God and I have had several DTRs this past year.  We’ve gone from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated.”  Sometimes, I’m even tempted to just call the whole thing off by stating that I’m “single and ready to mingle.”  In fact, my life would be a lot easier if I could do just that.  If I could just simply “break up” with God and be free to explore other relationships, I would.  So maybe the most accurate status would read, “Ashley McCleery is in an open relationship with the Lord.”

But something in me won’t let go.  I simply cannot let go.  No matter how annoyed or frustrated or confused I am at the Lord for the pain and injustices in my life and in the lives of the other seven billion people in the world, I cannot sever the relationship.  While our intimate rhumba has now become an awkward middle school two-step with my fingertips barely touching his shoulders, I cannot stop from following the Lord’s lead.

Basically, God and I are no longer in a honeymoon.  I feel as though we are that married couple that has been together long enough for all the idiosyncrasies to grate each other’s nerves and yet not long enough for these quirks to become another reason to love the other.  Well, I pray to God (pun intended) that he does not feel this way, but I know I do.

Honestly, the best relationship description is probably “on a break.”  During this “break,” I have become more and more aware of the religiosity I allowed in my intimate relationship with the Lord.  When I embraced the Lord, I was simultaneously embracing all the “ought to’s” and “should’s” of the American Christian culture, as well as the human characteristics I projected onto the Divine.

So through this break, I have loosened my grip on the Lord’s shoulder to allow these things to dissipate from my dance.  Quiet time.  Reading the Bible.  Praying.  Going to church.  Ministry.  My perceptions of the Lord, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus.  For the past year, I have only participated in these activities when I really desired to do so, releasing guilt from having any power over my relationship.

During our complicated dance, I pushed the Lord away, and he twirled me back towards him.  Then, I loosened my hands, hoping he would grasp them tighter, and he didn’t. When he didn’t pursue me, I danced apathetically.  Just when my eyes were glazed over in defiant anger, I felt the Lord’s loving gaze upon my face.  This push and pull, ebb and flow is exhausting.  Right now it seems never-ending.  Some days I just want to stop dancing, get a divorce, or at least separate.  And some days I want to snuggle in closer and renew my vows.

At this very moment, I so deeply desire to dance cheek to cheek.  This yearning was spurred by several events in the past month, but one event in particular is fueling this passion.

One morning after my shift at the eating disorder home, I was in my bed eating oatmeal and drinking coffee.  It was a particularly difficult shift and it had been a particularly difficult week.  Without realizing it, I was eating my oatmeal feverishly thinking, “I want Jesus.  I want Jesus.”  Then, I slurped my coffee repeating, “I want You, Jesus.  I want You, Jesus” in my head.  Laughing and almost crying, I realized that I had just partaken in the most authentic and honest communion in my entire life.  My intimate dance had become an intimate breakfast date.

However, the only thing my cheek feels is air, and my meals remain a party of one.  And so I push away, hoping to be pulled back.  I remove the second set of dishes, hoping to need them before I put them in the cabinet.

I want Jesus.  I want You, Jesus.  But, I don’t want You if You don’t want me.  I want Jesus.  I want You, Jesus.  Please tell me You want me, too.

See, it is complicated.

“Ashley McCleery is in a complicated relationship with the Lord, her Creator.”

“It appears that more girls have been killed in the last fifty years, precisely because they were girls, than men were killed in all the battles of the twentieth century.  More girls are killed in this routine ‘genocide’ in any one decade than people were slaughtered in all the genocides of the twentieth century” (Kristof and WuDunn 2009, xvii).

After studying sexual exploitation, rape, poverty, and abuse, I should not be shocked by this kind of information.  And yet I am.  Except this time, my pain, my despair is more visceral.

I put down the book and watch the two boys I am babysitting karate chop and kick each other.  Inhaling the crisp October air, I snuggle in my jacket and try to exhale all my despair, frustration, and hopelessness.  Just like in the movies, this eerie, chilly Fall day, which is rare in Southern California, matched my mood.

Watching these two six-year-old boys play while contemplating the plight of girl-children and women around the world seemed to be like wearing bright clothes at a funeral- inappropriate and yet somewhat hopeful.  I was also very aware of the divide between them and myself.  Woman and boys.  Girl and boy.

