Breathing Lessons

There is a technique in choral singing called "stagger breathing", wherein the choir is able to sing long phrases of music without an audible break in the phrase for a breath, because singers of the same vocal part (sopranos, altos, et al) essentially take turns breathing; someone's voice is always filling in the blanks and representing that vocal part. The result is something of a sonic mirage: it sounds as if the choir never stops singing, even for a split second. It is continual sound -- ongoing music.

A couple years ago, I sang in an eight-voice vocal group for a church event at Christmas. We were singing "O Holy Night", acapella (sans accompaniment, for the non-musicians out there). If you're familiar with the song, you know that the musical phrases are written to be long and stretched and dynamic, with a great deal of arc and shape to them. Take an obvious breath in the middle of one of those gorgeous phrases, and you kill the song and ol' Adolphe Charles Adams turns over twice in his grave. Needless to say, we decided to "stagger our breathing."

Now, there's a certain amount of compassion and sensitivity required on the part of the vocalists in order to pull this technique off. There is no such thing as "every man for himself." For example, my friend Shauna and I were the two sopranos singing the melody line. In order to ensure that Shauna didn't run out of steam and fall into a lifeless heap on the stage beside me, I had to be sensitive to her body language, the timbre and tone of her voice, and her physiological requirement for oxygen. She, in turn, had to do me the same favor. Working together this way, side-by-side, with a purposeful, intentionally keen awareness of one another's moments of strength and weakness, we were able to compliment one another and empower one another to give the best of our voices (and ourselves) to the song. We were working separately -- and yet collaboratively - toward a common goal.

It's a pretty cool model of successful inter-dependent living, really. In a sense, it illustrates the way God has intended for human beings to "do life." In any close relationship -- that of best friends or partners or husband and wife -- there has to be a certain climate of give-and-take. The key, I would surmise, is that both partners should not generally be on the giving and taking end at the same time - or worse yet, all the time. And this, of course, is where the compassion and senstivity come into play.

We can do that, can't we? If Shauna and I, as singers, were able to be intentional enough about being sensitive to one another's condition to make pretty music, then surely we can carry that same principle with us into our non-musical endeavors like, say, life. Surely the integrity of our relationships is as important as the integrity of a song. And maybe getting along with one another and enabling one another to be the best that we can be, so that we can give the best we have to give, is as elementary as learning to breathe.

The God of Do-Overs

The truth? Sometimes I still secretly (or maybe not so much) wish I were Perfect Woman. You know her; you know her well. You envy her. She has perfect hair, the perfect body, the perfect husband, perfectly-behaved children who never mouth off or sass back or put their muddy shoes on the back of her leather seats in the car. She graduated Summa CumBaya with her PhXYZ from The University of Amazing Awesomeness. She is a professional. And a mom. And the best friend anyone could hope to find. Oh, she makes mistakes of course; if she didn't, you wouldn't want to be her friend because she wouldn't be "relevant" and "approachable" and "down-to-Earth." Oh yes, she makes mistakes. Once.

Okay, the jig is up: I am so not her. And this week, just to keep me good and humble, I was reminded of that.

I screwed up on a promise I made to myself this week. It's really not important for our purposes here to share the gory details; suffice it to say, right at this moment, my humanness is showing. And it's a little embarrassing.

Perfect Woman makes mistakes once. Imperfect Me makes them over and over, as many times as it takes, evidently, to remind myself of my desperate need for mercy. For grace. For friends who love me anyway. For the heart of Jesus, who is such a fan of do-overs that He commands us to forgive one another 490 times a day (70 x 7, for the non-mathletes out there). So why is it that each time I screw up, I tend to think it must be my 491st foible of the day, and that surely this time He'll be good and ticked off at me?

Truth is, I am so much harder on myself than God is. He already took my punishment, all those centuries ago on a stormy Friday afternoon. And I believe that as He hung there, thinking of you and me, doing what He did for us out of obedience and unfathomable love, He knew even then that I would mess up and go back on my word this week.

