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I read Sharon Hodde Miller's new book, "Free of Me: Why Life is Better When It's Not About You", in one sitting. Convicting, encouraging and utterly read-able, Sharon's heartfelt writing is overflows with grace. I couldn't wait to interview her for my Author Interview series.

Here is our conversation:

EE: In Free of Me you write: "From a worldly perspective, freedom usually means...the liberty to do whatever you want. From a gospel perspective, "freedom" is freedom from sin and the flesh, not to live however you want but to live for God. Freedom means you are no longer bound by the tyranny of self, but you are free to focus on Christ." I love the distinction you make here. Can you give us an example of a time when you experienced freedom from the tyranny of self and how that freed you to more fully love God? What kinds of things hold us back from experiencing this kind of freedom and why do we choose them over true freedom?

SHM: For me, this freedom has been more of a journey than a single experience. I recently read a sermon by Eugene Peterson in which he talked about the Israelites learning to live in their newfound freedom. After they were freed from slavery in Egypt, they had to learn an entirely new way of life, and sometimes they defaulted back to their old, familiar ways. I really resonate with this, and in many ways I am still learning this freedom. Sometimes my soul defaults back to those captive ways.

What has helped me, though, is the story of Paul in Philippians. It's the portrait of a man who is truly free. He is in prison, but his soul is totally unchained. He doesn't care what people say about him or think about him. He doesn't care if his mission fails, or if he ultimately perishes. So long as people know Jesus. That's his number one concern, and I can see the freedom that this mindset produced in his life. And I want that for myself. 

I have tried to adopt a similar mindset in my own life. If someone hurts my feelings, or rejects me, or doesn't approve of my writing or my teaching, I want to hold it all lightly, as someone with nothing to prove. If I can, in any way, pivot that experience in a way that points more people to the love of God, than that's all that matters. I find a tremendous amount of freedom in that perspective.

EE: I love the research you provide about how focusing on self-esteem doesn't actually increase self-esteem. And you also agree that low self-esteem is real and painful and that the gospel has an answer for it. You write: "When you struggle with degrading lies about who you are, the answer is biblical truth—about God, and about yourself. His love, his compassion, his acceptance, his affirmation: it's all a healing balm for the wounded." For those of us who have experienced spiritual wounding in the church and thus have low self-esteem, how can we find this healing balm when perhaps even reading the Bible is triggering for us? Can God reveal his love, compassion, acceptance and affirmation for us in other ways besides just reading the Bible? What would that look like for the spiritually abused?

SHM: I want to be mindful of my limitations in answering this question, because everyone's story is different, and everyone's journey of healing is different. I am so grateful for the wisdom and insight of trained counselors who can speak more knowledgeably into the this topic. They truly are a gift from God.

With that in mind, I think it's normal to go through seasons when we can't read the Bible. In my experience, this is especially true in times of suffering or grief, and I think God has a lot of grace for it. If David's trembling anger in the Psalms is any indication, God understands, and God's patience is inexhaustible. We do not have to feel pressured or rushed to heal.

I am a big believer in the value of healthy, humble, Jesus-loving community in the healing process. Healthy churches can help us identify the lies and distortions of former abusers. However, if even a healthy church community feels overwhelming at first, another baby step might simply be asking God to reveal his love to you. Pray for the eyes to see God's care and embrace in the world around you. Look for it in the attentive presence of a friend, the love letter of a vivid sunset, or the enjoyment of a savory meal (after all, God dreamed up those amazing flavors for us!). 

These little gifts were never meant to be the substance of our faith, but I think we can view them as gentle invitations back to the One who is. 

EE: Later in the book you write about getting the dream job you thought you always wanted but then experiencing dissatisfaction. You write: "That's because my pain and discontentment were a taste of the life I thought I wanted. God was letting me taste its fruits, just a bit, so that I would develop a distaste for it." I thought this was so profound! And I could totally relate to getting the life/success I thought I wanted and then having it become sour in my mouth. You also share that because St. Paul's ministry was never about him—never a a Paul-centered calling—that he was able to bear the betrayal and abandonment of others. So, after you got a taste of the life you thought you wanted, how did an other-centered calling differ? Did giving up your "dream job" increase your level of contentment?

SHM: One of the ways we sabotage our callings is when they become entangled with our identities. When our sense of self depends on our achievements, success, or validation of our work, it's only a matter of time before we become enslaved to it. When this happens, our confidence and security will really depend on the day, and that's the danger of making our callings about us. 

When I wrote that "God gave me a taste of the life I wanted," what I really meant is that God allowed me to taste the fruit of putting myself first. When my calling was about me instead of Christ, and I experienced crushing insecurity as a result, it's like God was saying, "This emptiness, this loss of joy, this pressure you feel to keep up and measure up? This is what it feels like when your work is about you." That's when I realized I had a choice to make. I could continue on the path I was on with the priorities I had--which were making me miserable--or I could re-orient my calling back towards God.

In hindsight, I now see my insecurity and loss of joy as a severe mercy. Through it, I learned to choose the path and the priorities that lead to freedom. If I experience failure, it hurts, but not as much as putting myself before God. If I experience embarrassment, it hurts, but not as much as putting myself for God. Now, I can receive those pains and give them to God to redeem, instead of frantically protecting my image or my need to succeed, which only leads to emptiness.

EE: I love how you write that using your God given gift to write is not selfish because "our gifts are meant to be used. God grants us our abilities, not to set them on a shelf but to build up his church. As long as our motives are for God's glory, our work is not selfish but ordained." How can we know that we're using our gifts for God's glory and not our own? What does this look like? What kind of fruit will we see in our life and in the lives of others?

SHM: I write about this some in my book, but there is freedom in knowing that none of us has pure motives 100% of the time. As broken people, we all have broken motives, and that doesn't necessarily disqualify us or our calling. It just makes us human. If anything, it's helpful to be honest about our selfish motives so that we can deal with them. It's the motives we deny which wreak the most havoc in our lives.

When we pretend our selfish motives aren't there, then we will lead or serve out of a place of pride rather than humility. We will be less teachable, and more defensive. We will, ironically, engage in less self-care, because we will sacrifice our health on the altar of image. And we'll be more prone to hurt others, because we won't be able to admit when we are wrong. 

Conversely, one of the best signs that we are using our gifts for God is flourishing--both in ourselves, and in others. When we use our gifts for God, we bless and encourage our families, neighbors, and world. And when we use our gifts for God, we personally grow in the Spirit--in joy, peace, goodness, love.

To enter the book giveaway, please share this post on a social media outlet using the hashtag #EEAuthorIntervieW or LEAve a comment! One winner will be randomly selected on Friday, November 10.

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An InLinkz Link-up

Cleaning out my fridge is like traveling through a museum of shattered dreams. Granted, it’s a bit more smelly than your average museum. But it’s educational, nonetheless.

Ah, there’s the moldy kale I once dreamed of making into healthy breakfast smoothies. Remember how it was gonna cure my psoriasis, stabilize my mood disorder and ramp up my sex drive? TRASH.

This is my real life fridge. I know. You're jealous.

Oh, here we have some clumped-together, foul-stenching flax seed. Remember when I was gonna sprinkle it atop all my organic, free-range, Paleo meals? TRASH.

Why do I have so many varieties of beets? TRASH.

I don’t even know what this thing is. But I better wear gloves to scrape it off the shelf.

My fridge is not Instagram-worthy. I don’t voila! my quinoa. I don’t humble braggage about my cabbage.

But still, I keep buying stuff I’m never gonna eat because I want abs like FabFitWonderMom8675 on Instagram. #NoExcuses #Fit4Life #IHateMyself

Just kidding. I don’t want a six pack. I like rolls. Rolls are squishy and comfy. Rolls don’t have hard edges. Kids like to pinch rolls. Husbands, too. Rolls are warm and soft. Rolls taste good with butter. Wait. Wrong rolls.

OMG, that was a Dad joke.

Come to think of it, nothing in my life is Instagram worthy. It cracks me up when people caption their Instagram post: “Just keeping it real” and their kitchen has maybe ONE dirty dish in the sink. Or when Christians talk about their “messy, broken” lives because one time they told their kid to shut up.

If somebody’s life looks like a gorgeous Instagram feed, they are trying to sell you something. Telling you they’re “broken” is just part of their brand.

The thing is, living a life of obedience to Christ doesn’t look pretty. In fact, it can look downright boring. It can look like drudgery. That’s why so few people choose it. Because the life of a Christian is not glamorous (at least, it’s not supposed to be). Christ is our treasure, not our social media reach.

About 99.9% of my life is not Insta-worthy.  This actually gives me great hope. It reassures me that my goal is not to have a pretty, picture-perfect Instagram life. My goal is to live a life worthy of my calling, my goal is to delight in God’s will—and that usually doesn’t look awesome, even with a pretty filter on top.

God’s will for me when I am dealing with my illness means lying in bed, trying to breathe through crushing despair and stumbling through my Rosary. My brain is broken. There’s nothing Instagram-worthy about it. A lot of my days are spent in bed staring up at the ceiling. Nobody wants to see pictures of my ceiling.

People who are truly broken—those of us who are chronically ill, or bankrupt, or wounded from a divorce, or worried about our errant adult children, or wrangling with addiction—we don’t go around staging our life for Instagram.

