Musings – Eyes to See

The Emptiness

Jessica originally shared these words at a Wave of Light Service on October 15th to honor Pregnancy and Infant Loss.

Only one who has lost a child knows the journey. The beginning of the path is full of thrill as you announce ‘we’re pregnant.’ As you walked ahead from that joyous discovery, you began to birth dreams and hopes for your baby, well before their due date draws near. And one day, you lose a grip on hope, and … well, now the road has left us carrying around a great emptiness.

Empty arms.

Empty dreams.

Empty milestones.

Empty hopes.

Empty nurseries.

Empty wombs.

Losing a baby is an emptiness that is all-encompassing; yet in our world, we are often told to fill our emptiness. We walk around like empty suggestion boxes, and people fill our ears and hurt our hearts by saying things like: “At least you can try again”… “at least you know you can get pregnant”…“there’s always adoption”.. “Be grateful for the children you do have.”

As if your gratefulness will help this emptiness.

As if another life, or another baby, or another child will somehow make you forget THIS child.

As if reminding us that our now-empty wombs once held life is some type of comfort.

I am not here tonight to tell you how to fill the emptiness. In my own experience with loss, I know that’s not possible. It’s been 13 years since my miscarriage, and the emptiness is still there. Because this emptiness has a name- grief. And grief never goes away; it simply becomes a new room in our hearts, a place we forever hold special memories, a place where our dreams go that we never could see come true; grief is the place our wonderings of what would’ve or could’ve been live. It’s in this emptiness, this house of grief, where the memory of our baby’s life lives on. I’ve learned to embrace and welcome this emptiness instead of wishing it away, being numb to it, ignoring it or covering it up.

The emptiness has become a companion. I have heard it said that grief is all the love we hold in our heart that now has nowhere to go. I think the very best way we honor our children who were gone too soon is by holding onto that love. We embrace our emptiness, knowing that special place in our hearts belongs to our baby.

I want to encourage you tonight to welcome your emptiness but to also not allow the emptiness to become a place of loneliness. Isolation is the most dangerous side effect of loss and we know miscarriage, stillbirth, infertility and infant death is complicated grief that often leaves people unable to comfort us. There’s a plethora of education and information to help with the grief process, but somehow those resources don’t seem to help us feel included, seen, or surrounded. We might know how to cope with the waves of grief but we don’t know how to cope with the feeling of being alone.

You do not have to grieve alone.

You do not have to remember alone.

I believe grief has the power to push us into community and belonging instead of isolation. In this room, we share commonality tonight because of the emptiness we each have known. We all walk the dark path of grief. We all know the heartache of not celebrating our baby’s first steps, first birthday, or first time saying “mama” or “dada.” These thoughts can be painful. We might avoid them altogether. We might think them in our heads but be afraid to say them out loud, for fear of seeming silly or overly emotional. Yet simultaneously, we are afraid to forget our baby, sometimes even in the midst of our fear of remembering.

There is a section of scripture I’d like to share with you from my faith tradition. It’s found in Psalm 139 and it says:

“Where shall I go to escape your spirit? Where shall I flee from your presence? If I scale the heavens you are there, if I lie flat in Sheol, there you are. If I speed away on the wings of the dawn, if I dwell beyond the ocean, even there your hand will be guiding me, your right hand holding me fast. I will say, ‘Let the darkness cover me, and the night wrap itself around me,’ even darkness to you is not dark, and night is as clear as the day. You created my inmost self, knit me together in my mother’s womb. For so many marvels I thank you; a wonder am I, and all your works are wonders. You knew me through and through, my being held no secrets from you, when I was being formed in secret, textured in the depths of the earth. Your eyes could see my embryo. In your book all my days were inscribed, every one that was fixed is there’.”

We are all here because we know what it’s like to let the darkness cover us and feel enclosed by the night. Losing a baby feels very much like a covering of darkness- a place to just crawl into and hide. We feel alone and angry, maybe even embarrassed to have hoped and shared that our little one was coming. While there is a time for mourning, the hope within our grief is that we are not alone- whether you are in the heights of heaven, the depths of hell, or in the testy waters of fresh loss, we stand together tonight with you. Every day and moment of your baby’s life mattered, whether baby was a 5 week embryo or a fully birthed child.

