic is another person who will hold you as they listen to you and validate your experience.  You certainly know the experience of those who did not hold you, who did not listen to you, who did not validate your experience—because they were the source of further trauma for you.

Rather than amend the pain, they increased the pain, and your biggest challenge is to trust again.  The worst thing is to trust someone who looks trustworthy, who then betrays that trust all over again, and actually destroys your agency for vulnerability.  You can feel beyond trusting anyone ever again.

But no matter what betrayals you’ve suffered, there is sufficient hope of resilience in you to trust one particular kind of person; that person is the wounded healer.

Wait for them to arrive on your doorstep; do not seek them out.  Many will promise to be this person, and they many come with an agenda.

It’s those who arrive in your life that have no agenda who are trustworthy.

The reason the wounded healer will be a source of life to you is that they’ve been there right where you’re at now.  They’ll never betray your trust, because a wounded healer helped them, and once you’ve been helped by a wounded healer you know the pattern of the holy work wounded healers do.

They ‘travel with’ you in your journey of sharing the shame within your pain.  Their empathy is implicit and somehow in the simple act of listening, holding, and caring presence, they demonstrate to you—perhaps for the first time you’ve experienced—that they’re safe.  It’s as if magic happens.  You process your pain as you’re met by their presence.

The most beautiful part is what comes next.  You see what they did, you note how much it helped you, you feel healed beyond where you ever thought you’d get to.  Suddenly you’re living a life you always dreamed was possible, yet didn’t dare to hope for.

Then you want to pay it forward, because, at that very moment, you come to realise the holy calling on YOUR life—you, too, have become a wounded healer.

You see, your scars are beauty for others.  Only the scarred can see this gift that you carry—the capacity to hold, to listen, to validate, and to offer answers without speaking many words, other than sharing your own story.

Your experiences no matter how painful are life to others, and in sharing all this, there’s even more healing, for them and for you.

We learn in all this that scars can be beautiful, but only when we de-shame ourselves through sharing our pain in the presence of caring others.

 Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

 

Spiritual freedom is closer than most of us know

Much of the reason there’s so much anger in the world is there’s so much projected hatred.  Projected, because what isn’t faced comes from within a person and the person projects that anger as hatred onto anyone or anything that doesn’t agree with their biases.

Anger is always a sign of something deeper—unreconciled frustration, sadness, fear, intense and primal dissatisfaction, disappointment, disheartenment.

I’ve learned long ago now to not listen to, and to especially distrust, voices that always seem mad.  There’s too much oxygen given to angry voices today, and it’s a great pity that the algorithms prefer antagonism.

The spiritual life is closer than we think.  But the angrier we are, the further it is from our grasp.  The saddest thing is there are people who literally exist for antagonism who stand as so-called spiritual paragons—leaders—but they lead us into an abyss away from the hope of joy.

The spiritual life that we all deep down crave is found in the inquiry into our anger.  To simply ask a curious, non-judgmental why?  Could it be that the very things I’m angry about remind me of the things I don’t like about myself—or, that reveal my weakness?  Am I livid because, secretly, and deep down inside, I’m ashamed of how I didn’t act when I could have?  Am I afraid that justice won’t ultimately be done?  Does this cause me to take justice into my own hands?

The moment we’re settled within ourselves about the things of life we cannot change, that’s the moment we’re spiritually free—nothing materially is holding us to ransom.

Spiritual freedom comes when we’re materially free.

This is not about not caring.  It’s about caring for the things that really can be impacted for good.  It’s about being wise enough to carve out time, energy, and resources to make a difference, however tiny it is, in this world.  It’s being satisfied with small wins.

It’s about caring for the right things in the right way, because, let’s face it, there are a million and more issues that will capture our attention and divide us from all effectiveness.

We’re nothing if we can’t come from a spiritual base of stillness, appreciating the simple things, grateful for the mercy extended to us, and committed to working for good.  That goodness must come from a heart that feeds on goodness.

The spiritual freedom in life that is so much closer than we think is hidden, like the Kingdom of God, in our own hearts—it’s that close, it’s IN us.  It’s within reach and it’s within our capability.

The key is going within, being honest, learning to stay honest, resisting all self-judgment.