So there I sat, in my neediness and imperfection, looking around me at the pieces I'd have to pick up from my latest mistake. At first, I started gathering up the pieces quietly, hoping no one would see. Hiding the pieces with my silence, my isolation. But have you ever tried to isolate from God? It isn't easy. Like every good parent, He has eyes in the back of His head. And He is so big that He sees all from where He sits. He tapped me on the shoulder last night around 10:00, just as I thought maybe I had found a good hiding place from Him under my covers in bed. But, metaphorically speaking, He gently pulled my blanket off of me, exposing all those pieces I was attempting to hide under there.

"Give those to me," He said, His eyes smiling tenderly.
"Don't look!" I gasped, hurriedly pulling the covers over the pieces.
"Give them to me," He repeated, just as gently as before. "We'll fix it together."
"I made a mess," I cried.
"I know," He said. "Would you like a do-over?"

I hesitated.
I closed my eyes.
I felt the tears come.
I nodded.

The God of Do-Overs is infinitely more forgiving of me than I am. How I long to be more like Him! In fact, I think I'd do better to be more like Him than like Perfect Woman. She is a myth. He is the real deal. In fact, Perfect Woman doesn't think she needs the God of Do-Overs.

Tragic, really, to be so self-sufficient. She will never know Him like I do.

Put On Your Big-Girl Panties and Cowboy Up!

Have you ever noticed how much more credit we give people after they're dead and gone? Artists' paintings suddenly become valuable, musicians' singles start getting more airplay, writers' books enjoy revivals on best-seller lists. It always strikes me as a little bittersweet: "Boy, he sure is successful nowadays. Too bad he's underground."

Today would have been my friend Cindy's 36th birthday. She's been on my mind all week. It isn't just famous people whom we tend to exalt posthumously. Cindy, for example, was never famous at all (except to a very small circle of friends by whom she was adored) -- and yet now, six years after she went to meet her maker face-to-face, I find myself remembering things she used to say and suddenly, even if only in memory, I am listening. Really listening.

Cindy was a true Texan. Her drawl was contagious; Midwestern friends could always tell when I'd spent the night before in a two-hour phone convo with Cindy because I'd have a hard time keeping "y'all" out of my own vocabulary. I used to get a kick out of the phrases that became known as Cindyisms: "Heavens to Betsy!" and "Well, shooooooot!" and "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle!" could always make my giggle. Cindy liked to tell me what to do; two years my senior, she proudly referred to herself as my "bossy-boots big sister." And one of her most common bits of advice for me was to "Put on your big-girl panties and cowboy up!"

Several times this past week, I could almost hear her voice saying that to me. I've had to do some hard things over the last few weeks, and the temptation to give up, cave in, and wuss out has been pretty strong. But it's amazing how the Spirit of God will lead us into portions of His Word where the letters seem to jump off the page at us, just as we need them most -- and this, I suppose, is why I found myself reading James this week. I'm particularly fond of James in the Message translation. Check this out, from James 1:3-5: "You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don't try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way."

I realize now that a lot of Cindy's sisterly advice to me could have been straight out of the NTV (New Texan Version) of James 1. Maybe I should have listened a little more closely all those years ago. But of course, now that Cindy's in Heaven, her words carry a little more weight. And I swear -- I swear -- as I read James a few nights ago, I could almost hear Cindy standing next to Jesus, her hands on her hips, saying to me, "Yeah, Jena! What He said!"

Advice like this is hard to hear sometimes, whether it's from a bossy-boots big sister or from the King of Kings. Stick it out. Suck it up. Deal with it. Don't give up, wear down, back off, or fizzle out. Keep on keepin' on. Um, okay . . . how am I to do this, exactly? Thank God for verse six: "If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and won't be condescended to when you ask for it. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought."

Phew. I'm so glad God allowed for us to "not know what we are doing." 'Cause sometimes, not only do I not know how to put my big-girl panties on, but I don't even know which drawer to find them in! And God knows that. Even when I can't find my big-girl panties, He still covers my backside.

I can do this. All these hard things I'm facing this week, I can do through Christ. I'm puttin' on my big-girl panties and lookin' for my saddle. Happy birthday, Cindy.

