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Stacey L. Lacik

~ Common Sense Christian Counsel

Stacey L. Lacik

Tag Archives: anxiety

Worried Sick

10 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

anxiety, Bible, Counseling, depression, domestic violence, Faith, God, Health, Pastoral counseling, Single-parent, Soul Healing, stress, Trust

Coming down with pneumonia was not in my plans for this week.  My immune system has tanked again;  it seems that stress is bad for your health, financial stress in particular.  I had to make a choice between paying the rent and paying my daughter’s spring tuition; they are roughly the same amount of money.  If I don’t pay her tuition, she can’t go online and see her grades, and there is a hold on her account, meaning she can’t register for her fall classes next week.  If I pay the tuition, but not the rent, she won’t have a place to come home to at the end of the month.

Running away is not an option, and appears to be the realm of ex-husbands, ex-fathers and irritated pastoral counselors.  But not mothers.  We don’t bail, jump ship, or disappear.  Mothers get a cup of coffee, a Bible, and get alone with God to see what He has to say about the situation.  About us, in our situation.  And what He has to say is “Persevere … remain steadfast … trust, and see the salvation of your God.”  In other words, don’t jump.

So, I paid the rent.  Not all of it, but at least enough to cover April.  I haven’t said anything to my daughter, because I want her to be able to concentrate on her grades, and studying for final exams.  I don’t have a clue what to do next, or what is going to happen now.  The money is gone, and there’s no getting it back.  I’m not even sure I did the right thing;  paying bills lately is akin to shooting arrows at a target while wearing a blindfold.

Every time the phone rings, or I see that there is a phone message, I think it’s the landlords saying we have to go, or National Grid saying they’re shutting off the utilities, or the school, demanding payment.  I try not to answer phone calls unless I’m sure of who it is.  I have a hard time looking at my bank accounts without feeling sick, nervous, or nauseated.  I have so much apprehension about going to the mailbox that some days I just don’t.  There is rarely anything good in there. Most of it is anxiety-provoking demands for money that I don’t have.

I am the queen of avoidance.

When my daughter came home for Easter last week, her acceptance for nursing school came in the mail, and she was so excited.  I am so proud of her, and didn’t say a word about the fact that I don’t know how we’re going to pay even for this semester that hasn’t ended yet.  She can’t just suddenly stop in the middle of her junior year of college. Those who are unfamiliar with the dynamics of domestic violence say that I should just ‘make’ her father pay for her schooling.  Well, wouldn’t that be lovely.

So here we stand.  I don’t know how it will all work out, I just have to believe that it will.  Pneumonia isn’t fun, but it will clear up.  I have a modicum of faith.

But let endurance and steadfastness and patience have full play and do a thorough work, so that you may be [people] perfectly and fully developed [with no defects], lacking in nothing.  James 1:4

Fears, Phobias, and Fairytales

06 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

anxiety, Church, Counseling, Divorce, domestic violence, Family, God, graduation party, Reality, Single-parent, social services, Word

profile_236971163_75sq_1350264225I have been away from the blog for quite a while. Moved one daughter home from college, and the other one into a new apartment, and then she graduated from her college.  In the middle of it all, my mom had surgery, and was in the hospital.  Throw in a graduation party, and our own packing because we have to move soon, and endless financial aid requirements for the next round of classes for everybody in the fall, and you have an idea of how our summer is going to go.  We sleep, shower, and run.  We’re tired.

The graduation party.  In my mind, I love parties.  I like to plan them, go to them, dress up for them.  I’m a very social person… in my mind.  In reality, I have social anxiety, and this is how it plays out:  I plan a large party for one of my kids, and buy a lot of food, and decorations, flowers, and balloons.  Then I freak out and don’t invite anybody because I can’t make phone calls.  There is no help for this;  I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember.  It’s embarrassing, and frustrating.  I have a hard time going to their school events, or anything else that involves large groups of people, or strangers.  Graduation parties, weddings, receptions, reunions, work, school, church, you name it, I get sick over it.  Not with friends and family, and never in counseling, but pretty much anything else.