The light bursting into the darkness of our grief says that our experience, though painful and personal, is also collective. At one time or another, each human being experiences the emptiness of loss and learns to make a home for grief within their hearts. Tonight, in this place, we gather as a community to share our love and light, our pain and sorrow, our hearts and our heaviness together. We will say your baby’s name. We shared sacred stories of loss. And We will create a wave of light that helps us know and see in a tangible way that the light always overcomes darkness.

And the mystery that I’ve learned is that emptiness is also the home of empathy. As we each push into our grief, share our pain and our stories, we create a crack in the darkness that allows the light to come in for others who have built a room in their heart for grief.

I want to affirm that you are allowed to share your thoughts when you miss your baby. In a world that tell us to be quiet when we are suffering, I want you to know that it’s okay to feel. It’s okay not to be okay- and you can talk about that, too. You don’t owe anyone an apology for bringing up your baby’s memory. You are allowed to remember and honor the special dates- when they were due, when they slipped away, and the day when you had to lay them in a coffin too small to understand. This is how we keep the light with us, finding that we are not alone as we reach out and remember. Often, and statistically speaking 1 in 4 times, you will be greeted by a fellow- sojourner who says “me too.” And you never know- sometimes when we share our darkest moments, it seems as light to someone else.

Blog Musings

A Poem for The Days

There’s just too many words right now. As the days wear on (we’re now in week 10 of quarantine in Maine), there’s an endless stream of advice, opinions, theological arguments… there’s no shortage of diatribes about isolation or quarantine, reopening and reintegrating, making the best of these days or feeling desperate, about the end of days and heresies. It’s exhausting. It seems to be a distracting swirl of contradiction. While I grapple to make sense of most things, I just can’t right now. And I am generally a lover words and reason.

Mary Oliver said: “Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

So instead of lofty thoughts and wordy ideas, I’ve returned to my first & most elementary form of writing- poetry. It’s my loaves & fishes in this time, where survival & grief coexist.

Hope- by Jessica Briggs
Hope is a whisper-
God is here.

Near.
With.
In grief
In confusion
In failure

He’s not in some lofty place
Full of choirs
Gilded with worship

Immanuel lives in my grief
For the thing I can’t even
Speak about
Think about
Understand

He is Light-life

Hope is a candle
And I am the darkness.

Blog Musings

You are Wanted & Loved

Mother’s Day isn’t always quite the Hallmark holiday full of flowers and greeting cards for many.

In fact, in no other role in life is there more judgment and shaming than motherhood. Today, the best gift we can give to one another is the gift of full acceptance.

To those with Mother’s who listened, loved and nurtured you, who have a confidant and friend in her- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who were absent, detached and unknown, who feel the sting of independence- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who were abusive, damaging and manipulative, who inflicted wounds into your soul- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who were obsessive, shaming and perfectionist, who could never live up to the standards- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who are complicated, hard to gauge and difficult to manage- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who’s mind is gone, and struggles to remember her own name- you are wanted & loved.

To those with mother’s who have passed behind the veil into eternity, who you wish you could call one more time- you are wanted & loved.

To those injecting, tracking, swallowing pills, and praying for a miracle so you can become a mother- you are wanted & loved.

To those who have tried every single fertility treatment, cried innumerable tears in loneliness and still cannot bear children- you are wanted & loved.

To those who have carried life within only for it to slip away unexpectedly, snuffing out your hopes and dreams- you are wanted & loved.

To those who held and loved and looked into your baby or child’s eyes, only to close the lid to their casket- you are wanted & loved.

To those who handed their children over with hopes someone else could love them better, who never got to see them change and grow, who may not know you exist- you are wanted & loved.

To those who had to make the choice to terminate a baby’s life, who cannot even admit it aloud for fear of judgment- you are wanted & loved.

To those who are being both father and mother to children, with little support and mounting exhaustion- you are wanted & loved.