We need to turn from pointing the finger at others in criticism to seeing the beauty that resides in ourselves.

When we view ourselves as lovely and acceptable, we see the good in others.

When we know how much mercy has been extended to us, we extend mercy to others.

Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash

Honesty transforms hurt into healing

Honesty never hurt anything.  But the truth can certainly hurt.  Our pride.  Or, when the truth is a hurtful reality, like a betrayal.  Or, when it’s communicated without love.  But ordinarily, honesty is salt.  It cleanses, it purifies, it clarifies, it highlights what’s real.

Honesty from the start means there is no betrayal.  From the start, and throughout, what you see is what you get.  You’re under no false apprehension and assumptions don’t have ground to fester upon.  Yes, honesty requires moral courage.

Yet, we think it’s easier to save ourselves and/or the other person the pain of the truth.

A sad reality for us all is we can’t handle truth all the time in all circumstances.

Why?  It’s fear.  Of missing out.  Of not getting what we want.  Of someone getting what we want, and us feeling jealous.  Of our worst nightmares coming true.  Of getting what we don’t want, which is often just as hard to contemplate than missing out on what we do want.

But the truth can’t hurt us if we’re ready to embrace it.  The acceptance of truth will immediately deliver joy.  Yet, an acceptance that we do not yet accept the truth—that we’re still struggling to accept it—is just as much a thing to take us past our hurt into healing.

Grounding this topic in something hard but altogether healing, we all struggle with truths of others and ourselves.

In the blink of an eye, we’d have others and ourselves changed.  But we can impact only one of these—ourselves.

Others we cannot change, not our children, not our parents, not our friends, not our enemies, not even our employees or those we have direct influence over.  It’s folly to think we can.

When we accept this truth—I mean REALLY accept it, by our behaviour aligning with our attitude—we stop insisting on doing the impossible.  Then, with the impetus for hurt removed, as we decide to get out of the way, we and others begin to heal.

This is not about accepting what everyone does.  Sometimes it means that if people make decisions that affect us adversely, that reality forces us into making consequential decisions called boundaries or discipline or tough-loving action for the betterment of the other and ourselves.

We can’t shift what they do, but we can shift what we can do.

When the truth as it stands is accepted, more hopeful possibilities come into view.

But I know that for so many—all of us in fact—accepting truth is a journey, sometimes, in some situations, without destination.  Some truths are impossible to unknow or undo or redo.  Some truths are just very hard.  So there are exceptions to every rule.

Still, for most of life this truth remains: honesty will heal more than it hurts, and where it hurts it proves the straighter line to healing every time than deception ever could.

Truth is infinitely better than a lie.  Honesty heals, lies hurt.

Honesty transforms hurt into healing.

Photo by Madara Parma on Unsplash

The thankful funeral

I’ve had the privilege of conducting several funerals, memorial services, and interments, along with many palliative care visitations, and journeying with those close to death.  When you think about it—this is something I think about at EVERY funeral—it’s only a matter of time before each of us is the only one not alive in the body at our own funeral!

Sobering.  I guess.

And certainly, as I reflect, especially at tragic funerals, some leave you impacted deeply.

But what makes a funeral remarkable in the best of ways?

I think of it as a thankful funeral—like the dear loved one who said to me recently, in the context of her own eventual death, “I’m not actually a sad person.”

It’s actually my mother that said that—a person who approaches life with joy despite the challenges, like many have.  I’m so thankful to be able to have some of these precious conversations now, before the time passes for such opportunities—none of us is guaranteed passage into tomorrow.

Each day is an exquisite gift.  Nobody knows the time, day, hour, or second where the grant for their life in this world is revoked.

It kind of hit home that some people would hate for people to feel overwhelming sorrow rather than be thankful for what their life stood for, and how they lived it—joy, gratitude, humour, thankfulness, and the like.

Sure, everyone has their right to grieve exactly as they do and will.  Nobody has the right to question a person, or judge them, for how they experience loss and express grief.

So, it’s wonderful when the thankful funeral occurs when the person’s life is celebrated.  Within thankfulness there’s still room for sorrow, sadness for the fact that they’re no longer to fill their space in our lives.