My counselor once said she really wouldn’t have time for someone like me until she was at least partially retired.  A fair, but cringe-worthy observation.  I am not an easy problem to solve.  I never really knew myself what was wrong with me, until I went to a clinical training on children and anxiety.  I ended up in the back of the room, which was a good thing, because I cried all through it.  It was the first time I had ever heard myself described so accurately.  Turns out there are a lot of people who grew up just like me; afraid to make phone calls, uncomfortable around anyone except close friends and family, too afraid to go to school.  I don’t do well in staff meetings at all, and my internships were so anxiety-provoking  (because of the performance aspect) that I was sick most of the time.  I wouldn’t have made it through at all except for two things:  an absolutely unshakable knowing that this is what I am called to do, and my own weekly appointment with my counselor.  How I will manage grad school I don’t know, but hopefully this situation will be resolved by then.

Anyway, we have to move in less than twenty-five days, and once again, we have nowhere to go.  I miss owning my own home so much.  I just want to be able to paint my bedroom the color I want it, and plant my flowers, and actually see them come up and enjoy them.  I miss our yard, and our trees.  Losing our home has been the single biggest factor in our financial security.  Well, okay, losing my husband was THE single biggest factor – many women who experience divorce immediately plunge below poverty level, along with their children.  One minute I was eating appetizers with local politicians and celebrities, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the Civic Center downtown, waiting to meet with the domestic-violence worker who would sign us up for food stamps and other social programs.  Nothing prepares you for that;  what in the world do you wear?

I’m tired of living in other people’s houses.  I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but  it is depressing to live everyday in an environment that isn’t yours to change, or to make pretty.  We have had our share of slumlords, and terrible problems with mice, bees, and squirrels.  (In the house.)  People tend to not take care of their rental properties, but because of our limited finances, we have had few choices along the way.  It’s been a matter of we-have-to-take-whatever-we-can-get-because-we-have-to-move-next-week for the most part.  The last house was the best so far, but, as has so often happened, the house was put on the market, and it sold to someone who wanted $400.00 more a month than we were already paying.  (Oddly enough, I think I saw her in church tonight, too.  Weird.)

What do I want?  I want what most single moms want:  a house, a home, a husband, security.  Peaceful, quiet, private, and safe.  I want to drive, for once, with the gas light on the dashboard not always on.  I want to read a recipe, and actually have the money to buy all the ingredients.  I want to plant flowers, and paint walls, and unpack boxes, and rest.  To stop this incessant moving.  Everyone is telling me I have to be realistic;  that I can’t keep expecting God to help me out of all the messes I seem to get myself into;  that God doesn’t always give us what we want, and I have to stop expecting so much, and asking God for more than what would be possible under normal circumstances.  I already know this.

I serve a big God.  That’s all I can say.  Do I deserve anything?  Nope, not on my own merit.  I have messed up more times than I can count, intentionally or not.  I don’t even feel particularly loved most of the time, and sometimes I question if God even exists, or if I’ve fallen for some kind of fable, or fairytale.  But at the very core of my being, under all the doubt and disbelief, I know that God exists.  I do know that He loves me.  And I know He delivers.  Every time.  Always has, always will.

Good-early morning people.

 “In the day that I called, you answered me.  You encouraged me with strength in my soul.” ~ Psalm 138:3

Nothing But the Blood

19 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

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Anorexia, anxiety, Christ, Church, Common Sense Christian Counsel, Counseling, depression, eating disorders, Epistle to the Philippians, Family, God, Grief, Jesus, Mental health, Soul Healing, Trust, Word