To those who are filling in as mother’s to struggling children, foster kids or orphans, taking in their hearts and their hurts- you are wanted & loved.

To those who don’t want to be a natural mother but still nurture others in countless ways- you are wanted & loved.

To those with odds stacked against you, with diagnoses and appointments, with little empathy or understanding- you are wanted & loved.

To those with no support, far from home, with no one to call or to come babysit and give you a moment of relief- you are wanted & loved.

To those with littles undertow, who have endless wants and needs, require constant supervision and direction- you are wanted & loved.

To those striving to do and be the best mom, to give your children kindness, affirmation, safety and fun- you are wanted & loved.

To those who manage their homes, have little glory or recognition for “just staying home” or educating your children outside the norms- you are wanted and loved.

To those with mouthing back young adults, who think you couldn’t relate to their angst or apathy- you are wanted & loved.

To those with adult children who look back on those years with regret, and wish to change your mothering moments- you are wanted & loved.

We are all Beloved. Happy Mother’s Day.

Blog Musings

The Reality

I see so much anger and finger-pointing in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic right now. I believe blame requires less effort than looking in the mirror. I remain resolute to not entangle myself in politics and arguments, choosing not to parse or judge people’s thoughts or opinions, actions or inaction. I have thoughts of course, yet I know all those pursuits lead to is division. So instead I’m focusing my efforts within. I’m doing the hard work of looking in the mirror during these days of isolation. Yet the most glaring thing I face during this pandemic is myself.

I see my physical limitations in ways I didn’t recognize only weeks ago. I once boasted about how much I could handle- the many hats I could wear without letting things fall to the wayside. I once considered myself to be a decent and striving wife, Mom, friend, daughter, Pastor, writer, home educator, leader… and here I am, barely holding daily life together.

Somewhere, in the midst of COVID-19, I misplaced my bootstraps. My courage has diminished and my capacity seems to have been drained, as if someone pulled the plug on the pool of busy-ness that kept me afloat. These endless days “safe at home” are hard. I’m floating now, but in a new reality, one that seems to be above the shallow waters, where I am privy to observe my life, without actively participating.

As I gaze down into the telling waters, I see my fears staring me in my face. I find my self-worth threatened unlike other days and find insurmountable doubt arise. Questions come through my thoughts like: Am I really good enough? Am I worthy of love? I have no feedback coming from others, like I normally do. I’m left to mull these things over… alone.

I’ve had to ask hard questions like:
Who am I when I’m exhausted?
Who am I when I am afraid?
Who am I when I cannot serve others?
Who am I when I can’t seem to string words together to write?
Who am I when I can only seem to take care of my immediate family, and have low capacity to shepherd and care for others?

I don’t like the answer to most of those thoughts. I find myself impatient, restless in ways I cannot describe. It’s not for lack of purpose or motivation, either. I’ve had to face the fact that I’m not superwoman or super special in any way. Things I would’ve described myself as seem to fall away indiscriminately.

“The Homeschool Mom” Today, it’s taken all my energy to ensure my children gained education. I love the ability and journey that homeschool has given our family. I love the literature we share, the languages and beauty we study in art and music and nature. We are arithmetic-ing, language arts-ing, reading, and learning, but it feels so much like drudgery instead of freedom these days.

“The Home Chef” It takes all my energy to feed my family these days. I’ve never made so many “easy meals” as I am right now, and I normally love to cook. I don’t even seem hellbent on organic, GMO free products. I’m just happy to get some food in my pantry each time I head to the grocery store.

“The Neat Freak” It takes all my energy to tidy up a room in the house…again. It takes all my energy to keep up with the washing and folding, the scrubbing and cleaning, even though I’ve always liked and maintained an orderly home environment. I see myself turn away from the mess and clutter, writing it off as no big deal and that I’ll get to it when I get to it. I would normally love these stay-at-home moments to reorganize a closet or redo my pantry or some other Pinterest-led project, but I just can’t.