One thing I love about planning funerals is the thought that many put in through their own planning, to exercise control that only they can—usually by saying, “Make it a celebration of my life, the way I lived it, the impact I was able to make... for the good purposes of life.”

Some funerals, it must be said, can be no other than anguished requiems, however.  No disputing that.  I’ve conducted a few of those, where the people who attend to mourn come in that confused state of the deepest, most perplexing, confounding grief.  There are no apologies needed or given, and it is just as much an honour serving at those funerals and meeting the aggrieved the best I can.  The rawness of grief leaves airs and graces at the door, and there is great capacity for honesty, which I love.

Then there are the oft-common funerals in this day when hardly anyone’s allowed to attend.  I don’t think any of us has ever anticipated such a day where so few would be able to attend, except the epidemiologists.  I empathise for your pain if you’ve been blindsided like this.

It’s a great honour to attend a thankful funeral, where the person is celebrated, and there is joy for their memory, to remember them with fondness for the positive impact they made in our lives.

This is also an opportunity to reflect on the legacy we, ourselves, are leaving.  Like the Stephen Covey ‘Seven Habits for Highly Effective People’ training I did 15 years ago—what will people say about you are your funeral.  Leaves us always with something to ponder.

Restoring empathy in compassion fatigue

It’s normal for caring people, when their care is extended too far for too long, to experience fatigue, and most disconcertingly, it’s encountered through waning empathy.

And it’s a shock.  Anyone who prides themselves on the capacity to empathise, when that empathy ebbs away, it can feel like one of the deepest crises of self possible.

Yet here is a paradox; we can’t go further on in our empathy of caring without having come to one of these precipices.

Like I was reminded today—thanks SH—we don’t feel resilient amid the battle, we only feel it post battle.  But resilience comes in the struggle, even though we hate every part of it.

Restoring empathy in compassion fatigue is pretty simple in theory, but much harder in practice, though are not impossible, especially when we understand and embrace the theory.

The thing that has always reconnected me with my empathy, to ward against compassion fatigue, has been to get in touch with how much empathy I NEED.

For me—within the realm of faith—this is about FEELING God’s empathy for me; the depth of divine love for a sojourner who’s lost his way temporarily, not through misadventure as much as through burnout, not flippantly or carelessly but through hyperdiligence.

Compassion fatigue is a style of burnout that leaves our spirit withered, dry, and vulnerable to all kinds of attacks.  It is the customary default to judge ourselves for an apparent hardness of heart.  But the questioning person will always ask why.

Why did I become so jaded?  And why does it bother me.  (If it didn’t bother you, that would be the real problem.)

Another question: why doesn’t this person or situation seem as important as it once would have been?

These are crucial questions.  Questions like these are curious questions, not judging questions.

The moment we hear someone tell us that it was good intent and not bad intent that got us into this situation, we should begin to judge ourselves less, and then receive a portion of empathy towards ourselves.

What is it like to receive this empathy toward ourselves?

It’s seeing how much we’re worthy of it.  It’s seeing how much of ourselves we’ve poured out in love for others.  That’s got to mean something, right?  It’s accepting what we did for the best was our best, and nobody could’ve asked anything more of us.

Do you get the picture?  It’s seeing all the things of truth that testify in our defence.

I can tell you, that God is for you and not against you, and even if you are against yourself, I can tell you that God is for you.  Especially if you’ve poured out your life as a libation, there’s nothing more deserved than a recovery.  To heal.

And in the mode of recovery, we find that we learn something about empathy for ourselves that we get to take away.  None of that knowledge of the negative power of compassion fatigue is wasted.  The very experience of compassion fatigue is itself a life experience, and once we’ve experienced it, we are less likely to repeat the dose.

So restoring empathy in compassion fatigue is a journey, and it can be a blessed one at that.

Just because you don’t feel the empathy at present doesn’t mean it’s gone forever.  It’s likely that you’re about to learn a deeper empathy than you’ve ever had.  That’s a gift, but not without pain, so receive empathy for yourself.

Photo by Gabrielle Claro on Unsplash

The impact of those 8 amnioreduction procedures

Most people who follow what I write are well aware of the season of our lives that begin 7 years ago today, when we got the results of an ultrasound scan, and the doctor gave us the devastating news that we were in for a long journey that would not end well.