Fear Not?

I know you've been there; you know what it's like. Your palms sweat, your throat tightens up, your heart races and you feel like your stomach is about to fall right through your . . . Well, you get the picture. Fear stinks, doesn't it? It's no fun at all to look ahead at something inevitable -- something frightening or foreboding or intimidating -- and to feel your body react with an increase of adrenaline so extreme that you feel like you could either lift a car with your pinky or just pass out cold where you stand, your body falling away from you like an old pair of pants.

I'm not proud of this, but there have been moments in my life where I was so incapacitated by fear that I actually fainted. Fainting itself is a frightening experience. First your vision narrows, blackness closing in on you from either side until the light fades away completely. Then your fingers and toes begin to either tingle or fall off completely -- you can never tell which -- and then your ears ring and your head detatches from your neck and floats up into some wild blue yonder as the floor disappears beneath you. It isn't quite like in the movies. It was once considered very ladylike -- very dainty and feminine and Victorian -- to swoon; the tiny porcelain hand flies up to the forehead as the corseted damsil sighs and slides gracefully down, usually onto a velvet chaise with a virile gentleman caller not far behind. In real life (or at least in my life) it is a bit less romantic. It is less like swooning and more like dying -- or at least that's how it feels.

That kind of fear is paralyzing, debilitating. It feels completely out of one's control. But is it? Almost every book of the Bible includes a "fear not" passage. And I'm not so sure "fear not" is a suggestion; I believe it is a clear command and directive from the One who empowers us to overcome. But I gotta admit: it used to kinda tick me off. "Fear not?" I thought. "What is that, sarcasm?"

Fear not, as in "do not fear." Not as in "try not to fear" but as in "just don't." Easier said than done. For years, I had this major beef with God over His infallible Word: If fear is an emotion, and we don't necessarily choose our emotions, how can God expect us to simply stop fearing? It seemed like a cruel joke to me, to be honest. After all, He doesn't expect us not to get angry -- only not to sin in our anger. He doesn't expect us not to be sad -- only to remember that He bore our sorrows and to allow Him to be the lifter of our heads when we experience sadness and grief. But fear and anxiety seem to be another story. How can that be?

I've searched and prayed and wondered and argued with God (am I the only one who does this?), and here's what I figure: The difference is that fear and anxiety are in such direct opposition to a surrendering faith that God asks us to give the emotion of fear to Him -- and to allow His perfect love to cast it out completely (I John 4:18).

Okay, but where is the practical application? What does surrendering our fear look like in action? In DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), there is a skill called opposite-to-emotion action, wherein we feel the emotion -- for our purposes here, we'll say the emotion is fear -- and choose to act in direct opposition to it, while still experiencing the emotion. "I'm afraid to dive off of the high dive into the water ten feet below -- and geronimo!" Or "there are two hundred people in the audience out there and I'm terrified to step onto the stage -- and here I go." Or, in my case, "I haven't been to the dentist in years and I'm pretty sure I might faint in the chair if I actually make an appointment and show up -- and I'm making the stinkin' phone call." (Honestly, I think I'd much rather dive the ten feet -- or a hundred and ten.)

I don't exclusively look to modern psychology for answers, but that one idea does appeal to me, because I don't believe some psych guru invented it. "Opposite-to-emotion action" was God's idea; the cross is proof of that. Jesus' willingness to be crucified had nothing to do with His mood. He was as much God as though He were not man, and as much man as though He were not God, so I think we can be certain that He felt enormous fear that Friday -- but He didn't obey the fear. He obeyed the One who commanded Him to fear not -- and He picked up that cross and walked anyway. And that changed everything.

The rest of us don't have nearly that much at stake. In most cases, no one else's life or destiny depends upon our decision to act in opposition to our fear; usually, we're the only ones who suffer if we ignore the "fear nots" in our Bibles. And speaking for myself, it's a darn good thing, because I'm not quite on top of this yet.