Because our lives aren’t stage-able. Our lives look the opposite of staged. We’re too busy trying to survive to worry about impressing strangers on the Internet.

But here’s the thing: we really need each other’s REAL broken stories and not the fake ones. I’m no longer ashamed of showing you my broken brain because, well, what do I have to lose? I’ve already hit rock bottom. There is true freedom in rock bottom. So, I show you my brokenness with my words. And in the end, these aren’t shattered dreams.

This is the real life God has called me to live and I’m living it.

Another Friday, another perfect cup of coffee!

Today I'm thrilled to be giving away a one pound bag of Ravencrest Coffee, our family's home roasted, direct-trade, organic coffee!

Please leave a comment to be entered to win! (U.S. & Canada only, please).

Today I am absolutely thrilled to bring you Heather King, an author I consider one of my spiritual mentors. Her book, Shirt of Flame: a year with Saint Therese of Lisieux was life-changing for me. 

I've written about following St. Therese's "Little Way" and how being blindsided by longing helped me channel that passion into love for God and that embarrassing moment when Jesus spoke to me through a Ne-Yo song.

In case you haven't heard of her, St. Therese was a young nun who followed her sisters into the Carmel convent in France and became a cloistered nun at age fifteen. She died at age 24 from tuberculosis. But in her brief, shining life she developed a spiritual discipline called "The Little Way." St. Therese considered herself "too small" to do great and glorious things for God so she decided to do offer every action of her "little" life with great love. Heather King quotes Joseph Fr. Schmidt, FSC as saying: "[The 'little way'] was a matter of allowing the divine will to unfold in very ordinary, everyday experiences of life and of responding with generosity, confidence and love." [p.71]

In her autobiography, St. Therese writes that her 'little way' was not the easy way or the lazy way. It was, in fact, a way of mortifying herself for the sake of others, of "holding my tongue instead of answering back; in doing little things for others without hoping to get anything in return, in not slumping when I was sitting down..." [p. 164, Story of a Soul]

Those little mortifications, those little ways of saying no to my own laziness, my own will, even my slumping posture—even those small things I can offer as a living sacrifice. 

 

Here is my conversation with Heather King:

EE: In Shirt of Flame, you write: "We can only know that we are not loved one iota more if we get sober, or one iota less if we stay drunk. We can only hope to do the best we can with what we've been given." (p.20) For those of us who have grown up with a wrathful, vengeful perception of God, HOW can we learn to BELIEVE this truth? Do you have any tips for us? How did you come to believe this yourself? 

HK: I believe it on faith. And I believe that we‘re loved because we exist, not because our virtue or good deeds or sobriety have earned us a special place in Jesus’s heart. As my friend Fr. Terry says, “The good news is you’re loved by God. The bad news is everyone else is loved just as much.”

I don’t have any tips. I think faith is a long, rocky pilgrimage that does not take place on our timetable. For me it’s been decades of progress that is so slow I’m never sure it’s progress at all. My only idea has been to stay as close to Christ as possible. I try to stay close to the Gospels and close to the Sacraments, especially Mass. It’s really about serving God, and letting Him heal us in his way, on his timetable, in the way he sees fit to heal us. Just the fact that the good Lord has got me up and running such that I’m dressed, sitting up straight, and have showed up to the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass itself is a miracle. My question isn’t so much what is the Eucharist going to do for me; how is it going to heal me? My question, my prayer, is to abandon myself completely The miracle has already happened. The reign of love has been established. God became man, pitched his tent among us, let us kill him and was resurrected. So I get to simply show up and be part of that.  

EE: Later in the book you write: "The way to become whole, in other words, is to become fully ourselves....we can't cloister ourselves out of fear of relationships—as Therese certainly did not—but we do need to offer up our ideas of whether and in what way people 'should' love us." (p.32) Oh, my goodness, this struck me so deeply and it is a passage I have returned to time and again. For those of us, like me, who are bound up in needing, wanting, aching for others to love us the way we believe they SHOULD love us, how do we learn to let go of this? What does that kind of practice look like for you? Is it still difficult for you to let go of wanting others to love you in a particular way?

HK: Oh my God, of course, yes! Though I must say less so. This has really been my lifelong journey—maybe it’s everyone’s. If you’re talking about romantic love, I think we’re drawn to whoever we’re going to be drawn to and then the carnage begins. The being shattered, ripped apart, nailed to a cross. At least that’s what it’s been like for me, always. I think that’s often how God works: through another person in the absolute last way we would have wanted or asked for.

But when I say we can’t cloister ourselves out of fear of relationships I don’t mean just romantic relationships. We’re formed by our suffering and exile for a very different kind of love than the love that grasps and wants to possess. That takes most of us a long, long time. You have to sort of give yourself to God to dispose of as He likes. Which, no matter how seemingly painful and lonely turns out to be a lot less painful than, say, piningover some guy who is emotionally and every other way unavailable. We have to take responsibility for our own happiness—we get to order our lives to the search for beauty and truth, surround ourselves with books, music, activities that nourish and challenge us. I think we do care less and less about ourselves as we continue on the spiritual path. We’re ever more sure or our worth, in God’s eyes, and we’re ever less concerned about our worth in the eyes of the world. 

EE: You quote St. Therese, as she is dying, that she doesn't happier to die sooner rather than later but: "What makes me happy is only to do the will of God." How did you learn to trust that God's will was the best for you? How do we get over the fear that God doesn't have our best interest in mind? How can we learn to be happy in only doing the will of God?

HK: Well again, this is the whole pilgrimage, or at least the first part of it: coming to believe that God has our best interests in mind. That we are loved and that He is in our corner, completely. The problem is that we seek and think we want instead the things of the world: attention, security, fame, youth, beauty, money, the admiration of our fellows.

St. Therese of Lisieux had a very well-known “second conversion” on Christmas Eve at the age of I think 13 or 14. Up to that time, she was kind of clingy and co-dependent and overly emotive. Something happened, I won’t go into the whole story here, but on a dime, everything changed. She said on that “night of lights” Christ did for her in ten seconds what she hadn’t been able to do on her own in ten years. She said that night “charity entered my heart”—and ever after she was “happy.” In spite, of course, of more or less unrelenting suffering till the day she died, in agony, of TB at the tender age of 24.

Anyway, lately I’ve been praying for charity to enter my heart. This would be a tall order as I am very possibly the most selfish self-centered person on earth. I’m a terrible exaggerator but I am not exaggerating about that. I can’t wish away or will away my selfishness. Jesus says that whatever we ask for in his name, he will give us.  So I asked recently in Jesus’s name for charity to enter my heart. For Jesus to help me to be a little more generous, a little less judgmental, however he might make that work.

Well I have sponsored for a few years this darling young girl, Brenda, from Honduras, through a Catholic program called Unbound. I send 40 bucks a month and we write back and forth a few times a year. Brenda finally moved to an area that Unbound doesn’t serve, so the other day I got an envelope with a photo and a little bio of my new person I get to sponsor, Gilberto, 7. The CUTEST child ever (besides Brenda). Little blue shirt, standing tall, hands clutched to his side. He lives in a freaking room with 5 other people. His father’s a laborer who finds work only sporadically and his mother sells tortillas.

And you know, I looked at that photo and I thought of all the things in my life I’ve felt are “unfair” and I thought What is really unfair is that I’m sitting in a cozy apartment in Pasadena CA with food in the fridge, a laptop, my piano, my garden, my birdfeeders—and Gilberto’s mother is selling tortillas. I mean really I do feel this is the stuff we should be concerned about.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be elbowing people aside TO GET WHAT I WANT in various ways tomorrow, or five minutes from now. We think we want to be the favorite and always in the limelight and understood and comforted and adored. But the older you get, if you’re lucky, the more you realize you can just never get enough of that stuff. It doesn’t last and you can’t get enough of it. No-one knew that better than Jesus. He was tempted by those things out in the desert and he said no thank you—no matter the price.

Not long ago I was in the waiting room at the doctor and I opened a Vanity Fair and there was an ad for a luxury car or a handbag company or something like that. A photo of a drop-dead gorgeous model, alighting from a town car to make her entrance to some flashy hotel nightclub, guys slavering all around to help her out. And I thought that is so not what I would wish for. I would wish to have the heart of Mother Teresa. A heart for the poor. A willingness to serve. Freedom from the bondage of self. That is the pearl of great price. And there’s no shortcut.

book giveaway details:

to enter the book giveaway, please share this blog post on social media and include the hashtag #EEAuthorInterview.

 

all posts Must include the hashtag so we can keep track of entries. winner will be randomly selected on friday, november 3rd.

 

Thank you, heather king, for graciously sharing yourself with us.

St. Therese of Lisieux was something of a drama queen. In her biography, Story of a Soul, she wrote that she was "really unbearable" to those around her because of her “overly great sensitivity." The littlest thing could set her off crying and then just as she was feeling comforted she “cried because I had cried.”* 

I don’t know anything about that. Nope. Not me. I’ve never ever ever cried because I cried. AHEM.

OK, fine. I admit to being something of a drama queen myself. I know. You’re shocked.

