Ellen Stevens :: life, faith and the mess in between

embrace the grace

He collapsed into the living room a tear-soaked mess of utter despair.

“Buddy!” Toby exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you? What happened?”

The cries slowly boiled into panicked wails that made simple talking impossible.

“Mama. Said. I. Only. Have. One. More. Chance!” The sound of it was more than his five-year-old self could contain and mournful thunder billowed out of his soul.

“Whoa! Slow down, now. You have one more chance for what?”

“I can’t stop … ” He dissolved into the rapid, staccatoed, hyperventilated weepy inhales that only preschoolers can master.

“I just can’t st… I can’t stop …” He lowered his head, paused long and deep, and slowly inhaled to catch his fleeting breath. “I. Just. Can’t. Stop. Saying…. DOUCHE BAG!”

I can relate. Now, I don’t have a problem calling people “douche bag”; I have many other favorite terms of endearment to choose from. But, there are things that I know I shouldn’t do that I do. And things I should that I don’t.

Sometimes, it feels that when I make a choice to do good, the power to put muscle behind my decision bolts out the back door. If it is simply avoiding a phrase that may not be the sweetest, this is a more of an annoyance than anything. However, often the struggle is when I’ve made a decision that impacts my dreams or health or relationships or character. With little warning, my intentions are blindsided and I look down to see my will knocked flat on its behind. I try to dust my determination off, but it often feels like a losing battle.

I don’t think I’m alone. Whether we’re lying about why we’re late to work, struggling to find patience with our spouse, judging the people in our lives, wrestling with pornograpy and emotional affairs, or questioning whether God’s love for us is enough, we are often in all-out war with ourselves.

Even the Apostle Paul said, “What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise.” (Romans 7:15 MSG)

So what do we do? Do we resign ourselves to a spirit-crushing twilight-zone trying over and over and over with the same repeated results? Do we throw our hands up and squeal, “I just can’t!”?

Anything worth its salt is worth fighting for. It requires screwing up over and over, and trying again and again. It deserves the gift of effort and pursuit, grace and gumption. Whatever it may be that inspires us to believe, whatever dream we hold in our heart, whatever sliver of idea we aim toward, nothing should quench it.

For little boys learning which words are appropriate for kindergarten, a few chances are enough before a consequence is given. For the rest of us Grace awards a second and third and fourth and infinitium number of do-overs. In Proverbs 24:16, we read that “The righteous man falls down seven times, but seven times, he rises again.” Another writer in the Old Testament described each morning as showered with brilliant new mercy.

I must be honest; I do not understand grace. It is not something that I learned in my early church experiences and at 41 it still feels like a foreign concept to me. But I am seeing it in scripture. I feel it in God’s presence. I hear it in his story. And I want to know it and accept it.

The next time I screw up and overreact to my kids, let stress and worry shadow the good in my life, or slap a “Hello, My Name Is God” sticker on my shirt and start taking control, I will remind myself of these fresh daily mercies.

Today and tomorrow and the next, embrace the grace. Let it flood over you and wash away the mistake. Let it drench the cries of “should” and free you to begin again.

And if anyone or anything says that it is too late, or enough is enough, or that’s just who you are, well… tell them not to be a douche.

6 Comments

the hoarder inside: power of letting go

25 Comments

P_hoarderinside The day he began stapling trash to the walls we were in trouble. Our new foster son had moved into our home a few months earlier with a bag of worn clothes and few odds and ends collected over the years. There was an old GameBoy, broken PS2, crumpled photo of a summer camp friend and every school certificate he’d ever received: citizenship award, sit-ups award, library award.

At first things seemed simple. We bought new clothes and found some books and toys he enjoyed. We posted a corkboard for his photo and papers. We installed shelves for his games and trinkets.

It didn’t take long for the treasures to grow and space to disappear. He refused to get rid of old clothes, several sizes too small and many threads too bare. He clung to broken games and half-bodied toys. He cherished every document that came across his little hands: graded homework assignments, scraps with phone numbers, coupons, and torn labels.