“The Engaged Mom” It takes all my energy to find creative ways to keep my children happy, even with the countless spreadsheets and resources available. My inbox overflows daily with ideas. Normally, I’d delight in playing a game of cards or snagging some snuggles and a story. I love putting together projects or activities my children can do to grow their mind and hearts, but these days I’m letting them do things I’d normally say were off limits, like video gaming. The hours just drag on and on and I can’t seem to fill them without our library visits, museum days, beach walks or hikes.

“The Family Planner” It takes all my energy to cook another meal, light another candle at the dinner table, have another tea time together- usually, uplifting moments in my daily life, but seemingly laborious these days.

“The Serving Shepherd” It takes all my energy to host a few weekly online gatherings to check on the relational and spiritual well-being of many people whom I truly love and care about. I normally love to support and walk with people through hard circumstances. I have many good ideas of ways to show love to others, yet my ability to execute seems null. Prayer is the only thing that seems a companion during these days, an outlet for the daily list of sadness, bad news and sorrow so many of us are feeling.

“The Confidante” It takes all my energy to have conversations laden with talk of quarantine, disease or what the future holds after this. It takes all my energy to check in with those dear to me, to say “let me know if you need anything,” when I doubt I can really step-up in the ways I normally could. Dropping everything to come alongside a friend seems much more difficult when there is no “everything” to drop any more.

I think this time has shown me that *this* is it; this is reality when everything is stripped away. Who I am when everything is stripped away is not who I thought I was. I am not as strong as I thought I was. I am not as brave and courageous as I thought I was. I am not as needed as I thought I was. I am not as gifted or called as I thought I was. I am not as spiritual as I thought I was.

So as I face myself in the mirror, it boils down to this: I am human. All these mantras I’ve chewed on to find meaning and purpose in life have simply come up to mean absolutely nothing in these days. All the personality tests, spiritual inventories, memory verses, theology… it just doesn’t fill my heart in this time of sorrow.

What I really need is grace. To know that despite my shortcomings, or the fact that every hat I once wore proudly has fallen off, grace makes a way for belovedness. Grace marches me into the truth that I am loved for just being a human. God doesn’t shy away from my mess; instead, He gives me His Presence as a companion. In my need and desperation, in my exhaustion and scaled-down efforts, Jesus reassures me just as He did the doubting Thomas. He gently opens his cloak and shows me his wounds- his humanity.

You see, Jesus was God in flesh and he was stripped down, too. He was shamed. He couldn’t pull himself up by his bootstraps, either. He didn’t rise up in power and show his ability or divinity. He couldn’t put on a happy face and be a stoic hero in the last days of His lives. He wept. He mourned. He felt things in his soul. And while I’m still sorting out what this all means about me, I find immense comfort in knowing He is with me. He’s been here before, and the grace I find is helping me survive moment by moment.

You see, grace isn’t something you “get.” There’s no spiritual practice that gives you the outcome of grace. Grace is the person of Jesus, in all His humanity and divinity. It’s both the mess and the beauty. Life isn’t categorized neatly in black and white, good and bad, right or wrong. There are no dichotomies, but rather it’s both. So when I ask for grace in all my glorious weakness, He gives himself to me freely.

God’s grace is the only thing that redeems our past and gives hope for the future. It’s the hope that in all my mess and failure and doubt, there’s still more to come. Grace leads us to love, but we only get there when we look in the mirror and acknowledge our suffering.

Maybe you need a new heart to live with during these days, too. <3

Blog Musings

Winter

It’s easy to write this season off as one of death. We feel the cold of loneliness and the sting of wind on our chapped cheeks while hoping for the warmth of the sun’s return. We relish for light- a light to save us, a light to illuminate the truth we deeply long for. Grief visits many this season, because we cannot reconcile what our eyes behold. What once was alive, colorful, vivid is so dull and dreary. The trees are threadbare and color is void. Even the clouds look dim and the sun, if it visits, never stays long.