I was a sensitive child by nature but instead of growing out of those sensitivities—or at least learning to manage them properly—childhood trauma made them worse. Studies show that adults who experienced a debilitating number of adverse childhood events are 460% more likely to be depressed and 1220% more likely to attempt suicide. I’m not suggesting that depression is the result of being melodramatic, I’m merely pointing out that my own ‘overly great sensitivity’ was exacerbated by abusive situations outside my control.

I sometimes wonder if I’d had a fairly happy childhood with minimal trauma, would I be a mostly-normal adult without debilitating manic depressive disorder? I’ll never know.

What I do know is that there is hope for even the most sensitive of souls—because I’m one of them. And so was St. Therese.

A couple of months ago I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. This illness has been the undercurrent for most of my adult life, but after my best friend's suicide this past January, it roared in like a tsunami.

One blazing hot summer afternoon I found myself hunkered down in my bedroom, blinds closed, convinced someone (the CIA? FBI? ex-fundamentalists with a grudge?) spying on me through my desktop computer. Yeah. Fun times.

I was rushed to the hospital and after a series of appointments with various doctors, was given the Bipolar 2 diagnosis. 

This is why I adore St. Therese of Lisieux: precisely because she experienced mental illness (a childhood bout of neuroses) and also, she allowed herself to feel everything so deeply. She never apologized for wanting the fullness of love. In fact, she actually proclaimed "my vocation is love!" 

St. Therese didn't reject her feelings, she used them to enhance her obedience to God.

She was not immune to the problems, pains and temptations of everyday life. Being a cloistered nun did not mean she was cloistered from pain. She suffered tremendously (dying at age 24 of tuberculosis while refusing pain medication). And yet, she found a way—a “Little Way” as she came to call it—of offering the smallest acts of love and obedience to God for the benefit of others.

There’s a story about St. Therese where she disciplines herself not to snap at another nun who had an annoying habit of clicking her rosary against teeth during choir. This nun sat right behind St. Therese and the repetitive clicking noise just about drove her crazy. But instead of spinning around and giving the nun a dirty look or shushing her, St. Therese offered her irritation up to God pretended the sound was music to Christ’s ears. Hello, saintly behavior.

How often—especially when I’m not feeling well—do I become irritable with others? All the time! ALL THE TIME. I don’t believe the feeling of irritability is sinful. We all have feelings and they are just that: feelings. It’s what I do with the irritability that makes all the difference. Do I turn my irritability into a kind word? An act of service? Do I mortify my pride and annoyance and offer a friendly smile even when I’d rather look bored or annoyed?

St. Therese also went out of her way to attend to the sickest, frailest and most “difficult” nuns in the convent. It was almost as if she mortified her flesh with acts of kindness. Instead of doing what was required, she did what was unthinkable: pouring out kindness like expensive perfume on the feet of Jesus.

When I can feel nothing, when I am altogether arid, I seek tiny occasions, real trivialities to give joy to my Jesus: a smile, for example, or a friendly word, when I would rather be silent or look bored...I prefer the monotony of obscure sacrifice to all ecstasies. —St. Therese of Lisieux

The monotony of obscure sacrifice. Well, I certainly don’t prefer that. Give me ecstasies any day of the week!

And yet, faith isn’t faith if it is dependent on feelings. This is not to say that feelings are wrong—no, not at all! God gave us our feelings and how beautiful and wonderful they are! But for me, I have found that especially with my sensitive nature and my mental illness, I need to be careful about not relying solely on my feelings.

It is An impoverished faith that depends on ecstasies, consolations, signs and wonders. it is a wobbly faith, a weak faith that crumbles when the feelings inevitably change.

A true faith believes even when I don't feel like it. It believes despite how often my manic depressive illness flares up. Despite whether I’m going through a remission or in the midst of the darkest valley.

I am so thankful for St. Therese’s example because she shows me what is possible in the life of faith. She is the saint for sensitive souls, for fainting hearts, for swoon-prone poets like myself. She is the saint who performed a miracle on  my behalf and later, kept me from killing myself.

She is the saint for melodramatics, of whom I am the chief drama queen. She is the saint who helps me believe—as a Jewish poet imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp wrote on the cell wall—'I believe in the sun even when it is not shining, I believe in love even when I cannot feel it, I believe in God even when He is silent."

The St. Olaf Choir, Anton Armstrong, Conductor, performs "Even When He Is Silent" by Kim André Arnesen. Recorded in concert at Nidaros Cathedral, Trondheim, Norway on June 16, 2013 Commissioned by the St. Olaf Festival in Trondheim, Norway (Olavsfestdagene). The text was found in a concentration camp after World War 2: I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining.

* Heather King, Shirt of flame: a year with Saint Thérèse of Lisieux (Brewster, MA.: Paraclete Press, 2011), 25-26.

Have you ever noticed there are a gajillion kinds of greeting cards for people in love and only one for sick people? GET WELL. That’s it. That’s all we ever say to sick people. GET WELL. Sometimes we add: SOON. Because the only thing Americans hate more than being sick is being sick for an indeterminate period of time. It's an affront to our American-ness.

Are you listening, Linda? I said GET WELL. SOON!

Sick doesn’t work that way. You can’t just bibbity-bobbity-praise-the-Lord-pass-the-essential-oils and the sick is gone. Sick doesn’t GET WELL SOON on command. Sick is not a Pavlovian dog.

This is why we need more greeting cards for sick people.

How about: “Saying a prayer for you, Fred, that your cancer cells DON'T GET ALL fruitful and multiply.”

Or how about: “Get thee behind me, chemotherapy.”

Here's the only greeting card I need these days: “Sorry to hear you got a majorly serious, like-whoa mental illness. Here, have some chocolate. p.s. don't die.”

Why don’t these cards exist? How did this dearth of greeting cards come to be? I imagine it happened one boozy weekend when The Greeting Card People were sitting around in a comfy mountain cabin having their annual writing retreat and nobody felt like writing get well cards. Instead, everyone was sipping wine and writing stupid stuff like: I don’t know much, but I know I love you and love is all you need cause if you like the way you look that much, oh baby you should go and love yourself. 

This is the mountain cabin where the Greeting Card People have their annual writing retreat. Yes, I painted it myself. No, I've never been there.

But when The Greeting Card People move onto Sickness Cards, everyone is all: “HARD PASS.”

The wine ran out. That's what happened. The wine ran out and everybody lost their imagination and found a headache.

Except for one person. That person is Bob from Sympathy Cards. Bob is—how shall we say—different. Bob is the Dwight Schrute of greeting card people. Anyway, Bob jumps out of his chair and blurts out: “The Eskimos have 50 different names for snow!”

Everyone looks at Bob. Bob looks at everyone. Terry from Birthday Cards clears her throat.

“Oh, Bob. Have I told you lately that I love you?”

The room bursts into uproarious laughter even though it wasn't that funny. And then they all go to bed with their headaches and aspirin.

Well, the Greeting Card People really missed out. Because Bob From Sympathy Cards was making a good point. You just need to know how his brain works. Here, let me translate: “Hey guys, just like the Eskimos have 50 different names for snow, there should be 50 different cards for sickness.”

See? That’s not so hard to understand.

It doesn’t take a oncologist to tell you that having cancer is not the same as having a cold. Having a broken leg is not the same as having a broken brain (I’ll let you guess which one I have). You need different cards for different ailments.

I mean, sure. Go ahead and get all bossy with the guy who has a cold. Throw him a GET WELL SOON card and tell him Linda’s right, having a cold is no excuse for missing work.

But giving the guy with cancer a GET WELL SOON card? Now, that’s just rude. What’s he supposed to do with that? Yell at his cancer to GET WELL? He’s not in control of his cancer. Cancer does not bow to his command. Cancer is not on his timetable. Cancer does not arrive and depart on time.

Bossing at people to GET WELL SOON is like those pink T-shirts that tell women with breast cancer to NEVER QUIT FIGHTING.

UGH. Just lob off my boobs now. 

Fighting. Could we please stop with the whole FIGHTING thing? It’s ubiquitous. It’s like you can’t be seriously ill without someone telling you to FIGHT. You go, girl. You FIGHT that cancer. You’re gonna FIGHT to the very end. You’ll never stop FIGHTING. Guys, please. Find another slogan. Better yet, don’t use slogans. Burn all the slogans to the ground.

It’s all a little shame-y, if you ask me, bossing at people to FIGHT and GET WELL. Sick people don’t need to be bossed at. If they want to fight, great. But a sick person who doesn’t wanna jump on your FIGHT WAGON is not less of a person. Just go ahead and back that wagon on up and  move on out. 

Go do something helpful and buy them ice-cream. Or cigarettes. (OMG did she just suggest—?) YES I DID. Cigarettes. They’re gluten-free.

Look, if your Grandma wants to smoke before she dies, let her smoke. 

This exact thing happened to my friend, Felecia. Her Grandma was 103 (for real, onehundredandthreeomg) and finally had to move into a nursing home.

Well, the over-zealous Nursing Home People told her she couldn’t smoke anymore. This was preposterous. Grandma Lillie Bell was born smoking. Grandma Lillie Bell had been smoking for 103 years.

But the Nursing Home People were like: “No. No more smoking.” They took away her cigarettes and forced her into nicotine withdrawal and that’s when they discovered she had stomach cancer.

Moral of the story: smoking keeps you healthy. Don’t quit.