That was not the first time I was treated to my very own, personal deliverance session.  A long time ago (I believe it was after I graduated from high school, but am not sure – it may have been during)  there was another meeting, not so unlike the one I described a few days ago.  This one took place in the home of my youth leader.  I was going through a lot at the time, as most adolescents are, and was struggling with both depression and anorexia.  There was a belief in our local Christian community that anorexia was caused by demonic oppression, and that I was at the very least, oppressed, if not possessed.  Not sure about all of this, not being privy to the adult conversations;  I only remember getting into the youth leaders’ van one day, and seeing a small paperback book on the seat, I picked it up and said “What’s this?”  My youth leader took it quickly and said “Nothing”, but not before I saw the title:  Pigs in the Parlor.  He wouldn’t let me see it, but I remembered it.  There were a lot of odd things said about me at the time;  some was said directly to me, which made my social anxiety worse, and my sense of shame and embarrassment increased.  So did my depression.  I had only recently shed the back brace I wore for several years, and my biological father had also disappeared.  Reasons enough for any adolescent to have identity issues.

Anyway, I really did have a difficult time.  All I remember about this particular meeting was that my parents drove me to the youth leaders’ house one night.  I remember that many people were in the room, including my pastor and his wife from our other church.  (We went to two different churches from 1978 until 1985, for reasons I won’t go into  right now.)  I sat in a chair in the middle of the living room, which seemed dark to me for some reason.  The all-important wastebasket appeared in front of me, as it did many years later, with the same explanation:  some people throw up when the demons come out.  And so I sat, frozen, while they all prayed and sang in the background.  “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus” is the only song I can remember from that night, only because they sang it over and over for a very long time.  I now hate that song, and feel so guilty about it.  But when we sing it, as we did tonight in church, it puts me right back into that living room, into one of the darkest periods of my life.  I don’t think anyone noticed I wasn’t doing very well with all of this;  I sat and stared at the floor, as I usually do when scared or nervous. The appropriate medical term would be shock.  I can’t remember all of what happened that night, partly because it went on for a very long time, and partly because I was exhausted.  I have always thought that if there had been at least one clear-thinking adult in the room, they would have taken me out and left. The overwhelming emotion associated with all of this was fear.  No, terror.  This is a horrible, horrible memory;  the damage this did to me  is indescribable.  What it did to my ability to relate to any kind of spiritual authority with even so much as a grain of trust is irreversible. Suffice it to say, I trust God, and God alone.

I honestly think that my youth leaders, and pastors, and everyone meant well; I just think they were misguided in their thinking.  I’m not alone in my experience, either.  Many young girls who struggled with eating disorders were thought to be under the influence of demonic oppression, and were subjected to similar experiences.  There were some highly esteemed leaders, both in and out of the church, who had some strong ideas about the etiology of anorexia;  there still are.  I have some strong opinions myself, but can only speak with a fair amount of certainty to what it was all about for me.  Certain mental health ‘experts’ believe that eating disorders and childhood sexual abuse are intrinsically linked;  I say not so.  Not always.  Causation and correlation are too different things.  The Sidran organization had a brochure out several years ago in which they stated that they treat anorexia as an expression of unresolved grief;  this is the closest I’ve found to what fits me and my own experience.

I don’t fault the church.  They were reading the books and ‘research’ that were available at the time. The elders’ wife, who made the same erroneous mistake some twenty years later, was also reading books written by people who seemed to have a great deal of credibility.  I think she also meant well, in her heart.  But when you sort things out, and take an honest look at the facts, I had good reason to be sad, scared, anxious, and depressed.  Most of us do, at various times, and not everything is caused by demonic activity.  The elders’ wife was reading a book written by a man I actually agree with much of the time.  He has written some really good stuff.  However, it became a problem  when she had me start repeating prayers after her, and ‘renouncing’ and ‘binding’ things that were listed in the back of the book, some of which actually were a part of my life before I became a Christian, but not after.  I did it, because I tend to be outwardly compliant to a fault, but realized I actually didn’t (and don’t) agree with all of this in my heart.  To my thinking, the day I became a Christian, all of that was under the blood of Christ in that moment, and my spirit was completely renewed.  Satan no longer has any claim, or power over me at all.  I believe that when we put our trust in the death and resurrection of Christ, our regenerated hearts are no longer under the influence of Satan, or his demons, and that Christ alone has not only removed any trace of generational sin from me, but that there is no curse that can control or oppress me, at all, ever.  Do I still sin?  Yes.  Do I need deliverance, as a Christian?  No.  Is my mind completely renewed?  Of course not;  that comes through reading the Word, and growing and maturing spiritually over time.  Barring an untimely death, I’m only halfway through this thing.  But the book bothered me.  So, I stopped ‘doing the work’ and eventually frustrated the hell out of the elders’ wife.  I’m not interested in sitting, week after week, doing work I don’t actually need to do.