Still, I'm learning. It's been years since fear has caused me to faint, and it certainly isn't because I've stopped experiencing the emotion. The difference is that I have taken chances on God, just in case He was right. And it turns out He's been right every time so far. Each time that I have dared to explore what it means to "fear not", it has become a tiny bit easier to choose faith through my fear.

And someday (soon), my dentist will be so proud.

What I've Learned in 2010 . . .

20.) When making brownies, the egg is not optional.

19.) I am capable of doing really hard things and surviving anyway.

18.) Emotional discomfort is part of life, and constantly striving to make it go away is futile -- like trying to soak up rain puddles. There is always more rain coming, at some point. Better to learn to play in the puddles.

17.) When sampling a new brew at the Starbucks counter, it's not a good idea to blurt out, "This must be the coffee they serve in Hell." No matter how awful it tastes. Know your audience.

16.) Songwriting is really fun.

15.) Bodies in motion must, at some point, become bodies at rest. There seem to be no loopholes here.

14.) I can run pretty fast when I have to. In a rainstorm. And in heels.

13.) You cannot drive your car through two feet of standing water. (You can drive your car INTO two feet of standing water, but not through it.) RIP, little red Mazda.

12.) Trying to teach a cat to stop peeing on the carpet is like trying to nail Jell-o to a tree.

11.) Bananagrams may be the most addicting game ever. "Hi, my name is Jena, and it has been four days since I last played . . . "

10.) It is completely possible to absolutely LOVE a job that just barely pays your bills. This is why the Human Services fields remain. (Psst. Have you hugged a social worker today?)

9.) You know that overused cliche, "People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care?" Turns out it is completely and absolutely true. Go figure.

8.) Sometimes vulnerability is its own reward. When it comes to sharing a personal struggle, it seems that honesty begets honesty. This continues to inspire and amaze me.

7.) I'm starting to think that maybe the greatest human need is to be KNOWN, through and through. ("To be unknown of God is entirely too much privacy." -- Thomas Merton)

6.) When you work in a rehab, it doesn't matter if the client is an 18-year-old anorexic or a 74-year-old alcoholic. They are first and foremost people, and if you listen closely, you will relate to them in ways that will knock your socks off -- whether or not you want admit it.

5.) If you want to know who your true friends are, confess something majorly embarrassing and see how they respond to you. Also, my friends are even cooler than I thought they were.

4.) When your pastor's wife can say to you, "Honey, your church family loves you for more than what you can do for us", you know you have a good thing going. And I do.

3.) When you have a book published, people will automatically assume you know what you are talking about. They will also assume you are rich. They will be wrong.

2.) Wisdom and discernment do not always come easily to me. This is why I am grateful for my counselor, my agent, my pastor, my mentors, and above all, my God. (For some of us it takes a village.)

And, whaddyaknow, the same thing that topped my list in 2009 topped it again in 2010. The number one thing I have learned this year was:

1.) I still have more to learn.

Up in the Air

Sometimes, God just picks you up and sets you back down in a place you never thought you’d find yourself in a million years. I’m sitting in one of those places right now.

As I type this, I am thousands of feet in the air, flying out of Springfield, Missouri after an AACC (American Association of Christian Counselors) conference. And, as I type this, I am sitting two feet away (literally; it’s a VERY small plane) from Dr. John Townsend – THE Dr. John Townsend, of Cloud & Townsend, the esteemed team who have given us such Christian counseling classics as Boundaries and Changes that Heal. If I were the gushing type (I’m really trying to curb it), I could have started telling him how his books have changed my life, have challenged me, have gotten thrown across therapists’ offices when I felt they asked me to do impossible things. Instead, I sat beside him awhile, politely waiting for him to wake up when we hit turbulence.

After a few moments, I heard a soft voice from across the aisle. “Did you enjoy the conference?”

I smiled. “Yes, very much, thank you.” What ensued was a brief conversation about the events of the weekend, his books, my book, mutual acquaintances in the recovery world. He extended his hand and officially introduced himself to me. “John Townsend,” he said, as if I didn’t know. He did not say “Doctor” John Townsend.