Now Grandma Lillie Bell is dying of stomach cancer and all she wants is a cigarette and the Nursing Home People are all: “No, honey. You’re gonna FIGHT THIS CANCER and you’re gonna GET WELL. SOON.”

“What for?” Grandma says. “So I can live a long, full life?”

The hospital people were like: “Sorry, smoking is against nursing home policy.”

As soon as Felecia heard about this injustice, she drove straight over to the nursing home, wheeled Grandma Lillie Bell out into the sunshine and gave her a pack of smokes.

Basically, Felecia is a hero. I’ll never say bye to her.

For most of my adult life I haven't had a lot of friends. I still don't.

I've never written about this because I've always believed that the measure of a successful life is having many, many friends. I've worried that my lack of friends means something is wrong with me. That is it somehow MY fault.

If I was just happier, kinder, more fun, more involved, more  _____(fill in the blank), I would "attract" friends, lots of them.

But I've tried really hard. I am friendly and empathetic and "likable." I have no problem talking with and meeting new people.

But here's the honest truth:  I don't maintain an active and busy social calendar because...I like being at home.

I don't host dinner parties or entertain during the holidays because, well...large groups of people frighten me—especially if they're in my home. I don't like traveling because I get terribly homesick. I don't like group activities because I chafe under membership requirements, rules and expectations. 

I guess you could say I have social anxiety. I mean, I know some of this is fallout from being raised in a cult (I associate social activities with trauma). But even if I hadn't been raised in a cult, I still wouldn't like group activities.

My idea of torture is a party. Or a women's Bible Study. Or a mommy-and-me group. Or—God forbid—a conference. But if you don't go to parties, or attend lots of group-y things, then how do you make friends?And we're all supposed to have lots of friends, right?

OK, but maybe having lots of friends isn't a good measure of a happy life. Maybe it's ok if we just have one or two friends. 

One of my therapists recently asked me if my friends could tell that my mental health has improved over the last couple of months and I just stared at her, embarrassed. "Well," I squeaked. "I don't really have friends that I hang out with regularly."

To my surprise she didn't react negatively. "That's ok," she said. "You're more of a homebody, right? You're more family-centered?"

I almost wept tears of relief. Because YES. And also: It's OK? It's ok for me to be like this?

Here's the thing: I am a very happy little homebody. I like being in my garden with my roses. I like watching my dogs play. I like my bedroom and my writing desk and my art corner and my books. 

For me, a quiet home is the measure of a happy life.

And I'm finally ok with that.

My living room fireplace with my original artwork, "Blue Roses." I love this little area of my home.

I like being home and I like taking care of my home. I like arranging and rearranging the furniture. I like organizing and decluttering.

I like couponing. I like sewing and baking and painting (---> those paints over there? my FAVORITE watercolors!)

I like quiet nights by the fire. I like animals and trees and looking at the night sky.

Whenever I have to leave home, I feel terribly homesick.

Some flowers from my garden

Things like parties make me very unhappy and very homesick.

Parties are so noisy. So many people. So many lights. So many facial expressions I must plaster on my face.

Weirdly, though, I love the idea of a party. I have this fantasy party in my head which is a small gathering of two or three likeminded people who enjoy deep, quiet conversations. This doesn't happen at any of the parties I've ever attended. Especially when it's a kid party or a party where a lot of alcohol is served.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a little wine with a nice dinner. But I get very nervous and even frightened when people drink too much. They start getting noisy. They say things they don't mean. They think they are so funny and expect everyone to laugh at their jokes. They break things. Sometimes, they lose their tempers. Why risk that kind of evening when I'd be much happier at home with my dogs, reading or writing by a cozy fire?

A built-in bookcase in my living room plus the marie antoinette costume i sewed last halloween for my daughter

Here's the thing: I am an ambivert. I am energized by people. But I also need a lot of quiet space.

It took me FOREVER to learn that while I am energized by people, it has to be the RIGHT people in the RIGHT setting. A quiet lunch with one or two friends is quite enough for me. I have the ability to connect deeply with people but I don't have energy to connect with all the peoples.

To the outsider, my quiet homebody life might look boring. Or like I'm not DOING anything. But this quiet life IS something.

It is something very, very important to me. And it is also vital to my health and wellbeing. I need quiet and space to reflect, to come up with new ideas, to stare into the garden, to take a long walk in silence. I need time to really SEE things. I can sit in one place staring at a tree for thirty minutes and find so many wonderful things happening there.

Bernie relaxing in the backyard :)

I decided to write about this today because I know I'm not the only one who enjoys a quiet life at home.

If you feel badly because you don't have a WHOLE BUNCH OF FRIENDS or you're feeling somehow guilty because you don't keep a busy social calendar, I want you to know that you're not weird. There's nothing wrong with you.

People may misunderstand you but that doesn't mean you are required to meet their expectations. Or even explain it to them.

 Sometimes my kids are frustrated that I don't go out very much. I know they sometimes wish I enjoyed going to parties like all the other "cool" parents. They often ask me to be more involved in their schools. Or chaperone field trips. They get annoyed that I so rarely allow their friends to sleepover. They wish I was more comfortable in crowds so we could enjoy a whole baseball game without me needing to leave at the 7th inning, or refuse to sit in a seat unless I'm on the aisle.

I don't expect them to like my rules or like my peculiarities. But I do expect them to be respectful. They know that I have anxiety issues. They know I need my home to be a safe, sacred space. Over the years, they've learned to accept me and they are very understanding. I think when they are adults they will realize I gave them a different kind of gift: the gift of a quiet, loving, stable home. A home where they could always find their mother. A home they could always return to, no matter what.

climbing roses in my front garden

I am not a good cook. I don't use my back yard for entertaining. I have mental health issues. But I love sewing for my kids. I love creating beautiful spaces for us to enjoy as a family. I love nurturing pets and roses and connectedness. 

My sewing, painting, art corner.

I have finally figured out that it's ok for me to be me. And guess what? It's ok for you to be you, too. Comparing yourself to someone else's life will only lead to despair. We can be quiet little homebody nerds together, k? Look, here's a little birdie I painted for you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cozy up with a good book and hot cup of tea.

Speaking of books, maybe you'd like to try something like this? I suggest "Big Little Lies." It was FABULOUS.

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Joshua Cohen writes with a sardonic edge. MOVING KINGS is at times both profoundly engaging and wincingly irreverent. His riffs on Jewish identity, divorce, the immigrant experience and relational estrangements of all kinds is pure, descriptive brilliance. But it's also borderline offensive— some of the commentary leans anti-Semitic.

Cohen definitely has the gift of language. He wields his extensive vocabulary like a sword. There is a lot of fancy thrusting and parrying which can be overwhelming at times. So many obscure, four syllable words. So many run on sentences. And yet, there's something undeniably hypnotic about it. Something dense and substantive. Cohen's style reminds me of Donna Tartt's "Goldfinch" except with 1/4 of the words.

MOVING KINGS is a literary book for literary readers. It's not a page turner. It's a prolonged character study. The plot moves extremely slowly—even by page 130 (the book is only 240 pages), I still felt as if the story hadn't really started. I had to quell my annoyance and keep pushing through. There were moments when I felt Cohen was showing off his writing prowess rather than telling a good story. Which is to say, I don't know many readers who happily stick with an author through 130 pages of description.

Still, it is a book worth reading which is why I gave it 4 stars. There are so few eloquently written, truly literary novels being published these days that 'Moving Kings' moves far ahead of the rest. Just don't mistake it for a light, beach read.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed KATIE LUTHER: FIRST LADY OF THE REFORMATION. by Ruther Tucker. It reads like a compelling historical novel. Except it's true! Ruth Tucker did an amazing job researching Katie's life and the world in which she lived. I was especially fascinated by the period-specific details about what life was like for people during that time in history. Katie Luther herself is an interesting woman. Strength. Determination. Survival. And the patience to live with Martin Luther, a man who was prone to wild, dramatic actions and pronunciations (not to mention sexist behavior and racist beliefs). I found myself cheering her on and always curious to see what would happen next. Definitely a must-read for church history lovers.

Well, here's a book I just could NOT put down. WATCH ME DISAPPEAR by Janelle Brown is a suck-you-in-and-never-let-you-go pageturner. Janelle is a master storyteller, revealing just enough information to keep you guessing and weaving her web of mystery with thrilling expertise. I will say that I found the main characters quite unlikable. The mother, especially, is selfish, self-absorbed, reckless and sometimes just downright cruel. I connected the most with the bereft daughter. The ending is a big surprise so I won't give any spoilers. However, I did figure it out before it happened. Just pay really close attention to details. This is a marvelous quick read.

You guys. This book. Oh, it's just PURE DELIGHT! OF MESS AND MOXIE by Jen Hatmaker is hilarious and honest and real. I found myself underlining half the book! AND?? GUESS WHAT?!

I'm giving away one copy of Jen's new book! Please go to my Instagram to enter the giveaway. 

I will announce the randomly selected winner on Friday afternoon, 8/11!

++++

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I didn't even tell the dog to lie down there. I was trying to get a good shot and she walked in and positioned herself perfectly for the picture. Because she's psychic. Because she knew I was trying to imitate Pottery Barn. Or at least get 3.2k likes on Pinterest.