Here’s an excerpt from a reflection the day after:

Those doctor’s eyes and the sternness in his resolve and even the humidity in his eyes; the instant of silence spoke like a megaphone of what we were about to hear.

That pressurised burning sensation in the chest, the excruciating mindfulness of the moment, time sort of standing still while the emotions scramble to keep up; the doctor walks into his office and sits down, deliberating, pensive, very considered.

Certain words leave their mark. “Internal structures,” “compression of the lungs,” “herniated diaphragm,” and “enlarged kidneys,” all resound like a resonating gong in the hyperconscious seconds.

That moment was both big and surreal—deep reaching yet large enough as a moment in time that it feels like a myth.

~

Back to the present.

It was last week, when Sarah preached about pain, where she talked about the 8 amnioreduction procedures she had to undergo between August 12 and October 26, 2014, that I realised the gravity of what her pregnancy with Nathanael truly cost her.  I knew, but I didn’t quite know the full extent.

As Sarah spoke, she talked about the pain of her womb swelling so much she was at risk of bursting—both during the procedures where a large needle was inserted in her abdomen to extract 2-litres of amniotic fluid from her uterus each time—and at any other time when her womb might rupture without warning.

Each amnioreduction took place during the late morning or early afternoon, and the procedure would take 1-2 hours, that needle stuck in her belly under ultrasound so the needled would draw from a part of her womb clear of Nathanael.  On one occasion, blood (his blood) was drawn.  Each procedure was tricky.  The science for this procedure was actually pioneered at King Edward Memorial Hospital by Professor Jan Dickinson, our doctor.  After each procedure, Sarah was offered overnight care at the hospital.  Sometimes we did that because she felt ill, but mostly she rested at home.

The risk to Sarah’s immediate medical health with a rupture of her womb within her body was obvious, yet we took this in our stride, a bit cluelessly I should add.  We seemed to have so many other extraneous issues going on at the time.

Some of these issues should have not been issues, but we definitely felt the enemy behind the spiritual attack of multiple prongs of stress all at once.  Not one, but three huge issues in concert.  And though we had support for one issue, the other two we felt alone in the battle—apart from, obviously, God’s help.  We did feel carried in our faith by all the unknown prayers that were being prayed for us, but if only people back then knew what we were really facing.  The longer time’s gone on hasn’t really eased the question, why?

The photo (above or below, depending on your view) was taken when Sarah was 30 weeks pregnant.  She’d looked that big (full term) since about the 25-week mark.  Nathanael’s diagnosis with Pallister-Killian Syndrome and the diaphragmatic hernia meant he was producing a huge amount of amniotic fluid and Sarah’s body couldn’t excrete it fast enough, hence the constant build-up of a litre per week of extra fluid.

In the years since, there have been other losses associated with this style of problematic pregnancy, and it would be fair to say that both Sarah and I have been affected and impacted—Sarah directly, myself more indirectly—and we will continue to be affected and impacted in the longer term, because of the nature of what Sarah’s body went through.

These affects and impacts are physical, relational, intellectual, emotional, and even sexual.  These are things that we’ve adjusted to, but they’re affects and impacts just the same.  I know many women and couples will relate to what I’m saying.

These are issues so many of us are called to adjust to throughout our lives.  They’re very real losses that need to be grieved and that we may continue to grieve.  To grieve is okay.

Only as we grieve together do we appreciate the true value of community.  It deepens our path through life.  This is how we mature, by bearing burdens together.

As I step back 7 years ago today, to our first realisation that, like sliding doors, we were entering uncharted territory, I’m grateful for the emotional and spiritual healing we’ve experienced since.

You the reader may get sick of me rehashing this, year after year, but it’s something for me that will never go away.  I’d do anything to keep Nathanael’s memory alive, especially considering the attention I can still give my four living children.

~

7 years ago today, we faced down for the first time the threat of the death of our baby who would die, just four months later.  Still, at least at that time we had him.  At that time, he was still alive, even if we had to trek a journey of medical procedures to endure.

Image: Ray Brown (Sarah’s father).