No, I have not been sexually exploited or forced to work in a factory for 20 hours a day for little wages.  I do not claim to understand the trauma of such atrocities, however, I still feel connected to these women.  In fact, I feel connected to the women around the world because of what author Sue Monk Kidd describes as the “feminine wound” in her book, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter.  The feminine wound, meaning women’s experiences of inferiority in a patriarchal world.  A woman living in a man’s world.  Psychotherapist Anne Wilson Schaef describes this concept by stating,

“To be born female in this culture means that you are born ‘tainted,’ that there is something intrinsically wrong with you that you can never change, that your birthright is one of innate inferiority.  I am not implying that this must remain so.  I do believe that we must know this and understand it as a given before it can be worked through” (Schaef 1981, 27).

I close my eyes, allowing the wind to caress my face as the words “tainted” and “inferior” reverberate in my mind.  Hugging my knees closer to my chest for warmth, I felt as though I was trying to hug myself and, in turn, hug each and every single girl and woman.  This feminine wound is deep.   It cannot be healed with a band-aide or even stitches because it is ripped open over and over again with each injustice.  Every time a woman is paid less than a man, every time a girl is raped, and every time a man receives food and medical attention instead of a woman, the wound is slashed deeper and wider.

The gut-wrenching burn of truth and indignation rose within me, contrasting the chill of the afternoon.  These truths, these sad realities keep sinking deeper into me, intertwining with my own struggles.  Over the past few years, I’ve confronted my own difficult realities.  Actually, I still am.  These realities are rooted deep in this wound- the feminine wound.

The boys’ laughter broke my concentration.  I got up from the steps and paced around a bit, hoping to warm my body and still my soul.  I knew, though, that my soul was not going to be calm.   I was furious.  I am furious.  I am livid with the lies, the situations, the injustices.  Both men and women make sure the wound stays raw.  I can blame it on culture or the sinfulness of humanity, but I simply know that it continues.  “It” meaning injustice, inferiority, lies, skewed perspectives, and misconceptions about being a girl, a woman.

Worthless.  Not skinny enough.  Not curvy enough.  Not pretty enough.  Inferior.  Needs a man.  Needs children.  Less than.  Not worthy of food, medicine, care, money, and education. Not important. These are the messages of  “it.”

Reflecting on my feminine wound, I shudder at my life before I recognized what “it” was and before I began working on exposing the lies that I had labeled truth.  My feminine wound was first sliced into me with a culture that denied women leadership and equal opportunities, especially in the Church.  It became larger and deeper as I fell into a generational pattern of self-loathing and self-criticism about who I am as a person and as a woman.

I ache for the young Ashley, wishing she would know what I know now.  That she would see the wound and tend to it as much as she is capable.  I ache for the women who still live in these lies and who are captive to system that demeans them and rapes (figuratively and literally) them of life.  My gut becomes nauseous out of compassion for the women who feel they need a man to whistle at them or fondle their bodies in order to feel beautiful.  My heart stops in terror when I think about the girls who are sold and resold, enduring hours and hours of rape.  My head pounds when I realize the domino affect of such wounds, of my wounds, also.

PTSD.  Eating disorders.  Self-harm.  Self-hatred.  Low self-esteem.  Suicide.  Neglect. Death.

Yet, my heart is soothed when I hear of a girl who escapes from a brothel and survives and thrives from the earnings of her own retail business, when I hear of a girl fighting her eating disorder through healthy eating habits and understanding her beauty and worth, when I hear of a man treating a woman as an intellectual equal and not as a body for his pleasure, and when I view myself as worthy and valuable simply because God made me.

Looking at my phone, I realize it is time for the parents to be home soon.  So I intercept the ninja game and usher the rowdy boys inside.  The warm air of the house meets my wind blown cheeks and, for some reason, at this moment, I knew I had changed.  While I have drastically changed this past year through reflection and processing, this hour of reflection marked a shift in my life.  For the first time, I didn’t just feel like a strong woman.  I knew I was a strong woman.  A strong woman with a blazing passion to see relationships restored and the feminine wounds healed.

Kristof, N. and Sheryl WuDunn. 2009. Half the sky:  Turning oppression into opportunity for women worldwide. New York:  Alfred A. Knopf.