When I was a little girl growing up in a cult, the world was always ending and woe unto you if Jesus returned to Earth and found you playing with a Punky Brewster doll. Life is too short to waste on things like fun, children. Watch and pray. And keep your room tidy.

I live in the outside world now and although I'm not the best at keeping things tidy, I do love decorating. And re-decorating. Arranging. And re-arranging. Especially if I'm on deadline. OMGOMG WE HAVE GUESTS ARRIVING IN THREE HOURS LET'S RE-DO THE ENTIRE DOWNSTAIRS. I love blasting through the clutter and chaos until my home is a sparkly, newly-baptized, born again believer. Behold mine newly sanctified Entry Way:

Please note the empty coat hooks. This will last about 2.5 seconds. Then it will be back to the Zone of Disaster again.

Please note that this picture captures a fleeting moment in time and in 2.5 seconds, this "Entry Way" will revert to its normal state, aka "Disaster Zone" because five children live here.

But I can't help it. I love making my house look all pretty. Even if it changes in a twinkling of an eye.

Guys, I admit it. I love Pinterest.

Pinterest teaches me how to decorate my house so it looks like nobody lives here!

Isn't that what we're all striving for?

This is what Pinterest has taught me about Entry Ways:

Pinterest says an Entry Way is very important because it is the first thing people see when they enter your home. It might be tempting to use the Entry Way as a landing zone for backpacks, keys, shoes and school papers but DON'T DO IT. If it's practical it's problematic. <---memorize that!

Pinterest says an Entry Way is for displaying things. Perhaps that Jute Vase you snagged for only $225. Or perhaps a simple, round mirror you picked up at the bargain price of $1,648. If you want to make a really beautiful first impression, don't forget a Hand-Forged Iron Horse Ring—a real steal at $2,800.

I know it's tempting to think that a jar wrapped in cheap, rough fibers shouldn't cost hundreds of dollars but please understand that attaining the "modern farmhouse vibe" requires authenticity and as any hand-forged horse ring will tell you, authenticity is expensive. <---sear that in your brain

So when Pinterest suggests "10 Chic Ways to Decorate Your Entry Way Wall" you need to translate that as: "10 Quick Ways to Spend $10,000." Now stop complaining and take out a 5th mortgage on your faux farmhouse.

Or you could decorate like me. I call it Cult Girl Decorating because it's a skill I learned growing up in a cult.

My interior design philosophy is pretty simple. It goes like this: redecorate an entire room for zero dollars. <---THIS WORD I HAVE HID IN MY HEART. YOU SHOULD, TOO.

Now, let's get started.

Here's my #1 tip for Cult Girl Decorating: never throw things out.

You're not a hoarder, you're an interior designer. You never know when that vintage, Pyrex, serving bowl with the rare gold bird design will come back in style, so keep it. See, here's the good thing about getting old: 1. Stuff piles up and, 2. You've got enough sense to keep it because minimalism is stupid. 

That bench in my Entry Way is 15 years old. The beat-up (vintage!!!!) little red chairs are 14 years old. I've had that runner for three years and the baskets, clock and old books for at least 10. The only things I bought were the bulletin board, the horizontal calendar-thingy and the faux milk jug with faux flowers, all 50% off at Hobby Lobby. OK, OK. I spent more than $0 but compared to $10k, it's basically free, amen?

Let's move on to my bookcases. Redecorating these actually cost me zero dollars.

Cult Girl Decorating Tip #2: Pinterest is like the Bible—a lot of stuff doesn't make sense. Just go with it.

Pinterest told me to turn all of my books backwards and I thought: huh. That doesn't make sense. But apparently, turning books backwards is what all the cool stylists are doing these days and since it doesn't cost dollars, I did it. Speaking of stylists, did you know that "styling" is a thing we do to bookcases now? I thought styling was something we only did to hair. Who knew. ANYWAYS, when my son asked: "But how will we find a book if we can't see the titles?" I sat him down and had a serious talk. Books are not for reading, son. They're for decorating. Don't get it twisted.

Cult Girl Decorating Tip #3: if you liked playing dress-up, you'll like putting dress-up on display.

Guys, mannequins aren't scary. Especially when they're decked out in that Marie Antoinette costume you sewed for your daughter last year. After all, popular stylists are always going on and on about texture and dimension. What's more textural and dimensional than a real-life, 3D costume? BAM. Win-win. (Please note that in this picture I have moved several items from Bookcase 1 (ivy plant, cough) to Bookcase 2 (old wedding picture, cough). It's called rearranging. It's also called "staging." HEY, I NEEDED A GOOD PICTURE FOR MY BLOG STOP JUDGING!

Cult Girl Decorating Tip #4: use your seasonal decorations year round.

Who cares if it's 115 degrees outside? Bust out the autumn decor. There's nothing like pumpkins and gourds to put you in a good mood. Also, fake daisies. I'm all about the fake daisies. No watering, no maintenance, just an occasional swipe with the feather duster. And why wait for Christmas to hang the sparkly lights? Keep them up, friends. Ye are the light of the world. The light shineth in the darkness and the annoyed neighbors shall not comprehend it.

Cult Girl Decorating Tip #5: so whether you decorate or redecorate, do all for the glory of scented candles

When all else fails and you have zero dollars AND zero energy to spend on decorating, just light a bazillion scented candles. This is a classic Cult Girl Decorating trick. When your entire house is filled with the glorious scent of lavender-honey, nobody notices whether you have an AUTHENTIC hand-forged iron horse ring hanging on your wall. Believe me. Smell is everything. You could have ALL your books facing forward with titles exposed (gasp!) and nobody would care because their noses are all enraptured with Cinnamon-Nutmeg-Pumpkin-Pie-Spice-Eggnog-Latte smells.

Forget shiplap, guys. All you need is a Yankee Candle.

I'm waiting for your call, HGTV.

A humid summer night and I can't fall sleep. But it's not the heat keeping me awake. It's my restless heart. Ever since Katherine took her life back in January, I've been in a death match with my faith. This isn't new, exactly. Seems like I've always struggled with my faith. It has never come easily for me (growing up in a fundamentalist cult probably didn't help). Faith—and especially a belief in a loving, truly good God— is something I have to fight for, something I have to CHOOSE each day.

What was new after Katherine's death was indifference.

I've never experienced that. Whether I'm losing faith or finding it, I've always had strong feelings about my relationship with God. I thought about God all the time. But that all changed after Katherine died. For the first time in my life I was indifferent toward Him.  

In n the days following her death and heartbreaking funeral, I felt numb. I don't think it was a conscious choice, really, to turn away from God. I just kind of shut down and shut Him out.

Here's what I learned (again): life without God is hard. It's harder than it's meant to be. Trying to live my life without a trusting faith in a loving God is riddled with anxiety. It's easier to let the lies in: 

I'm not good enough

I don't belong here

I'm not lovable

Incidentally, these are some of the same things Katherine believed about herself. In her goodbye letter to me, she wrote that she always felt like she didn't belong. I can't tell you how many times I've wept over that line.

It shattered my heart because she did belong. She really, really did. She was so loved. She was a good, good person. A truly kind, gentle, sensitive soul.

Months later, those same lies were creeping into my thoughts.

The good thing is, I knew they were lies. Sometimes I struggle with believing I'm ok, that I belong, that I'm deeply loved. This time around, though, I began to see that the reason I was struggling so hard with these lies was because I wasn't asking for help.

I'd tried my best to do life by myself, without God. And this is where my best efforts had landed me: unable to sleep at night, restless, despairing.

That night, lying in bed, I felt a gentle whisper: How about you just talk to Me about it? I'm here for you.

Jesus is so gentle with us, isn't He? It's how I know it's Him.

It was a simple, quiet invitation. It was the invitation to rest, to lean against the everlasting arms and talk about what was bothering my heart.

I got out of bed and got on my knees. It's been a very long time since I did that. My knees were out of practice. My knees weren't super thrilled to find themselves on the floor at one in the morning. 

But somehow, I knew I needed to kneel. The physical posture of kneeling is important for me. It connects my body to my spirit. For me, kneeling is the quickest way to get honest about reality; mainly, who God is and who I am. Kneeling helps me get honest about what I've done and what I have failed to do. The longer I stay away from God—the longer I don't spend time on my knees— the more dishonest I become about myself. It's not even intentional. It's just a casual slide into unawareness. Kneeling is a way of saying with my body: God, I know I'm not God.

Kneeling is a simple beginning. 

There on my knees, I began with confession. First, I admitted I needed help. Second, I repented of trying to heal from this grief all on my own. My confession wasn't dramatic. It was simple. God already knew. It was just time for me to acknowledge it that I need Jesus just like everyone else.

When it was over I stood up and got back in bed. I could feel the tiniest crack of light enter my soul, the tiniest beam of hope....the Lord my God will illuminate my darkness (Psalm 18:28).

I still miss my beloved friend. I still struggle with unbelief and trusting that God is good and that I can trust Him. But I'm no longer struggling alone. I'm grieving with Jesus by my side. He has become such a good friend to me. A friend that sticks closer than a brother....

"But those who HOPE in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31

Hi, friends. It's been a minute. Or two. I've been quiet, here. Processing my best friend's suicide has been a daunting and overwhelming challenging. But the darkness is slowly lifting. I have been painting, going to therapy, taking my medication and spending time with my family.