Purging of emotions in psychotherapy

Probably not the sexiest title, but one all the same that highlights the importance of not wasting time in counselling—the time might as well be put to good use, provided feelings are accessed in safe ways, which is crucial in that it is ‘therapy’.

Reviewing a psychiatry text from when I did my graduate studies, it talks about catharsis—from the Greek—meaning, purging.  It’s the process of experiencing pent-up emotions and becoming curious about what came up.

In this fearless enquiry into what occurred, even within what we’d call ‘triggering’, there’s the potential to grow beyond the self-constraining limits of, “Oh, I won’t go there, because I’m scared it will harm me.”  The reverse possibility exists.  You may not even purge and therefore you might stagnate when you could’ve risked and grown past the fear.

I remember working with a guy who, without fail, experienced very strong emotions—bitter and guilty tears—each and every session.  When we did a particularly heavy and gruelling session—one designed to go up to a few hours—he experienced painful release for several weeks afterward.

I think we were both worried that something was wrong, but we both trusted the spiritual and psychic process, and along with some pastoral care (he trusted me unequivocally), it all resolved over a month or two.  And he didn’t look back.

Psychotherapies can be lifegiving while also painful, because purging those memories, feeling those feelings, isn’t easy.  But in safety, at a pace set by and comfortable to the client, enormous emotional and spiritual growth can come—again, simply by release.

We’d think catharsis was just another way of saying it’s positive.  But catharsis literally means purging or releasing, and so many of us want opportunities to purge or release something; a hurt, a hang-up, a habit—and the feelings that abide that we wish didn’t.

The process of psychotherapy, therefore, is underpinned by trust sufficient to surrender to what needs to be inherently safe.  There’s nothing hazardous in experiencing our emotions in a safe therapeutic environment.

That’s the caveat you see.  There are charlatans around who might mess with your head and heart for their own schadenfreude.  But those who are committed to serving your best interests can be trusted, because specifically, they’ll work slowly, respecting your limits.

We were all called to live an abundant life.  We cannot face such a life until the baggage we carry around is sufficiently dealt with.  It’s worth trusting our resilience to a bit of pain, and in some cases trusting a process that stretches us to (but obviously not beyond) capacity.

Just think, the experience of purging, if nothing else, shows us what we can endure, and it shows us we can bear pain.  Rather than focus on the pain, we can focus on the strength we show in bearing it.

Again, and I can’t stress this enough, the pace of the work, and how hard to lean in, must be set by the one who is vulnerable.  They know when too much is too much.  The counsellor’s responsible for checking in and respecting the client’s limits.

As we practice experiencing feelings, we learn our limits, even as we test our limits—pushing up to them, again not beyond them.  Where the fear is, is also where the growth is.

Just be sure you’re confident you’re in safe hands, and it can take a while to figure that out.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Mental health challenges herald the wounded healer

You’re hardly qualified to help those who need help if you haven’t been helped yourself. When you’ve been helped you understand what helped and how much it helped. You’re then convinced of the value of that help, and you want to ‘pay it forward’.

The wounded healer is someone who not only journeys with the wounded in their healing, but who also is counted amongst the wounded.  They’re a brother or sister, and just perhaps a little older in life experience, a sojourner who has been to the sacred place of restoration.

I’m sure as I look at the craftwork of wounded healing that God has kept me close to brokenness for this very reason: to be able to empathise within the recency of my own personal experience for others who are challenged in regard to their mental health.

Those who are not challenged, and worse who have never been challenged, typically stand aloof from connecting with, answering, and addressing the maladies of soul that make of their conquest our mental health.

People certainly want and need a spiritual helper or guide who is trustworthy and reliable, someone who is well informed, who has successfully charted their own recovery.

This doesn’t mean they’ve mastered recovery.  There is no spiritual perfection.  Only progress.  They’ve made significant progress.  It keeps them humble.

It’s humility in a guide that makes them the asset a struggling person needs.

It’s also their innate interest in those who struggle that creates the conversations that need to occur for connections to be made.