Schaef, Anne W. 1981. Women’s reality:  An emerging female system in a white mate society. San Francisco:  Harper & Row.

She spent all her time focusing on others that she simply forgot to create her own cocoon.  Month after month, new butterflies emerged and flittered through the air, while Sasha remained squirming on the earth.  One day after watching one of her friends emerge as a yellow butterfly, she smiled to herself and looked at the water droplet sitting on a daisy.  In the droplet, she saw the smile on her green furry face, which then turned into a frown.

“Why am I still a caterpillar?” she asked the cheery daisy.  She shook the dew droplet off the flower and wriggled away, convincing herself that her job was to simply help others on their journey and not to worry about her own journey.  However, on the way back to her leafy home, she bumped into a ladybug that challenged this thought.

“Excuse me Miss Ladybug. I didn’t see you there,” she said bewildered at why the ladybug was crawling and not flying like all the others.

“Oh, that’s quite alright Miss Caterpillar.  I suppose one doesn’t expect to see a flying bug like me crawling on the earth, but I just can’t seem to get enough of this delightful, soft, luscious green grass.”

“You mean you choose to crawl instead of fly?” asked Sasha bewildered at such a thought.

“Sometimes I do! I just love this spongy grass!  And it allows me to look up at the blue sky and puffy clouds.  You know it’s quite difficult to appreciate the sky’s beauty when you’re in it all the time.”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Sasha with a shrug and a sigh.

“Well, you will soon enough,” Miss Ladybug exclaimed.  “Isn’t it about time for your transformation?”

Sasha grimaced.  “I don’t think so.  I’m needed too much down here to worry about such things.  The caterpillars won’t know what to do without me.  They need me to encourage them to be who they are supposed to be.”

Miss Ladybug almost let out  a giggle, thinking this was a joke, but upon looking at Sasha’s disgruntled face, realized that Sasha was, in fact, quite serious.  “Mmm,” Miss Ladybug said while thinking of what to say.  “I see that your job is very important to you.”

“Yes.  It is why I was created.” Sasha said with dignity.

“I see,” Miss Ladybug replied.  “But I do believe the Creator created you first and foremost to be you.  The Creator did not intend for a caterpillar to stay a caterpillar or else every caterpillar would, well, stay a caterpillar,” Miss Ladybug said with a smile and a little chuckle.

“You mean that I can become a butterfly, too?”  Sasha asked in disbelief.

“Of course!” Miss Ladybug exclaimed.  “Just because you help and encourage others doesn’t mean you can’t flourish yourself.  That’s what you were created to do:  change and flourish.”

Sasha glanced at her fuzzy body and said, “I guess I thought that was for everyone else but me.”

“Ah,” Miss Ladybug said in realization.  “It’s easier to encourage others than it is to focus on your own journey, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never thought about it like that, but I guess it is,” Sasha said.

Miss Ladybug placed her hand on Sasha and looked her in the eyes, “I believe in you.  Go be who the Creator created you to be.”

With that encouragement, Sasha found a sturdy branch and attached herself to it.  “Thank you, Miss Ladybug.”  She then hung her body upside down, and waited and waited and waited and waited.  Until finally, her entire body was enclosed in a hard shell.

Then, one day, she erupted from her cocoon and flittered through the air, landing first on a daisy with a small dew droplet.  She once again looked at her reflection.  Instead of a green fuzzy caterpillar face, she now saw blue and orange speckled wings.  She stared at her vibrant colors and softly said,

“While the Creator wanted me to be a caterpillar for a time, His ultimate plan was to see me change and flourish.  I am now who the Creator created me to be:  a beautiful butterfly who understands her own worth and beauty.”

I took this beautiful butterfly’s picture in Costa Rica last summer.

]]> http://ashleymccleery.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/my-life-as-a-childrens-story/feed/ 0 ashleymccleery CSC_2715 http://ashleymccleery.wordpress.com/2011/09/02/15-funnyserious-thoughts-on-the-hell-that-has-been-my-past-two-weeks/ http://ashleymccleery.wordpress.com/2011/09/02/15-funnyserious-thoughts-on-the-hell-that-has-been-my-past-two-weeks/#comments Sat, 03 Sep 2011 01:42:32 +0000 ashleymccleery http://ashleymccleery.wordpress.com/?p=769 ]]> What I’ve learned in the past two weeks in dealing with several acute eating disorder clients who are bipolar/schizophrenic.