A few weeks ago I began writing about Katherine's death. After sharing the writing with some close friends, I was encouraged to share the writing with others. To this end, I have set up a website and am sharing stories, thoughts, poems about this grieving process.

Please come visit me at Somewhat Predictable. I titled it "Somewhat Predictable" because that's life. It's only somewhat in our control. The unpredictable parts are why we need each other.

Thank you for reading. Much love. EE.

Hi, friends. On January 16, 2017 I lost my dear friend, Katherine Ray, to suicide. It has devastated me. I know I haven't been blogging much—or at all, really—in the last year. But I've maintained an active presence on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. However, after Katherine's death, I am taking a complete sabbatical from the Internet in order to grieve. Please be assured that I am taking good care of myself and receiving the love and support of family, friends and the amazing mental health professionals in my life.

You can always reach me by email (my address is available on the CONTACT page). I don't know when/if I'll return to blogging. I'm sure I'll return to Facebook and Instagram at some point but until then, I need a good, long rest. If you're looking for a specific topic regarding cults, spiritual abuse, fundamentalism, purity culture and my journey to freedom, all my old posts are available by topic on this site's ARCHIVES page. If you'd like to stay in touch with me and/or stay updated with books I'm reading, published articles and any other good stuff I may write about, please also subscribe to my newsletter (sign-up box in the sidebar).

Lastly, I'd just like to thank everyone who has read my blog these last 10 years. It has been an incredible, life-changing journey. I am so grateful you found me and I found you. Please do stay in touch. 

Much love, EE

“Bobby had a gift and the gift was his simplicity. The world for Bobby Cole was a place he accepted without needing to understand it. Me, I was growing up scrambling for meaning and I was full of confusion and fear.”

Ordinary Grace opens with the suspicious death of a young boy and becomes a richly drawn, deeply evocative coming-of-age story that is part murder mystery, part philosophical reflection.

Preacher’s son, Frank Drum, finds himself caught in the tragic web of violence that has struck his small, Midwestern town. Despite the heavy subject matter, Ordinary Grace is surprisingly not depressing or dark. Ultimately, it is a redemption story that provides a wise, thoughtful commentary on human nature. My favorite character was the preacher, Nathan Drum, a quiet, deeply faithful, intelligent and unassuming man, a kind of modern Atticus Finch. Ordinary Grace is a true, literary masterpiece and I’d place it in the same category as To Kill a Mockingbird. Definitely worth your time. Five stars.

A couple of months ago, my twins celebrated their First Communion. It was a whirlwind day—actually, a whirlwind week leading up to it—and yet, when I finally fell in bed after it was all over, I felt deeply peaceful, light of heart and filled-to-overflowing with joy. I noticed it because I rarely feel that way. Most of life feels like relentless grind, endless chaos, laundry, paying bills, omg-when-was-the-last-time-all-you-kids-got-to-the-dentist?

But that night I felt a rare, priceless exhale of joy. Gratitude. It was worth it, I thought sleepily as I drifted to sleep. It's worth every bit of it.

When I pause to think about it, the discontent and frustration I experience in life is mostly my own doing. If I'm unhappy it's because I’ve always wanted more. If I feel that I've missed out, it's usually because I had unreasonable expectations. If I feel restless, it's because I'm always convinced that what I’m looking for is just around the corner, over the next fence, at the next gathering, with the right group of people, traveling around the world.

But it's not.

What I'm looking for is right here. Right very now.

I don’t need to understand everything in order to be happy. I don't have to travel to some exotic location to find God or myself or what I'm looking for. I don't always have to push the limits of what is possible or over-commit to ten bazillion projects to prove that I am worthy of love and good enough for approval.

I am learning the wisdom of a small, ordinary life.

I am learning to truly WAKE when I wake up in the morning. To listen for the birds, to feel the cool, deep quiet of morning. A few days ago I woke up early and went tip-toeing barefoot through my garden, plucking flowers. On a whim I set the flowers afloat in my pool and let my feet dangle in the water. I sank into a deep mediation, a kind of water-and-breath mediation. How simple, how silly? Yes, yes, all of it.

I’ve spent so much of my life rushing around trying to put everything in its place, getting everything in order, making backup plans in case the original plan doesn't work, always always trying to put stable ground under my feet. But all my efforts haven’t changed the nature of what IS. And what IS is that life changes. Nothing lasts forever. We are, as St. James says, “like a morning fog—here a little while and then gone.” (St. James 4:14).

Perhaps the core of our suffering is that we refuse to let things be NOT OK. I know that my own suffering is often caused by a relentless search for—what Tibetan Buddhist nun Pema Chodron calls—“constant okayness.”

But "Constant Okayness" is not possible, is it?

The gift of living a small, ordinary life is that I really have no choice but to just let things be.

I'm no longer trying to make things work that were not meant to work.

And I am finding that at the bottom of this "not okayness" is a breakthrough. It is what Fr. Jacques Philippe might call "radical nothingness" a state of being where we discover nothing less than “the inexpressible tenderness, the absolutely unconditional love of God.”

God is at the end of my plans not working out.

God is at the end of my broken dreams.

God is here right very now in this small, ordinary life.

And this is where I find my freedom.

I've decided that this summer will be my summer of fiction. In the past five years I've read so many self-help, recovery, Christian-living, memoirs, throw-away-all-your-stuff-to-be-happy books that I've neglected the joys of fiction. When I asked for recommendations, people said: "Read 'The Nest.'" So, I did. And I give it a 4 out of 5 stars.

I won't give any spoilers, but The Nest is about four adult siblings thrown into chaos when they discover that their trust-fund nest egg has been emptied out to rescue their eldest brother, Leo, from his most recent disaster. "Leo the Lech" (as I began to call him) is a conniving, charming, philandering, entitled, middle-aged white dude who seems bent on ruining his own life and the lives of everyone around him. It was difficult for me to like this character because, having grown up around men like Leo, I'm short on sympathy.

Still, the plot is well-paced, the writing superb and the main characters well-drawn. The author did an excellent job of showing how money—or the lack thereof—changes family relationships and creates power struggles, deceit and codependency. Reading The Nest is sort of like watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians—there's nothing really inspiring or virtuous about this family, but you always want to know what happens next. Delicious summer fiction, indeed.

Up next: The Lake House by Kate Morton. Review coming soon.

Happy summering, friends.

Lest ye think this is going to be the bitter diatribe of an unhappy, angry woman, let me begin me begin by saying: I am actually quite happy these days.  Look at this picture of me. That, right there? That is a pre-twin, pre-book, pre-Depression SMILE. YOU GUYS. I am smiling for real again. I haven't been this happy in years.

Part of this is my kids getting older (which means less physical, janitorial labor—they can do their own laundry, yay!) and part of this is that I’m no longer writing under deadline (which was crushing the life out of me) and part of this is trying new things (like going back to school) and part of this is taking better care of myself (three cheers for daily meds, an awesome chiropractor and regular massages) and the other part—the most unexpected part—is how much happier I have been since getting a full-time job outside the home.

YOU GUYS. I had NO IDEA how hard I was working as an at-home mom until I got this new job.

I had no idea how exhausted, how lonely, how invisible I felt as an at-home mom until I had another job to compare it to.

When I started this job a month ago I expected to feel completely overwhelmed. I kept waiting to feel desperate and exhausted. I kept wondering how I’d survive without my daily, 1:30pm nap.

But instead of not being able to handle it, my new full-time job felt/feels almost like a vacation. A vacation for which I am being paid. Plus, I get breaks. Plus, a 401k. Plus, constant validation (“great idea!” “you’re so smart!” “we love having you here!”). One day last week I worked for 12 hours (one regular shift at my day job and then a restaurant shift after that) and I still came home less exhausted than a typical half day as an at-home mom. WHAT.

Don’t get me wrong. Working full-time outside the home is challenging.

I’m still tired at the end of the day. But it’s not the same kind of tired I experienced nearly every day as an at-home mom.

I don’t feel emotionally drained, utterly depleted, completely emptied out of everything I have to give. It’s more like: yeah, I had a full day but hey kids! Let’s play catch before dinner!

: : :

I’ve been puzzling over why being an at-home mom was so much harder for me and then I remembered an eye-opening conversation I had with my two oldest kids last Thanksgiving.

They had come to me with a list of their teenage grievances. Things like: we don’t like it that you monitor our cell phones. We want to listen to explicit rap music at full volume in the house. We should be able to play Xbox for 12 hours straight.

I sat there and nodded and listened and said a lot of I see’s and uh-huh’s and ok’s. Reacting to teenagers, I’ve discovered, is exactly the same as throwing gasoline on a fire which is to say, DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS AT HOME. Better to let them unload their heavily burdened hearts and give them unconditional positive regard rather than freaking out and yelling: INGRATES! Don’t do that. Gasoline, fire, etc. I’ve learned this the hard way.

Anyway, they were carrying on like this and I was nodding along and then they branched off into other topics and said something that brought me up short. I was all: HOLD UP. WHAT?

 “Say that part again about what dad does and what I do?” I asked, keeping my voice light, breezy, inquisitive.