Therefore, it’s important that wounded healers are on an ongoing journey with their own mental health challenges.  These don’t need to be sustained clinical depression or anxiety or trauma disorders.  But to have regular mental health challenges, like laments or anxiety, or the occasional reminder of the triggering of trauma; these serve to keep us connected to other sufferers.  Mental health challenges prove our humanity.  If we cannot always guarantee our physical health against illness and injury, why should we expect our mental and emotional health would be impenetrable?

And those occasional mental health days and experiences keep us grounded in the knowledge of where our strength is—i.e., in our vulnerability.

Underneath much anger is anguish

There are, I find, generally two forms of anger, that which is accounted for, and that which isn’t.  I want to focus on the former in this article.  The kind of anger that overlays anguish, which I define as a meld of sorrow and fear.

None of us are beyond sorrow or fear, especially men.  As men, we struggle to communicate our sorrow and fear, for fear of being seen as weak.

And yet, the more we struggle to face it, the more sorrow and fear build into anguish, which often comes out in anger.

Anger, of course, the former penitent variety I mean, produces shame and guilt.  And experiences of shame and guilt, because they are so loathsome, lead to an avoidance of facing, even when facing is the only way we can alleviate guilt and shame if we’re proactive.

Do you know the number of times I’ve been angry with life and anything really that rubs me up the wrong way that I’ve just needed someone to be bold enough to say, “Are you okay?  I mean, can you help me to understand...”

I think this is why I’ve been able to pacify some people amid their conniptions.  What people often need in the midst of an outburst is compassion enough to curiously seek to understand where they’re at, and if you’re not game, wait until they settle.  It’s the expression of empathy.

Many angry outbursts are actually the triggering of trauma.  As the person suffers their existential crisis (think despair) there’s little wonder there’s a giving up, a sabotaging of hopes, desires, and dreams.

It couldn’t be worse to judge a person on their anger when it’s really trauma that underpins it, though yet again, there must be the fruit of repentance; to eventually see and account for their wrong.

Also, we must endeavour to separate out those for whom the outburst is perhaps a bit out of character. Could it be sadness, fear, or soulish anguish?

Imagine the relief in a person who is triggered when you calmly and quietly, though confidently, seek to understand what’s going on and ask if there’s any way you can help.

The anger we’re talking about is the panic-of-spirit type of anger.

Countless times I’ve seen the person who is beside themselves in a panic of spirit begin to settle in minutes.  Compassion is a connection with the other person that THEY know is FOR them.  It’s 100% belief in the person.  It’s a viewing of them as 10/10 in every way, much the way God views us because of Christ.

When a person is angry and they know we’re FOR them in a complete sense, they should tend to settle down if it’s anguish that’s driving it.

Of course, this article does NOT cover the violent anger that damages by intention, that revels in destruction and in the inciting of fear.

The person for whom anguish is large will tend to channel it into anger when the anguish boils up and over the pot.

The healing opportunity is to view the anger as an invitation to face the pain of anguish.  That requires the overcoming of guilt and shame—to tell it as it is, which takes quite remarkable humility.

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

The ‘narrow way’ of relationships

Jesus talks in Matthew 7:13-14, the Sermon on the Mount, about the need to go through the narrow gate into the narrow way of life, which is Road Less Travelled.  This applies to many aspects of our lives, and it is certainly not the path chosen by many.

It’s the least chosen path because it’s hard and countercultural, and it promises no reward, except that by faith we know it to be right.

It’s hard to let other people win, to give other people the benefit of the doubt, to be the butt of innuendo, to seem to lose.  I say “seem” because when we get this right from a relational context, our very real vulnerability cares nothing for ridicule, for pride, for castigation, because our focus is on a bigger, more eternally significant prize.

It’s a prize this world cannot give us.  It’s a prize won by faith to do what people don’t like doing.

Somehow, by the narrow way in our relationships, getting on with people, and winning them over the longer haul matters more significantly.

But I don’t expect many will understand.  Or if they do, to bother.

We make much of many things in this life that are truly unimportant, even though they seem important, and certainly those temptations we give into seem to make sense at the time—to have something over someone, to manipulate and have our way even if they don’t get theirs.