15 funny/serious thoughts.

• I will never look at a fast food Japanese restaurant the same way ever again, especially Yoshinoya.  Let’s just say, I canceled the order.
• Friends who care about you, pray for you, and make you laugh during the most stressful situations of your life are just priceless.  Priceless.
• If I think you are in the bathroom too long, I will stand at the door and listen.  And maybe even make you sing a song or say the alphabet.  Friends, feel free to tell me to snap out of it if I accidentally follow through on this new habit with you.
• I love boundaries.  Boundaries and I were strangers, then acquaintances, and now we are becoming bffs.
• While naps are few and far between, they are a slice of heaven in my life.
• I have now heard the f-word at least a thousand times….in an hour.  No joke.  It was yelled at me, screamed in my face, and inserted after every word.  I still loathe that word, but I now find it comical how it has become the new overused word similar to “like.”
• I can handle crisis situations, but at a certain point, my adrenaline will run out, resulting in sheer exhaustion and headache.
• Even in crisis situations, I am still very much a 26-year-old woman.  During the night from hell at 3:30 a.m. and after I witnessed a mild seizure, I watched the paramedics come in the house and thought, “Ooo, he’s cute.  Now is NOT the time, Ashley.  Not the time.”  : )
• My “go to” phrase:  I know you don’t think we care, but we do.  We are here to help you.
• I used to think it was mean to laugh in tough situations.  It still may be inappropriate, but it is quite a useful technique when with other staff and away from the girls.  I’ve realized it doesn’t mean I don’t care.  It’s quite the opposite.  Laughter comes after the tears
• I’m now pretty darn good in utilizing my “manipulator detector.”  I wish I could just believe everything at face value, but it is for their benefit (most of the time they protest that fact) that I filter things through this “detector.”
• While I am not in the best spiritual space at the moment, I have seen in the past two weeks how much I NEED the Lord.
• I need to carry mace with me.  No, I’m serious.  After a girl threatened to strangle me and another threatened to kill another girl and me after punching a door, I realized I am quite defenseless if a threat became, well, an action.
• Spooning with another house mom, who has now become a good friend, after the night from hell…absolutely priceless.  Disclaimer:  A girl was sleeping on the other couch, so we had no choice.
• A person has to first be aware of the problem.  Then, he/she has to make a conscious choice to begin the steps towards healing.  If the first is not in place, then the second cannot happen.

I stared at the word “hiding” that I had just written on one of the girls intake notes form and felt the overwhelming urge to scribble it out.  I picked up my pen to do just that and then stopped.  No, she was hiding.  She was clothing herself in this fake identity like a burka, allowing her body to fade into a black abyss.

For her, it manifested in loud laughter, belting songs, and ridiculous dance moves.  In fact this is how she greeted me after her eating disorder meeting was over tonight.

I smiled at her antics and asked about her day, and she responded with an enthusiastic, “I had a f’n fabulous day.”   While I wanted to believe her, I could see pain in her core.  I could see sorrow, frustration, and anger seeping through the eyes that were peering at me from the gap in the black hood.

Since I am a housemom at an eating disorder home, all of these girls are in pain some way or another, which is then exhibited in unhealthy eating behaviors, distorted body images, and low self-esteem.   While they desperately want to heal, they continually gravitate towards anything- smoking, cursing, cutting- in order to prevent the pain or, at best, keep it at bay.

Hiding.  I decided to keep the word in the notes.  Why did I think she was hiding?  I’m not a therapist.  I haven’t been trained.  I am not equipped to read between the lines of someone’s behavior.  I could have continued this rant for awhile, but my thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Coming,” I said.  I opened the door, and there she stood.

“Can I talk to you?”

And with those five words, I knew she had indeed been hiding.  For some reason, she had decided that her burka had become too heavy, too hot to wear alone.  So for 30 minutes, I stared into her eyes and helped her lift just a small portion of the hood in order to unveil her beautiful face.   With both pairs of hands, we fingered the cloak of lies that were woven together by self-hatred and feelings of worthlessness. Although brief, she was able to breathe in fresh air without the constraints of the heavy fabric surrounding her mouth and nose.