Sometimes, but not often, I speak up and say so.

I think a little common sense and a lot of faith goes a long way.

Wittenberg Revisited

08 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

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anxiety, Christian, common sense, Counseling, depression, God, Hell, relationship, Soul Healing, Spiritual warfare, Syracuse University

profile_236971163_75sq_1350264225There is another aspect of this story that, while embarrassing to me, is partly what was behind some of my hurt and anger.  Before the day of the “Jezebel” session, earlier in the year, we had talked one afternoon about the possibility of my sharing the office with her on a part-time basis at some point in the future.  (My counselor, not Jezebel.)  I knew that I would be graduating soon, and would then be working on my Master’s degree, which would take me about a year or so, because I had worked hard to maintain my advanced standing.  (Which only means that you’ve maintained a certain grade point average in your classes.  I did, until November, later that year.)  She said that she would talk to her landlord about it.  This would have worked well for me, because I wanted to only work part-time while finishing school, and I could have worked around my classes much more easily than I could have if I worked for someone else.  It would work perfectly for her, she said, because she wanted to work fewer days per week, and then eventually retire.  I thought it would also help with some of my anxiety, to be able to meet with people in a safe place that I was already familiar with.  Because I’m also a writer, I have an obsession with desks, and I have grown to love hers.  It is the absolute perfect writing desk, and I would have been unbelievably happy working in such beautiful surroundings, and just being free to be me. A very happy me.  Not only that, but I would have considered it both a privilege and an honor, as I look to her not only as my counselor, but also as a mentor.  As an example.  It meant a lot that she took me seriously, even knowing all that she did about me.  (We don’t take our best selves to therapy.)

I left the appointment so very, very happy that day, but didn’t want to bring it up again, just in case she had for some reason changed her mind.  I didn’t want to be disappointed.  At the end of one of my sessions a few weeks later (I think) we were leaving her office one night, and I finally got up the courage to ask if she had really meant what she said about sharing her office with me.  I didn’t want to risk the embarrassment of being told no, or of being rejected, after getting my hopes up.  As she reached to turn off the light in the waiting room, she looked at me directly and said “Well I don’t know;  are you going to be a therapist?”  I said “Yes, I am”, and she said “Then yes, I meant it.”  And so we left.  Again, so very happy.  For someone who likes to know two years ahead of time what is going to happen tomorrow;  who craves structure and security, I felt like I finally didn’t have to worry.  At least one problem in my life was solved, or so I thought.

Some weeks later, I brought it up again during a session, and instantly saw by the look on her face that she had changed her mind.  She said she was sorry, but she had “been advised not to do that.”  She did not say by whom, or why. Only that she had decided to give the office to someone else.  My office;  my safe space.  Desk and all.  I had long since become quite attached to that particular piece of furniture, and to everything else in the room that had grown so familiar over time.  With all of our moving, and constant upheaval since losing our home, her office was an anchor in a never-ending nightmare.  A literal oasis in the middle of every week; in the middle of a very traumatic and disrupted life.  I was crushed.  Both ashamed and heart-broken.  And so embarrassed, for being such a fool as to think anyone would have ever taken me seriously, or thought that I was capable of doing anything like that.  And, to be honest, I wanted so badly to be like her.  To be adult, and professional, and capable, and not so damned insecure.  I tried so hard to earn her respect and approval, but never could quite pull it off.  This may not be important to anyone else, but it is to me, even now.  Please don’t write and tell me why it shouldn’t be;  it won’t matter at all, nor would it make any difference.  It just is.