There’s something so much more important, when all things are considered, when we give up what we cannot keep—the little wins where others lose—to gain what we cannot lose.  When we prefer to build comradery instead of getting our own way, even as we suffer indignities of people offending us, we surprise people enough for them to say, “Wow, there really is something different about this one—they seemed like a ‘doormat’ I could walk over, but just look at how little it matters to them.  And they seem to be ever concerned about me, and look at how I’ve taken advantage of them!”

We certainly won’t win over the narcissist, but we will win over the normal Joe and Joanne.

It takes a while of consistently going the narrow way relationally before people see the integrity that underpins it.  And if they think we’re fools for this allegiance to what’s right, let them laugh—we’re the ones, the aggressed who don’t hit back, who show most power working in our lives.

This is the life of Christ in the believer who knows the strength they bear in not getting offended, but in turning that offence to the Kingdom’s advantage by showing that the offence doesn’t conquer us.

If we’re never offended, we prove safe to know.  Ultimately what happens is we prove trustworthy, and when (not if) their moment of need comes, we then prove useful.

Time and again, people reach out to people they know who are unpanicked by their vulnerability.  We don’t show true strength UNTIL we’re vulnerable.

See how important it is that we maintain our poise especially when we’re most tempted to take umbrage with those who seem to despise us?

Understand though that at the very point of being tempted to react, we must respond differently.  The response required is one that most people are disarmed by.  Such a response can even seem weird, like, “Why aren’t you sticking up for yourself?”

And yet it takes real strength of character to stay poised in that moment, to keep believing in what God might be doing in the longer term by not becoming offended.

This wisdom is about losing battles but winning wars to the furtherance of peace.

Isn’t it just the power of God that converts a person who would violate us time in again?  

Again, it’s not the narcissist, but the person with potential who’ll eventually see that our character is trustworthy.  And we won’t know the one from the other unless we give them a chance.

I guess when it’s all said and done, going the narrow way of relationships is about believing in the potential of people, of giving them a chance of being better for themselves and others.

If we aggress people who aggress us, when will it end.  No, it must end with us.  We must put down our weapons and believe that our influence might work in them.

Photo by Keith Hardy on Unsplash

The trauma that underpins much mental illness

It’s not until you endure something that a human being was never meant to endure that you sustain a hit to the body, mind and soul that’s commonly called trauma.  It can happen for many reasons, it can happen innocently, or it can be a build up over the years.

It can happen through a grief that leaves you backwashed in such shock you reel for months, and sometimes it takes years to recover—and indeed some don’t.  Or it’s abuse from so early on, a life can seem to have never had a chance.  Talk with enough homeless people and there are plenty of stories like this.

It’s like the mother I saw at a train station today chastising her three-year-old violently for behaving like all three-year-olds do.  Talk about a child raising a child, but dig deeply enough, there’s trauma in the mother’s story.

There are some things you don’t believe until they happen to you.

Post-traumatic stress.  I knew about PTSD before I suffered my own post-traumatic stress, but never do you figure upon the gravity and breadth of post-traumatic stress until you’re called to bear the ignominy of it.

Post-traumatic stress took me to a place where my mind ceased to function, and it lingers even today in those moments where there is no answer; seconds of momentary overwhelm where I simply say to myself, “Hang in there, buddy; this too shall pass.”

To feel out of control is to know trauma, and yet there’s nothing to be ashamed about in suffering it.

I’m so glad God’s equipped me with personal experiences of trauma, because it’s honestly the best way to be trauma-informed.  You quickly realise there are limits and you begin to accept the limits of others. Gentler on yourself is gentler on others.  Compassion for yourself is compassion for others.

When it’s a trauma response, it’s fight or flight or freeze or fawn—and when you look at it, so many of our responses come straight out of that place, for rare is it that we don’t bear some trauma.

I know all too well all the trauma responses and even a blend of them as responses seem to compete with one another in a disorganised way of coping.  This is defined as triggering, and the grand challenge is to experience the triggers (without them tearing you or others apart) enough to learn about them; how can I learn what prompts them, how to prepare, how to stay safe, how to modulate the response in a better, safer way of coping.

Healing is the ‘beyond’ of trauma.

In discussing grief, how many people have been affected by it?  Everyone.  Some respond to its truth because it overpowers their sensibility, and they capitulate.  Others seem unfazed but watch how it leaks out in some other way.