So, we made more space. We added shelves in the closet and bought bins for papers. I showed him how to use wall stick-um and we added another corkboard. The stuff still grew.

Food was hidden inside his pillowcase and under the mattress. One paper-crammed bin became three. Soon, chunks of wood, cardboard and used art supply scraps were piled in corners and under the bed in case there was an opportunity to use them one day. When I walked in to find him stapling a 2×5 foot piece of trash onto his wall, I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. He had found it on the road on the way home from school and thought he would keep it “just in case.”

As frustrating as the hoarding grew, it was the least of our trouble. Angry outbursts, threats, tears, lying, fighting, night terrors and a scary darkness began to rise up in his little mind. We did the best we could and sought help everywhere. Psychologists and psychiatrists came and went; he continued to rage refusing to speak.

We prayed and comforted and medicated and talked and held and cried and promised to always love come what may. The hoarding and the emotions still grew.

Two and half years later, the bottom dropped out in our fragile world. Within a few weeks time, there was a serious threat of harm made to self and others, an emergency pediatric psychiatric hospitalization, and an emotional breakdown that terrified the other children in our home.

A few weeks later, on a cold, icy afternoon, I once again found myself crawling under the bed among the trash trying to reach my broken boy hiding from the scary world outside. My arms wrapped around his shaking body and he pulled away, cursing and begging me to leave him alone. I refused and held on silently begging love to become tangibly felt. After a few agonizing minutes, his shoulders grew limp and years of pent-up tears flooded his cheeks. We held on to each other, bobbing in the sea of torment surrounding our hearts, the sound of my own cries joining the rhythmic waves of his sobs.

When the storm subsided, the words spilled out. Memories and fears. Struggles and broken promises. Insecurities and pain. Accusations and confessions. Guilt and hatred. Longings and beliefs. Each syllable, a stone removed from the wall surrounding his heart.

The next day, I walked into his room and found him with a garbage bag in hand. He was throwing away trash, clearing walls, and sorting through thousands of papers. He said he didn’t “need” it anymore.

I walked out and began to cry the warm happy tears of relief. The tide had turned. Healing had begun.

How many of us are hoarders, refusing to let go of yesterday, afraid of not having enough for tomorrow, clinging to what was or should have been? We may not duct-tape trash to our ceiling, but we keep boxes of light-neglected memories stacked in garages only to be seen by those who come after us. I remember a friend telling me of her grandfather who had an old Folgers can labeled, “String Too Short to Use.”

Many of us don’t collect things, but we hold onto grudges and conversations, people and experiences as though the shadow of their existence justifies our identity and directs our course. We allow the power over our life to be held in the grip of something we disdain or regret, wish or fear.

Every month, I hand everyone in our home a bag and tell them to fill it up. Clothes, toys, tools, projects. If we don’t need it, we don’t keep it. When holidays and birthdays come, we make way for new toys and clothes by giving away something to someone. As a result, our boys are learning that their worth is not tied into what they have. Their identity isn’t based on how much they accrue. And their needs will always be met.

When arguments rise or feelings are hurt, we talk about it honestly, we share, we tackle the monsters, we forgive and we move on. We don’t ignore or fear the conflict, but we don’t hold onto it. There is only so much room in our hearts and minds, there is no need to fill them with the negative. Slowly, I am beginning to see my boys finding the courage to trust and forgive and believe.

Together, we are all seeing the power of letting go.

25 CommentsTagged: foster care, healing, hope

Who’s in your path?

6 Comments

A few weeks ago, Toby flew to Gambell, Alaska for work. It’s a remote, rocky island off the coast of Western Alaska in an environment few people could survive, much less thrive.

Aside from the lack of cell coverage and crawling internet, life here is rugged. Literally perched on the edge of the world generations of villagers live by ancient ways, hunt whale to provide food for winter, and rely on each other for survival. Here, unlike silly Sarah, you really can see Russia from your backyard.