But I think this is partly what was underlying my insistence to set things right about the other matter, because I felt that people were talking about me, and didn’t know who, or why, or what was being said.  But mostly I felt that she had changed her mind, for some reason, because of some inadequacy in me, and that she didn’t really take me seriously as anything more than a client.  That she would never see me as anything but unhealthy and incompetent, and I knew this was partly my own fault.  I had said, and shared too much.  Trusted too much.  And now hated myself for it.  When we hate ourselves, or reject ourselves, we act funny.  We do act odd, and people do talk about us, and not usually with a great deal of grace or mercy.  We ruin our relationships, both personal and professional, and I had done both.  Hence, the “Jezebel” session.

Interactions like these are important, no matter how frustrating to both client and therapist. Therapy provides the perfect place to pull these things apart, and face them, no matter how difficult, because this is where the meat of all real therapy is.  How the client interacts in relationship with you is probably much the same as they do with others, and this is what they actually need help with- not the situation, or crisis that brings them into the room in the first place.  Unfortunately, this is also where therapists all too often throw up their hands and make a referral, in the desperate hope that a different counselor can clean up the mess they made in their own office.  Have you ever tried to clean up a mess made in one room while sitting in a different one?  Doesn’t work very well, and it’s not for someone else to do.  For a client who has a hard time speaking up and dealing with people, the relationship with the therapist provides the perfect opportunity to practice how to hang in there and talk about hard things, including anger, without running away, quitting, or altogether avoiding uncomfortable situations.  This is what results in true life-change, not just behavioral modification.  My normal pattern is to shut down, run away, and avoid the person who hurt me like the plague.  Instead of her using this situation as a way to help me learn a different way to do life, it ended up being a re-enactment of what I had already spent a lifetime doing.  I went to therapy to un-learn this, although I didn’t know it at the time.

We can’t, as therapists, run from and avoid transference and counter-transference;  we have to learn how to use it, because, as I said before, this is where the real work of therapy is.  (These are just important sounding clinical terms, courtesy of Freud:  transference represents the clients’ ‘stuff’, and counter-transference represents the counselors’ ‘stuff’.  It’s what we both bring to the table, and is a normal part of all true therapy.) Our perceptions of other people are filtered through the grid of our own past experiences, and we transfer both our opinions and our feelings when we interact with each other.  We make assumptions based on fears that are not necessarily unfounded.  To chalk everything up to client resistance is neither fair, nor true.  Counselors are not God;  the best ones realize this, and work with full awareness of their own humanity.  This is what creates the safe space required for life-changing  therapy.  Anything less cheats both, and limits God.

What counseling is about for the client, and what it’s about for the counselor are two completely different things.  If you’re going to help anybody, you need to understand that from the beginning.  Clients don’t care about your degrees, your awards, or your theoretical orientation.  They don’t care if you are Freudian, Rogerian, Bowenian, or a Martian.  They care that you care.  That you are a kind, honest, and wise person.  That you see the person paying you as having worth and value apart from their signed checks.  I, personally, do care however about your theological orientation, because as a Christian, I am not going to go for help to someone who is not well-grounded in scripture and serves the same God;  someone who understands both spiritual warfare and spiritual authority.  Unless, of course, all I’m looking for is practical help, such as how to balance my checkbook.  I’ve had to take a long, hard look (as we all do, at some point) at who I choose as to look up to and learn from.  Do we choose our mentors, or do they choose us?  I have a feeling it’s a bit of both;  helping others makes us feel good about ourselves, and makes us feel competent.  If we have any insecurity at all as counselors, it’s soothed and satiated by sitting  with a clipboard or a keyboard in front of someone who is looking to us for help.  And we keep those clients who make us feel that way, and get rid of the ones who don’t.