I like living in a place with four seasons. I believe each season must be savored. If we open our eyes to see, we find this winter that death isn’t here at all. Winter is instead only a season of rest. While the landscape appears to the unseeing eye as a burial of sorts, it brings forth no sense of finality. If we truly gaze upon the world outside we can see unique, beautiful ice crystals join in harmony to blanket the earth, tucking in the sleeping grass. Seeds from trees and flowers are merely suspended in time- frozen- but will again receive water, air, light and life and flourish in more temperate days. The tracks in the snowy outdoors show the forrest world is wide awake, as squirrels, mice and chipmunks still forage to find living things to eat, such as the remnants of nuts and seeds. Some heartier foliage continue to push through the frozen crust, also- signs of life amongst the stark landscape.

We tend to want to rush through this time, this season of winter so plagued with darkness. This time where the bitter cold reminds us of the bitter truth: our mortal selves are reminded that we, too, will grow cold and return to the barren earth.

Grief is always an invitation to rest.

Instead of despising the winter, I’ve grown to love it. I’ve come to find, time and time again, winter after frigid winter, that resurrection comes. That new life will spring forth, and light will stay to make for happier and longer days. I welcome the invitation to cozy down into the darkness and rest. To slow the hustle and the bustle, instead of trying to deny the frigidity my bones can feel when going out and about busily, avoiding the reminder that all things slow and rest and come to the end of themselves. Winter is the season of slow, and I welcome it with a big inahle, holding it dearer. As the cold travels through my airways, opening up my lungs and freshening my breath, I remember the truth of it all. Letting go and embracing change hurts, but can also be healing and good. For nothing can grow- not even humans- unless we welcome the season of rest.

Blog Musings

2020: Brave

It’s a new year, and with that I have emerged with a goal. I don’t make resolutions, rather I choose one word that has meaning to carve things out in my mental, spiritual and emotional life. My 2020 word is BRAVE.

I used to think “brave” meant doing things scared. In that regard, starting to put pen to paper and write was an act of bravery. But after typing out some blogs or publishing articles, I started to feel scared. Do people really want to read my words? What if I say the wrong thing? What if my words are found in the future even when my thoughts/feelings have changed and matured?

After reading Braving the Wilderness by Brene Brown, bravery has taken on a deeper meaning for me. (Yes, I read psychology and self-help. I have my MSEd in Counseling, after all!) Bravery isn’t just doing things scared. It’s doing things with authenticity.

For so long I’ve bent to this idea that doing anything for me is selfish, but who I was made to be has meaning and value and is a reflection of the Creator. Now, don’t go commenting that I’ve lost my faith. Really, in order to love the Lord and others, there’s a necessary level of learning to know, love and be authentic to your self. So, 2020 is my year to be brave.

In the book, Brown describes bravery in a multifaceted way with an acronym:

B-oundaries
R-eliability
A-ccountability
V-ault
I-ntegrity
N-onjudgment
G-enerosity

I used this concept to carve out what I want to be brave in this year. It will encompass my relationships, my health, my work, my homeschooling, my personal growth and recreation.

I will be brave in my writing going forward. Here’s what I mean:

Boundaries: I will set and respect my own boundaries. I won’t write to hustle, get paid or gain recognition. It’s a creative process and I’m going to lean into it. I want this to be enjoyable. I don’t need fame or recognition. I just need space to think, to feel, to process. And words do that for me.

Reliability: I will keep reliability in my mind as I write. Much of writing is a discipline, and I can learn to do that by devoting time weekly to the task, and not just writing because I “feel” like it.

Accountable: Did I do what I said I would do? See above 🙂

Vault: This means respecting the stories and personhood of others, and not using them as writing subjects without their permission. To me that includes even famed people. No more articles about the popular Church folks.

Integrity: Am I writing with personal integrity? Am I sharing things because it’s how I truly feel or I think it’s what people want to hear? This one is hard for me. I want to have integrity to who I am, who I will become yet I also don’t want my words to become someone’s benchmark or soapbox. I guess that’s out of my hands, really.

No judgment: I have a hard time asking for help when I need it. I want to be able to reach out without judging myself as a failure. RISK, they say it pays off.

Generosity: In this regard I mean that I will be generous to myself. I won’t hold myself to some hard and fast rules of writing. I will enjoy the process. I will feel through it. I will stop hesitating to push publish. I’m going to be generously present with myself.