“Well,” said the teenager Who Shall Not Be Named, “Dad works really hard providing for the family and Mom…well, what is it that you do?”

 Trying to maintain my composure (and keep from laughing) I asked them to clarify further. It came down to this: their true and honest perception of our family situation was—and I quote—“dad busts his butt” providing for the family and mom…well, “we don’t really know what mom does.”

At this point I needed a break. Meaning, I took the dog for a walk. Meaning, I bawled my eyes out. Meaning, I walked for a long while until I’d walked out all my feelings.

And then: there it was. There was my answer.

Was it possible my kids simply DID NOT SEE what I’ve been doing for them these past seventeen years? Were they, quite literally, blind to it?

I mean, most of us don’t really appreciate our parents’ sacrifices for us until we become parents ourselves, right? But there’s something else, here, too.

This is what I mean: despite my best efforts to educate my kids about sexism and inequality, they have still picked up this idea that what dad does is “REAL” work and what mom does…isn’t.

Why is Dad’s work “REAL” and mine isn’t? Well, Dad brings home a paycheck. Mom is just…here. All the time. Like: WHAT DOES SHE EVEN DO??????

: : : :

This is what an at-home mom does: emotional labor.

For the past seventeen years I’ve been the primary caretaker. I’m accustomed to no-breaks, no-thanks, no raises, no promotions. I've had a bit of paid help now and then. But nothing significant or long term. That has been my normal.

My main job was providing high-quality, full attentive, deeply intuitive child-care. But that was just my 9-5, so to speak (although it was really like 6am-5pm). What makes at-home work so exhausting, though, is all the OTHER WORK on top on top of the regular, child-care work. After my “regular job” as an at-home mom, there was a whole OTHER job of:

Dealing with all the school stuff, homework, registration, grades, emails with teachers, assignments, school projects (miniature scale California missions!) pick up and drop off, carpools, arranging carpools, communicating about the carpools when I couldn’t do it, calling in absences, taking care of them when they are sick at home, following their grades online, making sure everyone has all the proper supplies.

But that’s not all. Oh, that is not all.

I’m also the one who:

Researched after-school sports, made countless trips to and from dance classes, dance workshops, dance intensives, dance supply stores, baseball practice, baseball games, lacrosse practice, water polo practice, water polo games, Mommy-n-me-classes, library reading times.

I’m the one who remembers all the birthdays, holidays and special occasions and shops and plans accordingly. I’m the one who gathers information regarding Christmas presents and plans the social calendar. I’m the one who gets them signed up for drivers’ ed and SAT tutoring and math tutoring. I’m the one who volunteers in their classroom and who picks them up if they are sick during school hours.

I’m the primary disciplinarian. The one who sets and enforces boundaries.

And yet, all of this—this whole at-home mom job plus the activities-coordinator/chauffeur/cook/tutor/therapist job that I do as a mom isn’t considered “REAL” work. WHY is this?

Well, for one thing, at-home work is mostly invisible. You can’t graph it on a quarterly-earnings chart. There are no PowerPoint presentations explaining the cost/benefit ratios of at-home motherhood.

But here’s the biggest reason why at-home work isn’t viewed as “REAL” work in America: because if we can’t attach a dollar amount to emotional labor then it doesn’t even exist in our capitalistic society.

: : : :

 I read somewhere recently that men are defined by their work whereas women are defined by the work they do for others.

Even when I was writing two books and being paid for it, the expectation I placed on myself (and the expectation I felt from others in my social groups) was that I was a mother first and a writer second.

I was and am defined by my emotional labor more than my professional labor. The expectation is that I will be a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend first and fit writing in on the side.

Even as a paid professional author, I never felt like a true WRITER-WRITER. I felt like a full-time mom who wrote as a “side-hustle.”

It is not this way for men. I’ve noticed that men who are my age and at the general same stage of life in the writing industry have no problem defining themselves as Writers. They define themselves as Writers even if they are also husbands and fathers. They are writers first and fathers second. And nobody raises an eyebrow. Nobody suggests they are neglecting their children in order to write their book. Nobody says: “I don’t know how you do it!” Nobody suggests they are putting their career before family.

So, why does it matter if men define themselves by their work whereas women are defined by the work they do for others?

Well, here’s why: because even if a woman is holding down a pay-the-bills job, much of the emotional labor of raising a family still falls in her lap. Hear me on this: I am more than happy to perform emotional labor because life sucks without it. I actually enjoy emotional labor. Nurturing is my jam.

What I’m pointing out is that because there's no way for our society to measure at-home work in dollars, it’s easy to pretend that at-home work isn’t comparable to the “REAL WORK” that men do.

The irony is that child-care is exorbitantly expensive. If I had actually been paid for all the child-care I’ve done for the better part of two decades I’d have a nice little retirement nest egg.

: : : :

When I look back at the past seventeen years, I ask myself if I would do it all over again and the answer (like much of life) is yes and no. Both/and. I’m glad I stayed home with them and I don’t regret one minute of it because I love them so infinitely much that I would do it all over again because THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS.

Sidebar: I know many, many women don’t have the luxury of being able to stay home and I fully acknowledge I was granted the privilege of even HAVING this choice. I have so many more words about this like: WHY DON’T WE HAVE more mother-friendly social policies? It’s shameful!

If I had to do it all over again, I would only stay home until my youngest kids were in kindergarten and then I would go get myself a full-time paying job because the reality for women is that things are still not fair for us. We still have to have a backup plan. Actually, we need more than one backup plan. Plan B isn’t enough. Most of us need plans C, D and effing E.

Look, I know life isn’t fair. I get that. But also: I believe part of my job here on earth is to make life MORE fair. That's why I’m writing about this stuff because, at least for me, awareness of the problem is the first step.

Up until about four weeks ago I didn’t even realize how hard I was working and how much of it wasn’t considered “real work” and how that’s a huge problem for women everywhere.

Now, I’m gonna go put on my jammies and pour myself some white wine and crochet some granny squares. Whoomp, there it is.

p.s. fear not, all is well between my teenagers and me. which is to say, apologies were given all around and lots of hugs and follow-up conversations. life goes on. and so does their curfew.

Jewel went to her first prom a couple of weekends ago. I was so excited for her—and anxious for her, too—what time will you be home? are you going in a group? where are you going after prom? what time will you be home? did I already ask that? OMG I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOU.

"You are stressing me out, Mom," she said at one point. "Can you just—like. Can you not?"

She was right. I was firing off questions and instructions like a crazed robot. I needed to check myself. But not before I snapped a bazillion pics of her on my iPhone. Because PRIORITIES.

I know moms say this all the time but seriously, WHERE DID THE TIME GO? How did my tiny baby girl grow up into this strong, confident young woman who organizes an entire group of sixteen people for prom? How did this all happen so fast? 

It's a question that I've been dealing with for the past year or so. I've mentioned it before but I'm pretty sure I'm in full-blown mid-life crisis mode. Do all women feel this? We near forty and start feeling as if we are becoming slowly invisible, slowly irrelevant, slowly unnecessary, slowly unimportant?

A few days later, just as Jewel was climbing in the car with her friends to go to prom, I felt the Old Pain rise up inside me. So, I ran to her and and hugged her before it became too much. I caught a glimpse of my face in the car window as I shut the door for her—I looked so....old.

I ran inside and up to my room. The Old Pain washed over me—the regret, the missed opportunities, the prom I never got to attend because we were fundamentalists and fundamentalists didn't go to proms.

I can't believe it still matters. But it does.

It's so stupid. But it's true.

It still matters that I never went to my own high school prom. It still matters that I missed out on things. After all this time, it still matters, dammit.

Just when I'm beginning to think that I've finally shed the last dead layer of fundamentalism, something happens to remind me that nope, nope. I'm still that weird girl from the cult. I still inhabit this skin.

Growing up fundamentalist made me old long before my time. When I was 20, I felt like I was 40. Now that I'm almost 40, I feel like I'm closer to 60....

It's not all bad, of course. I've accomplished a lot of amazing things in my 39 years. I'm proud of myself. I suppose my tendency is to be a "glass half empty" kind of person. I've been working on that. I love the science of neuroplasticity and I've been trying to actively "re-wire" my thought patterns through meditation, daily affirmations, happy-lists (my version of gratitude lists) and "acting as if" things are good until I feel better. It's working. Slowly.

I believe happiness is possible for me. Indeed, it becomes more possible each day. I love people. I love working. I love going to school.

The Old Pain isn't as strong anymore. But it's still there. I guess I needed to share it with you just to say: Hey, it's ok that we're human. It's ok if we feel the Old Pain sometimes. We're getting better, you and me. One day, one blog post at a time!

And THAT'S what matters most.

Yeah, I'll admit it. At first I was amused. How clever, I thought. A Christian version of The Onion. So, I retweeted a post or two. I chuckled along. But the more The Babylon Bee popped up in my social media feeds, the more uncomfortable I became with laughing along. What if this "trusted source for Christian news satire" was actually just a poor excuse for Christians to slam other Christians on the Internet?

I mean, to watch Christians gleefully retweet and share The Babylon Bee, you'd think Jesus said: "By this will everyone know you are my disciples, if you mock one another."

And there was something else, too. Something more troubling. It looked a lot like a hidden agenda.