I have a pattern of looking up to certain people who have turned out to be false, dishonest, or harmful.  I don’t know why.  I don’t count my counselor as part of this group.  I learned a lot from her;  more than I ever did from school, and got what I call a back-door education.  I learned not only by being a student, but by being a client at the same time.  Of the two, I would have to say that I got more for my money from my counseling than I did from the university.  What was being taught to me in class was being experienced in weekly sessions;  you can’t put a value on that kind of education.  And you could tell many of the teachers hadn’t had it themselves, by the way they taught.  An exorbitant amount of  text-book theory, but very little common sense.  Not a whole lot of “how to help the person sitting in front of you.”  And an education that benefits you, but not your clients, is just not worth the time, or the money.  Remember;  most clients could care less about what is hanging on the wall of your office, no matter how pretty the frame is.

The person of the therapist is the therapy.  This part is essential.  If nothing else, remember that.  A degree simply means you’ve done your homework, checked all your boxes, and jumped through all the hoops required by the university.  It doesn’t mean you’re actually competent, nor are you necessarily even called, to be what the piece of paper and plaque on the door says that you are.  It doesn’t say what kind of person you are.  Do you cheat on your taxes?  Cheat on your wife?  If so, pick another line of work, please.  We don’t need, or want, to emulate people who are as unhealthy as we are.  Sometimes more so.

All that being said,  my heart changed after that appointment.  I can say that I was both defensive and difficult, (more so than usual) over trivial things that shouldn’t have mattered.  I lost both trust and respect for her, but never told her why.  And, I got severely depressed.  Even more so than I already was.  I still don’t think that any of this should have happened;  I still believe that ending my counseling was wrong, and I believe that it should be made right.  I think it honors God and defeats the enemy when we clean up our messes and stay the course.  I still think that what she originally said about sharing the office was right, and was the plan of God all along;  it would have been the natural outcome of all that had gone before.  I don’t think it belongs to someone else.  It’s just too late now to fix it, all because I sent that email way back in October.  I wish with all my heart I hadn’t sent it, and will possibly pay for that mistake for the rest of my life, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about it now.

She called that night, also, and apologized sincerely for having ever made the promise in the first place.  She said that she had never meant to mislead me in any way.  (She hadn’t;  I heard her clearly and correctly.  I don’t get happy easily, and certainly not without good reason.) She said that she was truly sorry for any misunderstanding.  And I believe she was.  But, it did change everything for me.  Nothing made any sense;  I had believed all along that it was what I was in school for, and what God was preparing me for.  Now I didn’t have a clue or a plan.  And my degrees didn’t make any sense any more.  Nothing did.  Or does.

Doubt like that makes the perfect open door for the enemy.  And I fell headlong through that doorway, and have been falling for the last three years.  The first two were a hazy blur of medication that did little but numb my brain, and the last has been a clear-headed journey through hell.  I’m sorry all this happened, and sorry for my part in it.  There is still so much more, because ten years is a long time.  But it’s late, or early, rather, and I’ve written myself into oblivion, and am going to bed.  The sun should be up soon.

Good early morning, people.

“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;  I will counsel you and watch over you.”    Psalm 32:8

The Formative Years

20 Saturday Oct 2012

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

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anxiety, Christian Living, depression, Pastoral counseling, spiritual formation

Robin againI have been reading James Wilhoits’ book Spiritual Formation as if the Church Mattered this week.  Our private lives matter to God, and to the Great Cloud of Witnesses cheering us along on our journey.  It’s not about being legalistic (God forbid that we should ever do anything out of a sense of “this is right, and good, and needs to be done immediately”) but about bringing stability and order to our lives.  We live from the inside out.  In all of our trials and tribulations, we forget to maintain discipline in our private lives.  A long time ago, one of the ministers at our church told me that he thought I was very strong spiritually, but very fragile emotionally.  I have never heard a more accurate description of me.

