Watercolor Mister

Where to begin. Have you ever had moments where you look back on some things and shudder at your initial response to a circumstance, but are just too egotistical to take any of it back? My week has gone a little something like this.

In my last post, I emotionally lashed out. While my feelings and emotions were on fire and illustrated perfectly what I needed to say, I should have waited a few days before spewing all over the place. The benefit, however, is that I recognize my measure of haste, but also clearly recognize to what a necessary place my feelings took me. The comment my friend made and the gigantic button it pushed, was long overdue in it's course of presentation. The art of that presentation was a tad lacking, I heartily admit.

So, here is the Reader's Digest of my recent spiritual discovery/growth. I was born in church. In fact, the hospital my mother delivered me at was mere blocks from the brick building I grew up in, learning about God. Frankly, it would have saved time if she would've just stopped by North Seattle Alliance Church and popped me out in the sanctuary. My biblical teachers were not noteworthy scholars, but homemakers, Moms, deaconesses and my Grandma. Indeed, many were scholars, they've just managed to fly under the radar all this time. Every Sunday the Norman family was planted in the pew, off to Sunday School and brunch after church. We prayed before meals, gave money to the needy, and our family's money laced the red buckets of the Salvation Army each Christmas. God was indeed a clever rhyme, a pretty watercolor painting proudly displayed on the off-white walls of our Sunday school room. God was woven into every note of every church song I sang, he was in the laced prayer-folded chubby fingers of all the other seven year olds in room 110.

This went on for years, until the time came that our family's splinters were much more evident for others to see. A time arrived that amongst my parents and brother, I was the only one who attended church regularly. I began attending a different church with our neighbors and can say that my spiritual independence was planted then. I started working at a christian camp during the summers and my knowledge of things theological took off. So did my self-righteousness. From various sources, I was fed right and wrong, good and bad, along with everything in between. What I didn't do, and frankly haven't done up until a few months ago, was question. I ate everything up, gravy and all. I became shackled in guilt, bound to the yoke that I could never measure up. Sure, God's grace had been explained to me countless times, I just couldn't take it in. I went on about my way, believing that I had all the answers, that I was invariably right, and those who didn't see it my way weren't wrong, they just weren't going to heaven. Yes, that was the cleft in my mind. You weren't wrong, you just didn't get eternal life.

In adulthood, I wore my judgement like a badge. I can't begin to tell you how many decisions made resulted in paralyzing guilt and shame. I wanted to do the right thing, I wanted to fit in, and more than anything, I just wanted to be loved. Deep down, all those things seemed to elude me. It was beyond all reasonable thought to imagine a God who loved me just the way I was. Instead, I had to meet this checklist, be among the chosen few. I knew in my head what grace was about, but the grip of it had never held anything beyond a fleeting thought, let alone my heart. And so, with each decision that resulted in consequences, or the disapproval of those around me, I felt the iron bars of a cell of condemnation come crashing down. It's a sound I know better than any other - the clamor of unbreakable metal, the distant sneer of the enemy, the sound of each tear that hit the floor as I believed more and more I could never be free. I didn't understand then what I was enslaved to. That lesson wouldn't be revealed for years to come - not because God didn't want me to see, I just couldn't bear to open my eyes long enough to find out. I went on and on. I'm sure many of you can imagine. God's judgement and disdain for me were real. I spent a lot of time trying to make up for what I perceived to be windfalls of character defects. If I did enough, prayed enough, got involved in enough church activities, I might have a fighting chance. What I thought to be God's voice, took on the voices of many people I knew in church, all imposing their moral code, and me taking it like I was being spoon fed pureed bananas for the first time.

The pit of self-loathing grew deeper and deeper. I masked my hatred for who I was with self-righteousness. Believe me, I did things both in the name of God and not in his name that I have been so ashamed of. I thought my self-hatred was a secret. But, those close to me really knew what was going on. They tried to help, but I cast them off for various reasons. The committee in my head was saying "no one can ever be your friend, they don't love God or hold the same convictions you do. You're in a class all by yourself." The truth of what was really happening was that I believed in my heart I was a lost cause, so why bother? Once in awhile I would catch an authentic glimpse of how God really saw me. Overcome with emotion, I tried my hardest to let love in. I just hated myself too much to find a new way of life.

Even when my life was downright unmanageable and insane, I threw up my hands in defeat and prepared (actually, hoped) for the end. I couldn't bring myself to contemplate that God was bigger, I was smaller and that grace looked entirely different than what I believed. Looking back, I see that the bottom had to drop out and my a** had to be kicked bad enough for the light to shine in. My biggest enemy was myself.

The security blanket of self-righteous judgement has been taken away. My adult "woobie" got thrown in the trash and I don't have anything left to lug around or tuck away for false comfort. God keeps feeding me grace and mercy. Half the time I spit it out, like a baby eating solid food for the first time...they just don't know what to do with it. One would think with the shrinking away of all waht is false, all that is destroyed, this overwhelming peace would set in. That's not the case for me. Granted, I have moments of that, but most of the time, I feel like the woman who tucked her panties into her nylons and is walking around with her butt hanging out. It's just no one bothers to mention the pantie problem. Stop laughing, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You look to your sides over and over again, see nothing wrong. It's not until you look in the mirror at the right angle just long enough to realize your butt has been on display like the "Titanic" exhibit at the Smithsonian.

There are some differences in me today. The cosmic prison cell I had myself enslaved to for so long, doesn't exist anymore. God gave me the keys. The voices of condemnation don't take up so much air space. Most of what I hear is a gentle whisper reminding me that my hands thrown up to the heavens is just where they belong. And, I am gripped by none other than the grace so freely given by a God who sees nothing but beauty in me.

That's me, just for today.