OK, YEAH: I realize I'm sounding like an 80 year old grandmother full of conspiracy theories. I don't care. I'm fed up. AND PLEASE. SPARE ME THE WHOLE: "But Jesus! He was sarcastic! He knocked over tables! He told those Pharisees what was UP!"

Because for #1: you are not Jesus.

Because for #2: there is no comparison between your mean jokes about fellow Christians to Jesus' righteous rebuke of corrupt religious authority. Check yo self.

Because for #3: when Jesus told parables or used clever turns of phrase, the intention was always to bring liberty to the captives—NEVER to mock their earnest (if sometimes unwieldy, break-through-the-ceiling-to-lower-your-sick-friend-down-to-Jesus) attempts at connecting with Him.

Here's the deal, Babylon Bee: I just don't want to read mean, stupid stuff on the Internet anymore. And I especially don't want to read it from fellow Christians.

Cuz I already graduated from middle school.

Cuz I don't think it's funny or Christian or edifying to crack jokes at other people's expense.

Cuz I'm pretty sure Jesus isn't slapping his knee and chortling along like: YEAH, HA HA LOOK AT THAT WOMAN CRYING DURING WORSHIP. SHE IS SUCH AN EMBARRASSMENT TO ME.

I mean. Dude. If I were The Babylon Bee, I'd be ducking for cover because last time I checked, Jesus didn't take kindly to religious folks being judgmental towards women.

And really, that's what The Babylon Bee is all about.

The Babylon Bee isn't about equal-opportunity laughs. Or speaking truth to corrupt power systems.

The Babylon Bee is all about making you laugh at the harmless joke so that later, you're more likely to laugh at the sexist joke. THIS IS PSYCHOLOGY 101. It's called foot-in-the-door compliance. And it's a real thing.

This is why the Babylon Bee pumps out lots of LOL-Christian-Culture jokes like: "First Year Seminarian Ready to Take Over for Senior Pastor" because those easy, breezy jokes pave the way for what The Babylon Bee really wants to say.

Thankfully, The Babylon Bee isn't THAT clever. It's ain't rocket science figuring out its editorial bias.

The Babylon Bee has a definite agenda and it looks like making fun of how women talk, mocking transgender identity, belittling Mormons, pretending that Christians who deny LGBT folks their civil rights are the REAL victims, accusing women who read Amish romance novels as having a porn addiction, shaming Joyce Meyer for using her God-given gifts to preach. I could go on but if I keep rolling my eyes they might get stuck in my skull permanently.

The point is, The Babylon Bee doesn't expose oppressive religious culture and structures (which is what true satire does), it actually reinforces them.

Or, to put that in a headline for ya: Studies Show New Condemnation Same as Old Condemnation.

Or as Solomon might write: History Proves Nothing New Under Sun.

As if this whole shebang isn't disturbing enough, look who runs ads on Babylon Bee: Compassion International. Just WHAT. A Christian relief organization seeking to empower children in poverty is partnering with a website that disempowers other Christians? The cognitive dissonance is jarring.

Dear Babylon Bee Editor: A little sexism leavens the whole lump. I'm not laughing anymore.

Gratuitous puppy pic because my puppy is awesome. Bernie sanders! you are the cutest!!!!

In her excellent interview for an article called "The Hidden Trauma of Life After Fundamentalism," therapist and author Dr. Marlene Winell ("Leaving the Fold: a guide for former fundamentalists and others leaving their religion") highlights a few symptoms afflicting people with Religious Trauma Syndrome:

Those who leave such denominations may experience symptoms of RTS, which include, but are not limited to, learned helplessness, identity confusion, dissociation, sleep and eating disorders, substance abuse, anxiety, depression, and interpersonal dysfunction. Critical thinking and independent thought are often underdeveloped. (emphasis mine)

I recently discovered this term "learned helplessness" and it was a huge ah-ha! moment for me. Here's how my psychology text describes learned helplessness:

Do you believe that you have no control over stressful life events? Do you believe that even your best efforts will result in failure? When you blame yourself for any failure you experience, are you more likely to attribute your failure to a specific factor—you're just not good at soccer—or to a more global feature—you're just too uncoordinated to do any athletic activity? These questions illustrate the key feature of a personality feature called learned helplessness, in which people develop a passive response to stressors based on their exposure to previously uncontrolled, negative events. (Pastorino, Portillo. What is Psychology? Cengage Learning, 2016. pg. 527, emphasis mine)

In other words, learned helplessness means we give up or have a passive response when faced with stressful situations.

In the context of recovery from Religious Trauma Syndrome, many of us may have experienced learned helplessness starting as infants.

For example, think about the damaging effects of the popular "sleep training" method "cry it out".

When parents leave a baby alone in a room to cry it out, researchers found that the baby didn't "learn the 'skill' of sleep... rather her brain escapes the overwhelming pain of abandonment and shuts down. While such a shutdown brings a quiet reverie for frustrated and exhausted parents, it comes at a steep price. The implicit memory encoded in the CIO baby is that the world is an uncaring place."

Can you see the difference? The baby doesn't stop crying because she's finally being obedient (as we were taught by parenting gurus like Dr. James Dobson, the Ezzos or Mike & Debi Pearl). The baby stops crying because she has learned that help isn't coming. The baby stops crying because she is overwhelmed by despair. Her brain shuts down and she collapses into exhausted sleep because that's the only escape.

"Cry it out" is a very popular practice in MANY religious households. I remember the authors of "Babywise" even going so far as to tell parents not to give in to a baby's cries for help because the infant was trying to "manipulate" them.

Sadly, the practice of "cry it out" is very widespread these days. Think about all the babies who are learning that nobody comes when they cry for help. Think about how this will play out in their lives: when faced with the inevitable stress of life, how will they respond? Probably by shutting down.

Well, I know a little something about this. Growing up fundamentalist gave me a debilitating case of learned helplesssness. A big part of my recovery has been learning how to handle stress and how to problem solve.

So, when we're faced with a problem, what can we do to overcome learned helplessness? Here are some suggestions I've culled from my own research + things that work for me:

1. EMBRACE MAKING MISTAKES: honestly, I'd rather do ANYTHING other than find solutions to my problems. My house has never been cleaner, my laundry never more caught up than when I have an actual problem to solve. Experts suggest that what makes problem solving difficult is picking the solution from a selection of options. This is probably why it's more difficult for ex-fundamentalists to problem solve. We weren't ever given options. We were always told what to do and how to do it. Finding solutions to problems often means making mistakes. And mistakes aren't devastating when we are operating from a place of worthiness. Meaning, when we know we are unconditionally loved, our mistakes no longer have the power to crush us (THAT'S FROM MY NEW BOOK haha!!). When I first started speaking out against Mike & Debi Pearl, I was under incredible pressure to remain quiet. There were times when I wanted to quit. What helped was telling myself that speaking imperfectly was better than not saying anything at all.
2. PAUSE: Take a break. Take a walk. Meditate. These things interrupt negative/defeating thought patterns. When I'm feeling totally helpless and overwhelmed, I give myself a break. NOTE: this is different than procrastinating which usually leads to MORE problems! :) A couple of Fridays ago I was feeling frustrated and helpless about some life situations. So, I cleaned up my room. After I was done, my problem was still there but I *felt* better and was able to handle it.
3. RESIST "ANALYSIS PARALYSIS": many of us from controlling religious environments are hyper-vigilant and have a tendency to over-analyze every single decision. We are experts at making pro/con lists. We want to make The Right Decision. Unfortunately, making a very detailed pro/con list can easily trigger our "analysis paralysis" and prevent us from making any decision at all. The reality is that there are often many "right ways" of doing things. Sometimes we won't even know the next step until we take the first step. And even if we make a mistake, that's ok, too (see #1).
4. TRUST YOUR GUT INSTINCT: I read an interesting research study about people test-tasting strawberry jam. The people who tasted and scored the jams without analyzing them were more likely to score closer to expert tasters' scores than another group of people who had to explain, analyze and defend which jam they liked and why they liked it. In other words, having to "give an answer" for every decision can interfere with better outcomes. Many of us who grew up in fundamentalism were expressly discouraged from trusting our gut instincts and our hearts. We may not even know what we like or dislike! Learning to listen and trust our gut instinct is often a process of trial and error but that's ok! see #1 and #3! Knowing ourselves is totally worth the mistakes we make along the way. Give yourself permission to go at your own pace. It takes time to figure out what WE like and want and need. We are allowed to change our minds, take our time and we don't have to defend why we like or dislike something. We don't all have to like or want the same things in life. :)
5. INCUBATE: Sleep on it. Take the pressure off. Our brains need time to "encode" new memories, find solutions to problems and come up with new ideas. Although I've learned how to trust my gut instinct, I try not to make big decisions impulsively. I sleep on it. Our brains are VERY active while we are sleeping. I can't tell you how many times a solution will come to me in a dream or upon waking or a day later. Be kind to your brain and let it do the work for you while you take a snooze. I also highly recommend daily naps. I lie down every single day around 1pm and sleep for 15-20 minutes. This keeps my brain from "overheating" and perks me up for the afternoon and early evening.

How about you? What kind of tools have you found helpful in overcoming learned helplessness, "analysis paralysis" or the fear of making mistakes? I'd love to hear what works for you!