Looking back on ten years of therapy, I can honestly say that much of it was a performance.  Not out of any desire to be dishonest, but out of a knowing that saying the wrong thing could result in suddenly being told I can’t come back next week.  Which is, of course, exactly what happened in the end. And just like that, the one constant in my life was upended;  knowing that “This is what I do on Wednesdays”  and looking forward to having a quiet, private place to go and discuss all the things that can’t be discussed with co-workers, fellow students, or other church members was suddenly over.   I don’t have a husband;  counseling replaced that in a way.  Being a single parent is lonely and hard.  I think every woman going through a divorce should have a counselor;  it doesn’t have to be psychotherapy.  I chose pastoral counseling, because that’s what I wanted, and it was important to me.  I wanted someone who was first and foremost a minister, because I knew that more than anything else, I needed healing.  But regardless, without counseling, the tendency for  women after divorce is to treat our children like more like roommates, and expect them to meet emotional needs that should be met by an adult.

I did better in counseling, in that I was able to keep a job, and go to school.  I needed the help with anxiety, and someone to talk to about depression.  Life has been hell for the last two years, and it doesn’t look as if the situation is going to be resolved any time soon, as I had hoped. But I am tired of ‘deleting myself’.  I did that in my marriage, I did that in my counseling, and there doesn’t seem to be any point in doing it any longer, as both ended anyway. Performing to please people doesn’t work.  I heard someone talk once on the difference between being a peacemaker, and being a peacekeeper.  I think I tend to confuse the two.  I like peace;  I’m not fond of chaos, and discord, and noise.  Being a writer suits me;  so does counseling and ministry.  Counseling that honored and encouraged that would have been healing.  But, I tried.  I can honestly say I have never tried harder in my life.  Something to think about, but now I have to go and pick up my daughter so she can go and help her father and his girlfriend paint their new house.

Have a Blessed day, people.

“And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever.”  ~John 14:16

In Retrospect

13 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by Stacey in Uncategorized

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Abraham, anxiety, Bible, Christ, cognitive therapy, Faith, God, Holy Spirit, Jesus, marriage, Pastor, Teacher, therapist

Barnes and noble

Barnes and noble (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, . . . nothing shall be impossible unto you.”   Matthew 17:20

Much of my life has been sabotaged by anxiety.  I was driving to Barnes and Noble last night, and decided to listen to Pastor Carters’ message from a couple of weeks ago on the way.  Two things have stood out to me in recent weeks.  One is that I do not truly understand the love of Christ for me.  Hear me out on this one, because it won’t make sense to those obsessed with doctrine, but I have loved God and His word for since I was a little girl.  What I have never been comfortable with is my relationship to, or with, Jesus.  In all honesty, I’m afraid of Him.  All of our cultural analogies (He’s a friend, a lover, a brother) make me uncomfortable.  The only role I’m comfortable with is that of Jesus as Teacher, as that one I can relate to. But as  the pastor was talking about Christ taking my place before God and bearing my sins for me; about being my advocate, I suddenly began to realize the mind of Christ towards me, and  the role He plays in my relationship with God as never before.  I cannot in all honesty fathom Christ actually praying for, or advocating for me, because I know me.  Nobody in their right mind would, and most of those who have promised to do so have jumped ship.

There are many books on the market, mostly geared toward women, that try to appeal to our sense of romance in order to illustrate our relationship with Christ.  Sorry, can’t relate to that either, having never been loved, or in love, for that matter.  (I did tell you the marriage ended, right?)  And those books make me uncomfortable.  Jesus as brother?  As peer?  As best friend?  I feel like Goldilocks;  nothing fits.  And, they seem to me to make Him less than in an effort to make Him approachable.  Less than Holy;  less than righteous;  less than the embodiment of the full power and authority of God.

When I was engaged to my husband, I was in spiritual torment.  There is a place marked and dated in my Bible, December 1, 1985.  It’s the story of Abraham in Genesis;  the supreme test of his faith, when God required him to lay his son on the altar. This particular day, while  I struggled with the knowledge that I should not be dating this person, I knew God was asking me to give this relationship up and lay it on the altar of my life.  What I failed to see until very recently, is that God provided a substitute when Abraham obeyed in spite of his broken heart.  I was so focused on what I would be losing (my only chance to have a relationship) that I never saw the whole story:  that in the end God provided something better.