We agreed to exchange books once we deplaned, and then he went back to his iPad and I pulled out my laptop to work. Because, when all was said and done, he wasn’t some acclaimed psychology guru and I wasn’t some newbie to the field. We were just two people on an airplane.

I love God’s way of leveling the playing field and reminding us all of who we are – His servants, His creations, His vessels, His tools, His voice, His instruments. Common thread here: We are His. We can do nothing apart from Him, and yet we can do “all things” through Him (Philippians 4:13). And He doesn’t seem all that concerned with our lack of credentials – nor does he seem all that impressed with the ones we may have.

Don’t get me wrong: I'd like some credentials. If I had fancy degree, I might just hold it in my hands a while, rubbing its fiber between my fingers just for the sake of feeling it, of grasping it. And that, presumably, is why God hasn’t yet provided a way for me to start my journey back to school. It means too much to me -- or, rather, it means the wrong thing to me. It means significance, and He never intended me to get my significance from a piece of paper.

John Townsend is a wonderful man of God. He is an excellent speaker, a prolific writer, and no doubt a gifted clinician. And yet God has the audacity to ask me to believe that I am every bit as significant as he is. And why? Because of the cross. Simple as that.

I think it’s probably a good thing, actually –my lack of a title at this point in time. Booksignings can get a little heady; everyone gushes and tells you how wonderful you are because you turned something ugly into something that can help people. This is, then, your cue to politely counter that only God Himself can take something ugly and make it beautiful and that you are just grateful to be on His anvil. And it works, telling people that – because it reminds you, each and every time, that it is absolutely true.

I am nothing without God – His hand upon me, His life within me, His words on my tongue and at my fingertips. “Oh, but you’re talented,” people will counter, and I will want to argue, “Please. I’m a college dropout. I’m winging it here.” But instead I say, “Thank you; that’s very kind of you to say.” Because I’m learning, see. I’m following after God like a puppy dog and watching intently as He shows me who I am because of Him, and why it’s okay to take a compliment once in a while, even if I’m not Dr. John Townsend.

So, John and I (he said I could call him John; I asked) shared a bit more conversation before the plane landed; we talked about the role of blogging and social media in the context of writing. And again, we were colleagues, equals -- just two people trying to navigate the waters of public ministry, wanting to do it right.

When I catch glimpses of it, I really dig God’s perspective on things. It takes the pressure off. He looks at you and at me and sees potential. And promise. And hope. Unwritten words, unsung songs, uninvented ideas. Unreached hearts, even. He doesn’t look at what we haven’t yet attained or accomplished, but at what He intends to accomplish through our lives.

And rest assured –He will accomplish His purpose. One way or another. Whether we are bestselling authors and keynote speakers or college dropouts recovering from inferiority complexes. And when we get out of our own way long enough to listen, He will speak.

Even at 30,000 feet.

"Waiting for the Artist"

for the TK girls


She stands beside me,
Waiting for her ride.
Soft downy hair on her
Arms and cheeks
Catch sunlight.
She clutches at her belly,
Hunches over, face a grimace.
"Ohh," she moans, and her eyes
Become strangely familiar --
Mirrors of a sort, they show me
A girl of yesterday.
A girl of sorrows.
A girl who knew too much
And felt too little.
Her eyes remind me of that girl,
Whose body I once occupied,
Whose wasted frame I lived within --
If you could call it living.
"I'm so FULL," this girl
Laments to me now, and I
Smile with empathy. "I know," I say --
Which is to say, I remember.
"It will go away," I assure her,
And she appears to want to believe.
Full, she says, and I have to wonder --
Full of . . . ?
Of fear, of dread, or shame?
Of a tentative, undying hope?
Of a will to go on,
To push, to trust, to try?
This too, I remember, this mosaic
Of emotion -- broken pieces of a life
Once believed to have been whole --
Of a heart, a soul, a self.
Broken pieces, waiting --
As my girl waits for her ride --
Waiting for the Artist to pick them up
And lie them down again
In all new places, with all new purpose --
Waiting to be arranged into something
Even more beautiful
Than they might have been
If they had never been broken at all.