That’s my hope for this space. Happy 2020 Reading. Thanks for tagging along.
Love, Jessica

Blog Musings

Perfectionist

Whether you’re into the Enneagram fad, or any other personality test out there, sometimes having insight into who we are can help to reveal greater truths buried within.

I am an Enneagram 1, and my biggest struggle is perfection, the root cause being pride. I learned young that if I could perform well, it pleased others and I received accolades. I skated through my youth and teen years as a perfectionist and it worked in my favor academically, socially and especially in my faith.

The more experience I gained in life, my perfectionism was just fed fuel to keep up the fire within. I thought highly of myself, my abilities and my place in life.

I was an exemplary wife, despite the fact that I pledged “I Do” as a teenage Bride and walked through some dark spots in my marriage. But my choices led to reconciliation and a changed husband (perfection bonus points, amiright?).

Even after dropping out of college to marry my 18 year old soldier, I went on in my education to earn my Masters degree. I excelled academically, putting forth little effort to write “A” papers and pass exams with flying colors.

I had my moments of waywardness as a young Christian but by my mid-20s I had built a reputation as a faithful woman in my church community. I could lead, teach, counsel and encourage with the best of them.

And once I became a Mom, I prided myself in being good at that, too. I eventually lead a local MOPS group and taught the other Moms how to be good, too.

In those moments I did the best with what I knew about myself. I did these things wholeheartedly, striving to love people and serve the Lord. But the truth is, I did it all in my own strength. I misrepresented the humble, loving, serving, giving Savior I proclaim. Because I was serving in my own strength, I’ve perpetuated lies the ”church” whispers- to wear masks, to act perfect and to give absolutely no grace. I counseled using theology and dogma and doctrine I believed to be RIGHT. I did biblical exegesis from a place of absolute certainty and not from a place of humility.

The hardest thing for a perfectionistic, prideful person to do is to make right wrongs. It’s a daily struggle still to just say sorry when I know I’ve hurt someone. Because the tape playing over and over in my mind tells me one truth: I’M AN UTTER FAILURE. And admitting that out loud, when I do indeed fail, is truly frightening.

Sure, you might see what my life looks like on the outside. You may have even benefited from my serving or loving or giving in the past, But I owe lots of apologies for not being surrendered in humility. Pride truly does come before the fall.

Reflecting on these moments in my life, I’m filled with shame. I remember sitting across from a friend broken by an unfaithful husband and saying the “Christian” thing was to stay married. I didn’t sit with her devastation. I didn’t encourage her worth as a person, apart from being a wife. I gave her a solution. And the more I know Jesus, I know this was dead.wrong. I didn’t weep with her as she wept. I did eventually apologize, but this was one example among many I could write about.

I’ve used perfection and being right to cover up the inner dialogue that tells me time and time again that I’m not good enough. That I am a failure. I’ve boasted in being ”not much of a worrier.” Who was I kidding? My entire inner life is fraught with fear.

Fear has kept me small. It’s kept me trapped to the inner dialogue that says I’ll fail. It keeps me wearing masks and giving pat Christian answers because it’s safe…because I’m afraid I’ll alienate or offend… because I’ll look dumb or uneducated. Because honestly, it’s easier than being vulnerable, spread wide open and having a bleeding heart. It protects me and keeps me safe.

My fear keeps me quiet.

But over the last year and a half, things have been changing in me. I unpacked some truth about who I really am. I looked at my darkness. I shut the shame tape off. My worth and value as a person has more to do with who I am than what I do. I am a human BEING, not a human doing. And I realize as I look back and see the dark moments, that those same experiences fuel the power of my light.

You see- I’m different than I was a couple years ago.

I’m more interested in humility than pride.

I’m more interested in sitting with someone coming from a heart of empathy than judging them with theology.

I want every message and teaching I lead to leave people feeling valued, and not ashamed.

I’m going to love and lead and create safe places for people by being vulnerable. By letting myself actually NEED Jesus instead of just being so self-sufficient.