The other thing that has stood out to me in the last couple of weeks has been the pastor’s encouragement to walk by faith, not by sight.  This will absolutely take  an act of the Holy Spirit,  as things don’t look very good right now.  In fact, the ship is sinking.  My hunch is that it will happen as a result of a growing awareness of God’s acceptance of me, and His willingness to provide a sacrifice in the form of Jesus.  While I have a difficult time with this, mostly due to our cultural clouding of who Jesus really is in relationship to us, I am aware of a growing understanding in this area of my life.  Without this understanding, walking by faith is extremely difficult, if not impossible.

So, those are my thoughts for the day.  Grow in the grace and knowledge of the sacrificial love of God, my friends.

My Brethren, These Things Ought Not To Be…

25 Monday Jul 2011

Posted by Stacey in The Journey

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

anxiety, Christianity, Church, Common Sense Christian Counsel, counselor, Divorce, domestic violence, Leadership, Pastor, Religion and Spirituality, trauma, Trust

Christ's Charge to Peter by Raphael, 1515. In ...

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I went to a wedding a few weeks ago.  The bride, whom I love dearly,  was beautiful.  What was disturbingly not beautiful was the behavior of some of the church leaders.

At the wedding,  the pastor and his entourage went around to each table, greeting and visiting with the wedding guests, who were pretty much divided around the dance floor.  At our table there were two women who had recently fought cancer, a woman who is currently going through a divorce, and my daughter and I.  My daughter has been asking God for a chance to speak to the pastor, because she is struggling with coming back to the church.  The group surrounding the pastor stood at the table next to us for a while, and then, without even acknowledging any of the women at our table, moved smoothly to the next table.  I am not sure if we were being shunned as a group, or if it was meant to exclude a specific person.  Moments before, on the other side of the room, the pastor was saying to a friend of mine something about the importance of the church reaching out to those in the world who are in need, and our responsibility as a church to care for the poor, and unloved.

My point is,  that as beautiful as the wedding was, the event was marred by behavior that was  both inexcusable and childish.  I was embarrassed and ashamed of our leaders, and ashamed to be associated with them.  As a woman, one of the things that had so impressed me with this church, was the way women seemed to be honored, and respected.  Coming from a situation of  domestic violence, and spiritual abuse, it was so unbelievably healing for me to come into what appeared to be a safe place.  Any counselor who deals with trauma knows how important it is to establish safety  and trust before any true  life change can occur.  The intense grief I feel,  when I think back to how happy I was in my early days in the church, is overwhelming sometimes.

As a single parent in the church, I have been through hell.  My divorce shook my faith; my experience within the church has all but destroyed it.  I was told by my counselor that although I am more than qualified to teach in the church, I can’t be “sold” to the church because . . . “Well . . . you know . . . you act funny”.   Really?  Well, let me be clear:  I cannot be sold, bought, traded, or trashed, period.  To the church, or to anyone else.

But sometimes I do act funny.  I get nervous in a crowd;  I’m horribly shy;  I have absolutely no social skills whatsoever.  I would be perfectly happy to be exiled to an island with nothing but pen and paper, to have visions of heaven and write letters to the churches.   But God . . . has called me to live here, in this time, in this culture, in this city, and to love people.  Yes, even these people.  No matter what they do, no matter what is said about me.  For years I have carried this quote in my wallet:

“The demands of holiness are the same regardless of circumstances.”

So what do we do?  We come with grace, and mercy.  We love those who persecute us, whether in or out of the church.  We love those who treat us wrong. We learn from the horrible experience, and hopefully, when we are called to lead, we remember to do so differently.  And more importantly, we forgive . . . because they know not what damage they do.

"The art of writing is the art of discovering what you truly believe." -Gustave Flaubert

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