It was the first week of April and while most of the country was enjoying the fresh blooms of Spring, villagers trudged through snow-drift covered streets wearing fur-lined parkas and goggles to protect their wind-burned eyes from the 60 mile per hour gusts.

Toward the end of one of his training sessions, a sweet seventy-year old woman wandered up to get more information from the table. Her kuspuk was worn and her eyes spoke of years of a hard, full life. As their conversation grew, it came out that she and her husband shared a little two-room shack with their seven grandchildren.

On top of struggling to fill their cupboards and finding strength to match the energy of a household of children, there was a much greater need: they had no heat.

That weekend in April, the wind chill factor put the temperature at under 30 below zero. Who knows how cold their little wind-ravaged home was during the deep of winter! In the Fall, their little stove had died and they found themselves broke and freezing cold. Luckily, someone in the village loaned them a space heater and so they spent their nights huddled together with the heater and a Coleman lantern to keep them warm.

He didn’t even have to ask. As soon as he shared the story we were on the same page. We contacted friends and our church, and ideas began pouring in.

Within a few days we purchased an oil stove and fittings, filled tubs with food, kid’s clothes, toys and books. We packed the 400 pounds of treasure and sent it 800 miles away.

We’ll probably never meet this woman or her grandchildren. Her little ones will never come to Sunday School. She may never even know our church’s name.

But she was in our path.

One of the premises of Christianity is a call to help others, to reach out and share the love of Christ. For many, this “missional” mindset is a means to increase church membership. When church membership isn’t the focus, people often think of immunization track marks on their arms and traveling to far away, drought-ridden lands in an experience half do-gooder, half exotic adventure.

Jesus called us to love others, but he didn’t define “missional” as caring for those on the opposite end of the planet, or those who would fill a pew. He simply said to love the people in our path. The Samaritan didn’t have to get Yellow Fever shots. He didn’t throw a church pamphlet into the care package. He simply cared about the person in front of him.

So, how can you live out Jesus for the people you encounter every day?

Who is in your path?

6 Comments

It’s Enjoy our Earth Day!

1 Comment

This Sunday, while thousands of people green-up their homes by swapping out light bulbs to do their part for the planet, I say that instead of bribing it with our good works – we enjoy it.

Of course, I want to sustain our planet’s beauty for future generations. I use my own grocery bags, shop locally, and reduce-reuse-recycle. But this year I propose that instead of hand-crafting a compost box that serves better as a feeding trough for my neighborhood bears, we celebrate by enjoying Earth Day.

Unplug the kids from the electronics and have a picnic.

Gather friends for a wild scavenger hunt in an unexplored park.

Plant some flowers.

Run through the yard.

Sink your toes deep into ice-cold Spring waters.

Ride your bike to a coffee shop and when you pass a gas station raise your shaking fist in defiance of all its evil comforts.

Inhale the scent of wet, soggy soil.

Bask in the waves of warmth from our Sun.

Capture the image of a mountain peak etching its name into an innocent blue sky.

Gaze out onto a far horizon as it caresses the curves of Earth and wonder what lies beyond.

Close your eyes, turn into the breeze and embrace the mystery of ancient peoples once moved by the very same wind.

Whatever your Earth Day holds, rain or snow or raging sun, soak it up. Don’t huddle up in a curtain-closed home and miss one more chance to witness it’s wonder.

Enjoy it. Teach your children to cherish it.

Every day.

But, especially on Earth Day!

1 Comment

Real is a four letter word

4 Comments

Transparent. Authentic. Raw.

Everyone of us have found ourselves face to face with the cultural relevency bandwagon of “real”. We’ve talked about dropping the masks. We’ve whined about keeping up with the times. We’ve applauded our attempts to be organic: intellectually, emotionally, socially, and spiritually.

But what does it really mean to be truly real? What does it look like to be transparent and vulnerable and raw?

In our relationships with others real can be seen in an overarching sincerity and purity of personal presentation.

As a faith community it is often assumed to be a group of believers stripped of all pretense and traditional expectations.