When we finished talking, I gave her a huge hug and reminded her that I was here for her.  She smiled, took a large inhale in, appreciating the space, the air, the freedom.  She walked out the door and greeted her friend with a roaring laugh, placing the constraining headdress back on.

We all do this, don’t we?  We hide behind a burka, whether it be out of pain, anger, or, insecurity.  We hide from others.  We hide from God.  We hide from ourselves.

I know I do.  Busyness.  Laughter.  A smile.  A nice and yet often false response of “I’m fine.”  Always listening to avoid talking about myself.  They cover me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.  I tend to fiddle with the cloth around my body and push it out of my eyes a little, hoping one day I will have the courage to shed it for a much lighter, less constrictive outfit.

And yet, day-by-day, I do.  I am.  Writing this post.  Confronting people.  Talking about myself.  A response of “I’m actually not doing that great today.”  Saying no.  I am slowly peeling my burka away from my body and donning a new outfit.  A sundress.  A sundress, exposing my skin, exposing my face, exposing my beauty, exposing who I am.  And in this sundress, I can move.  I can dance.  I can be free.  Free to be me- Ashley.  The Ashley God created and not the Ashley everyone wants me to be or the Ashley I want to be for everyone else.  Just Ashley.

As my feet pounded the pavement to the catchy beat of Andy Grammer’s “Keep Your Head Up,” my achy muscles propelled me forward- past Fuller and over the 210 freeway to a beautiful tree lined street called North Madison Avenue.  Slowing my pace to mind the cracks in the sidewalk, I steadied my breath and remembered the many confusing, exciting and lonely walks to and from Fuller on this very path when I first began seminary in 2008.

Passing the infamous yellow house where it all started- 647 North Madison Avenue, I glanced at the front porch, mentally tipping a hat at the house as if to say thank you.  While the 1920s mansion/craphole was never a home to me, it helped me begin a journey of making Pasadena home.

I picked up the pace a bit more to round the corner and run alongside Los Robles.  When I passed 570 North Los Robles, I smiled a toothy grin and chuckled a little, remembering bonding moments with Tiff- 24 marathons, after church conversations, and embarrassing moment confessions.

Running back over the 210, I passed Fuller once more and headed towards the structure that has awed me since I first laid eyes on it:  Pasadena City Hall.  My mouth parted a little in delight, recalling times when the Lord met me in the Rose Garden of the City Hall as I watched the sunset.

I rounded the square several times and proceeded to Colorado Boulevard.  Squeezing my arms into my chest to take up less space on the busy sidewalk, I ran up and down both sides of Old Town Pasadena, reflecting on girls nights with my cohort, late night fro-yo runs, deep coffee conversations, celebratory dinners, and movie outings.

While my chest felt tight and my calves throbbed from the 45-minute jog, my mind told me to keep going.  “But I’m so tired,” I grumbled to myself.  I wanted nothing more than to stretch my tight calves, still my breathing, and sprawl out on the ground.  However, I felt as though this memory jog was not over.   So I started running back to Fuller.

With each step, I felt the desire to give up grow stronger and stronger.  And yet I kept going.  I saw the Fuller library from a distance and flocked to it, as if it was home.  I guess it has been home.  I ran through campus smiling at friends, which helped me remember rich and refreshing dialogues about the Lord, ministry, children at risk, and callings.

However, I knew this was not a full picture of my experience here.  Just as the exhilarating runner’s high is matched with painful aches,  my Fuller experience has been filled with both highs and lows, ups and downs.  As I turned the corner and approached Walnut, I allowed myself to embrace those bad memories- people over stepping boundaries, harsh criticisms, confusion about my calling, and stress.

At this point, tears formed in the corners of my eyes, and I wanted to be done with both this physical and mental jog.  Yet I kept going.  In fact, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going anymore because I was full of both joy and pain, praising God for my time here at Fuller and yet pleading for the Lord to show me my next steps.