I want to REHUMANIZE my life, my love, my relationships, my service. I stopped being so “Christian” and start being human. Jesus was FULLY God and FULLY human. For three decades every sermon, teaching, conference and revival message has told me how to be more GOD-LIKE. It’s time we start talking about how to be more human. Jesus entered our humanness, and I think there’s lessons and light to learn from being authentic instead of trying to be supernatural all the time.

Being human means I don’t have the answers to every doubter, theologian, apologist or relative. I’m finally at a place in life where I care more about relationships than I do about being right. I care more about people finding freedom, love and belonging than I care about being perfect.

My conclusion is simple: It’s time to rehumanize faith. There are countless hurting, broken, devastated people. Sitting in a pew on a Sunday morning isn’t enough to remedy the border crisis, the refugees, the wanderers, the disenfranchised, the marginalized, the addicts, drunks and abused. We need to embrace who they are- humans made in the image of God- before they even come near to the cross.

We love because He first loved us. Let me- and you- go and do the same. Love first. Be vulnerable first. Know our own worth first. You cannot love your neighbor until you love yourself.

Blog Musings Spirituality

Shepherd

I remember the moment I felt called to Pastor. About 18 months after I finished my Masters in Counseling, I attended a spiritual retreat. I had an undeniable impression that I was being called to ministry, and specifically to Pastor. I couldn’t reconcile this theologically, having grown up in a denomination that taught that women are meant to serve, but only in the background.

I remember a conversation not long after with a beloved Women’s Pastor, who called out my anointing and gifts, charging me to preach and teach. I didn’t believe her. Not me. She even gave me books to read and I pushed them off. I stayed quiet. I remained mainly in the background in my church community. I was scared to be seen.

I remember the first time someone called me Pastor. In fact, it was my {Pastor} husband, who said that I’ve most shepherded his heart and purposed him to pursue Christ.

I remember the first time I taught a Bible study in my home and the first time I led a ministry project- with knees shaking. The first time I preached to a crowd of women for a Christmas cookie exchange, my voice quivered the whole time. But little by little, with faith, I kept going.

Over the years, I picked up the books. I started to put myself out there to be known. I stayed faithful in my relationship to Jesus and the people He sent to me for care. I counseled many people in late evenings at Starbucks. I walked people through inner healing and prayed with them through heartache. I spent many Wednesday morning with women sharing truth and words to continue the race.

Today my husband and I get to Pastor a chapel on a military base. Because of his role and influence, he has pushed me to step into my calling. Once a month now, I stand in the pulpit. I recognize many people still don’t welcome women in this position. But it’s taken me nearly a decade of praying, seeking, trusting and undoing to find the freedom Jesus offers. We’re all invited. Chromosomes do not exclude us from our gifts and callings.

Furthermore, Pastoring is far, far more than a 20 minute lecture from a podium. True shepherds know their sheep, and the sheep know their voice. Pastoring sometimes looks like coffee dates and text messages. It looks like play dates and casseroles delivered throughout the week. It looks like bringing over something to cheer up a would be Mom who just had a miscarriage. Pastoring is sitting with a couple struggling to communicate and helping them find their common ground and love for one another. It’s presence in the face of grief-stricken moments.

I’ve done all of this because I care for people. Or we give it language and say women who shepherd are just “nurturing.” But for whatever reason, calling a nurturing woman and caretaker of people a Pastor still ruffles feathers.

But we need to speak the truth in love. Women are born, gifted and called to be disciples. And to be a disciple means to study under the Rabbi, to become a “mini Rabbi.” Following Jesus always means to become more and more like Him. Jesus Pastored. His entire ministry was shepherding- caring for and protecting the sheep. Why do we exclude our language from including women in this call? Scripture teaches the priesthood of ALL believers, but we somehow make loopholes and caveats for how women cannot truly be a “Priest.”

Each Sunday that I preach, I sit in my husband’s office beforehand to pray, to be silent, to surrender. And today when I walked in, my lovely boy had left a flower for me to find. This moved me. I heard the whisper of the Spirit encouraging me to keep going- because there’s a little audience watching. My daughter and my son need to know that ALL people matter to Jesus. They need to know the Lord moves in and through everyday, ordinary people. Even women. Even their imperfect Mama.