At every level trauma is the outworking of so much of life that overwhelmed us.

Depression and anxiety we face because we’re overwhelmed by emotions that sweep us away—just like trauma.  The panic attack, just the same.  The shattering of confidence in the attack of dread.

So much of our mental illness is enfolded in trauma or manifested so much like trauma the concepts are inseparable.

When we understand the concepts of trauma in the everyday life, we become instantly compassionate, knowing that harms done causes or creates harm, and what stands before each of us is the quest to learn; how to wrestle, when not to sweat the small stuff, nurturing gratitude, safe vulnerability, apology and redemption, gentleness toward self and others.

If this has triggered anything for you, I pray you go gently on yourself, understanding you’re not alone, that there’s hope, and that vision of peace you have is possible.

Photo by Linus Nylund on Unsplash

19 acceptable, prayerful laments

I lament there’s not enough time, to live, to love, to do everything I want to do—it truly overwhelms me with sorrow—but I accept the time I’ve got to live, to love, to do what I can in my allotted time here.  I must accept it, for the other options are not attractive.

I lament that there are so many aspects of life that are unpredictable—and that life circumstances frequently feel hard—yet I accept that’s the way life is, and I’m comforted to know I’m not the only one who feels desperately uncertain at times.

I lament that there is suffering the world over—anguish consumes me for the myriad injustices faced—but I accept the part I can play, and Lord, help me leave the rest to You.  Despair would tear me apart otherwise.

I lament that I can’t control everything in this life, but I accept with both hands the control I have. Lord, give me discernment for what I can control over what I can’t.

I lament the mistakes I continue to make and for the periodic failures I contribute to, but I accept I’m flawed, and I’m ever thankful for those—especially my family, friends and colleagues—who extend grace to me and forgive me.  Help me forgive myself, God, when I get it wrong.

I lament that that there is so much misunderstanding in this world, and so much hurt, but I accept that people can only see what they see, and so many aren’t interested in seeing from others’ perspectives.  Help me, Lord, to be curious and open to what I find difficult to see.

I lament that there are lives I would like to step into and change, but I know that I can’t, and I accept that I can’t, even if that’s hard, and that I must look on and watch carnage.  Help me, Father, be satisfied that prayer is enough.

I lament the concept of fear in the normal life that often leads to anxiety, and the fact that it’s so prevalent in so many of us, but I do accept that while fear is there, it reminds us of confidence in faith that is also there.

I lament that in terms of time I’m so time poor, yet I accept that now is the time appointed to do things that must be done now.

I lament the fact of regret for the fact of time spent poorly, even as I accept that hindsight is a wonderful thing that is unavailable to me at present.

I lament the fact that there are people I disappoint that I may even be unaware of, but I accept that I will hear anyone’s complaint regarding what I can set right.

I lament that I so frequently feel out of control in my own life, even as I accept that I’m doing the best I can to live life of integrity, and that control over my life isn’t the point.

I lament the conflicts that were, are and will be, even as I accept that conflicts are a divine appointment for opportunities that cannot be foreseen.

I lament the losses that I’ve had to bear and those I’ll be called to bear, but I accept that on the opposite side of love is loss, and I’d prefer to love than not.

I lament that I’m often forced into a paradigm of resignation, but I accept that there’s wisdom in arriving at such surrender, and my prayer is I don’t resent it.

I lament that there have been injustices propagated against me and my loved ones, yet I accept that in forgiving each person, they then answer to God.

I lament the amount I complain, either inwardly or to my wife, about matters related to time and rest, yet I accept that there are so many things in my life I can be thankful for, so Lord, cause me to be grateful.

I lament the fact that even in speaking the same language, it’s as if we all speak different languages, and yet I accept the power of perceptions, and the power of my own perception reminds me to be curious about others’.  God, open my mind and heart more and more to what others are seeing, thinking and feeling.

I lament the idea that I don’t know when I’ll die, but I do accept that each day brings opportunity to not just survive but thrive.  Lord, help me convert surviving into thriving.

I lament that I can’t live forever, but I accept I’m in God’s hands.

What are your laments that you can find acceptable or prayerful?