Finally, I couldn’t do it anymore, and I stopped abruptly.  Heaving, I placed my hands on my knees and laughed at the irony of Andy Grammer’s song that was playing once more.

I’ve been waiting on the sunset

Bills on my mindset

I can’t deny they’re getting high

Higher than my income

My income’s breadcrumbs

I’ve been trying to survive

The glow that the sun gives

Right around sunset

Helps me realize

This is just a journey

Drop your worries

You are gonna turn out fine.

Oh, you’ll turn out fine.

Fine, oh, you’ll turn out fine.

But you gotta keep your head up, oh,

And you can let your hair down, eh.

you gotta keep your head up, oh,

And you can let your hair down, eh.

At that, I pulled my hair out of the pony tail and collapsed onto a small patch of grass on Fuller’s campus and rested.  I rested in lessons learned and lessons still learning.  I rested in my joy and confusion.  I rested in my completed degree and the one yet to be started.  I rested in the answered questions and the unanswered questions.  I rested in the known and the unknown.  I was resting, in that moment, with the Lord, and I think He said I would turn out fine.

As the melody chimes from my alarm clock, I turn over, turn it off, and then look at the ceiling.   I sigh, close my eyes, and pray for the chance to go back to sleep again.  To forget about everything…to simply just sleep.  With resignation, I force my eyes open, throw off my covers, and put my feet on the ground.

Getting ready for my jobs as a libriarian and nanny, I can’t help but ask myself, “What the heck am I doing?”

While I love both jobs, I feel like I’m floundering in an abyss.  Since I did not get into the Marriage and Family Therapy program at Fuller, I am now looking for work.  However, I cannot get a job with abused children without an MFT or MSW.  I cannot get into an MFT or MSW program without past job experience.  Herein lies one of the reasons I just want to pull the covers over my head and sleep.  I’m in a catch 22.

Putting on my mascara, I look in the mirror and shake my head in disappointment.  I have so many credentials behind my name:  BA in Journalism and Mass Communication, MA in Cross-cultural Studies with an emphasis on Children at Risk.  Yet these degrees are not enough.  I cannot get a job doing what I want to do.  I could not get into a program that would help me get a job doing what I want to do.

Eating my oatmeal, I calculate for the hundredth time my monthly expenses and my monthly income from my three part time jobs…soon to be four and even five.  No matter how many times I endure this process, the result is still the same.  I will always hate the color red.

Grabbing my purse as I head out the door to the Fuller Library, I hear a faint voice.  One I’ve heard all my life, but I don’t really trust it anymore.  A voice that told me to go to Africa.  A voice that told me to come to Fuller.  A voice that told me to be open to psychology.  A voice that says, “Just trust me, Ashley. Trust me.”

I slam my apartment door shut just like I slam the door shut on that option.

Regardless of these situations, I really do love my jobs.  Not joking.  I love working in the library where I interact with patrons, friends, and my co-workers.  I also love watching the precious children that I’m nannying.  It’s just not where I thought I’d have to stay for long….especially since I’m working sometimes 12 hour days and still not able to pay my bills.

Despite my confusion and pain, this voice is following me.  While at the library, a random Ph.D student approached me and told me that he has seen me the past couple of months and sees my sorrow, my confusion.  He said that he has seen me smile and laugh but has recognized that I am in the midst of figuring out the “next steps.”  He followed this statement by saying, “I’m praying for you.  I don’t know what your call is, but I believe the Lord has placed a big call on your life.  I believe in your calling.”

Wow.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

Yesterday, I visited a church with a friend.  When the pastor asked for people to raise their hands if they need prayer, my hand went up faster than a kid reaching for candy.  I needed it.  I wanted it.  Several people came and prayed with me, but what struck me was a particular woman named Theresa.  She held onto me, praying intensely for me.  When I looked at her, tears streamed down my cheeks.  Tears that had been wanting to flow down for about a month now.  She gazed into my eyes, pulled me into a strong embrace, and told me to write down what was going on in my life so she could be in intercessory prayer for me.

Wow.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

A couple of my friends have also been so confident in my calling that I’ve laughed at their assurance.  They are believing for me when I simply can’t.  I cannot do this anymore.  And that is the conclusion I came to this weekend.  I cannot do it alone.  I have felt incredibly lonely.  I can be in a filled room and feel completely alone.  Although I have enjoyed many people’s company these past few months, I can’t seem to be fully present because I am so worried about my calling, finding a job in the field, paying my bills, finding new roommates and a new housing situation.