As one who strives to emulate Christ in their lives it is the idea of being open and honest with the reality of life and struggle and faith.

But how is that lived?

True authenticity is far more than speaking the truth in a hip, edgy, and culturally attractive way.

It is the hunger for such clarity of relationship with others and God, that our desire to connect in a pure way is greater than our fear of what may be uncovered in the process.

When our hunger for transparency goes beyond our willingness to speak the truth and becomes a deep humility to hear the truth, then we become real.

It’s hard. It’s scary. It lays us wide open for healing and hurt. But, that is when authenticity is attained. That is when transformation begins.

When we finally get to the place where we trust God enough to be completely open with who we are and who he is forming us to be, we wished we had gone there years before. The release and hope in that place is so liberating that we never want to live another way.

So, why do we hold back? What does it take to be in that place of honesty with God, others, and ourselves? How do you see this lived out in your life?

4 Comments

mantras to live by

5 Comments

It was a little lullaby; a simple, flighty song to welcome the end of the day. I remember hearing my mother sing it and imagined her mother singing it as well. But though the rise and fall of the melody was perfectly written to ease a little mind to rest, it was the lyrics that I wanted my boys to hear.

“I love you. I love you. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, a hug around the neck. And a barrel and a heap, a barrel and a heap. And I’m talking in my sleep about you.”

Every night as I leaned over their beds next to their warm little ears, I sang it. In the day, every moment I was able to capture their fast moving frames, pull them into my lap, and slow them down enough to listen, I sang it. When the pavement reached up and scratched their little knees, I sang it. When they were huddled in a corner trying to get over an angry outburst, I sang it.

In the beginning, they hated it. Mowgli would kick and thrash his arms, pushing away from me. “No, you don’t! I’m a bad boy!” he’d yell out trying to scratch my face. Another would insert rude words into the song, transforming the message into something far less appropriate. Often their thin bodies would go rigid and they would turn their face away, averted eyes filling up with confused and angry tears.

Still, I sang.

On good days, on bad days, when they were sleepy, when they were wild; it became my mantra.

Finally, almost a year later, they heard it. Another two years later, they accepted it.

As time went on, it became clear that I would need another mantra for my boys; one for a very different circumstance and time. When memories weaseled their way to the surface, when fear gripped them in the dark, when worry blanketed their minds, I’d pull out this mantra and begin to say it over them.

It was simple and easy to remember, addressed their past, present and future, and was no more than three little lines; but those three thoughts had the potential to change the atmosphere.

“Yes, what you experienced was wrong and not fair. But, you are a survivor; strong and brave. Now, you are in a safe place and you can make your world a better place.”

It took almost two years before they heard this one; before it’s meaning became part of their fiber. And then, like the song of love, it took hold. Today, when times get rough and angst begins to well up, I hear them whisper these powerful words to themselves and each other.

A while back, one of my boys had an extended stay in a hospital. The circumstances were very scary and leaving him alone was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. We couldn’t see him for the first 24 hours, and when we finally were allowed 30 minutes all he could do was weep. Beginning as a slow, quiet whimper, soon his body began to quiver. Then, waves of tears raged through him as his shoulders shook and his breath became ragged.

My own tears blinded my vision and I buried his little frame into my side. Words refused to come as my throat closed up. All I could manage was to slowly hum my little song. “Hum hum hum…”

A new set of tears billowed out of his little body, but these were tears were of recognition, of hope, and of the love that the song declared. He knew the tune. He knew the words. He believed the mantra.

Slowly, his breath calmed and his body grew still. By the time we left, tears still flowed, but as he was escorted out of the room he was humming the mantra that had become his own.

We all need positive mantras in our lives; simple, easy to recall, powerful and life giving. These words focus us, define who we are, steady the crazy, and align us with hope.

For some, it is a scripture that speaks to us. For others, it is a quote that captures our heart. For many, it is something once spoken to us.

Do you have a mantra? Is there something that helps you refocus and see things clearly?