I cannot do this anymore.  So I give up.  I give in.  I am calling upon my friends, my family, the body of believers.  I give in to the voice.  I have nothing else to do but to simply give in and pray that it’s the truth.  I have to trust the Lord no matter how much I feel like I can’t.  I have to because the alternative hasn’t been working for me, either.

My call to help sexually abused/exploited/trafficked girls and women heal is strong and growing stronger everyday despite my frustrations.  I just have no idea how to get from point A to point Z.  I actually do have several opportunities to volunteer with women in the LA area (involved in the sex industry, have been raped, and/or have eating disorders), but I can’t find the time because I have to work to pay my bills.  Again a catch 22.

I walk back into my apartment at the end of the day and fall back into bed exhausted from work, exhausted from job searching, exhausted from worrying, exhausted from “being there” for so many others.  Now,  I’m trying to rest in that voice.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

“Does a blender weigh about five pounds?” the nine-year-old boy I was babysitting asked me as he looked quizzically at the blender on the counter.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied and continued to doodle circles on a scratch paper with a pencil.  He then scribbled down “yes” on his homework sheet.

“Does a lemon weigh about a pound?”

“No, it’s much lighter than a pound,” I again replied, except this time I began erasing my circles.

He kept asking me questions, and I kept drawing and then erasing.

Flowers.    Erase.     Balloons.    Erase.    My name.    Erase.     Circles.    Erase.

I stared at the pencil in my hand and marveled at the brilliant large soccer eraser on the top.   I felt it’s rubbery edges and realized it had probably been at least seven years since I’d written with a pencil instead of a pen.

I miss it.   A pen is so permanent.  If you mess up, you have to scribble it out or throw away the paper.  I guess I’ve done my fair share of awkwardly converting a “c” to an “e” when I’ve misspelled a word.

No matter what type of correction, a pen’s ink always stains.  While I love permanence, I find so much joy and even safety in using a pencil.  Any mistake can be erased away in seconds.  Don’t like the way you drew the person’s eyes?  Erase.  Don’t like the way you worded that sentence?  Erase.  Misspelled a word?  Erase.

Sometimes I wish life had an eraser.  Imagine….erasing away those hurtful words, that manipulative relationship, those dark moments.  With that thought, I glanced once again at my paper that I had so intently doodled and erased, doodled and erased.

From far away, the paper looked white, clean, and untouched.  However, the closer I looked, the more I saw the faint lines and circles of my past drawings.  The eraser had erased the lead, but the paper still had impressions from the pressure I exerted on the pencil.

“Maybe the eraser isn’t the perfect answer,” I thought.  Just like the pen, this pencil still left marks on the paper.  Although less noticeable, they were still there.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what utensil you use.  Maybe it doesn’t even matter if you make a mistake or draw something that is less than your best or write an awkward sentence.  Maybe the point is simply to doodle, to draw, to write.  Maybe the point is not to obliterate these mishaps but to embrace them for how they mark the paper, for who they make you.

I was about to don my rain boots and brave the rain with the flu and a cold to see a play at Fuller to support my friends, when a friend took me aside and asked,  “What are you running from?”

My immediate response was, “Nothing,” which I said with a shrug and a little indignation at the fact that I had essentially been “called out.” And while I desperately wanted to believe that I was running away from absolutely nothing, I knew I was, indeed, running from something in life.

I then asked, “What made you think I am running from something?”  And the response was what I feared.  “You just seem like you don’t know how to rest and usually that means you’re running from something,” he said.

While my response remained the same, I knew I had been hit in the face with the messy truth.  A messy truth that left goop smeared all over my face, which I have let drip down my face.

And by writing this post, I’m picking up a towel and wiping it off.

I, Ashley, study really hard to maintain a high GPA.  I strive to excel at everything (and like I just mentioned- especially school).  I keep my schedule filled with work, school, extracurricular activities, and coffee convos.  I am a busy body, and I struggle to rest.

I recognize that this is often the case for many Americans because in this culture busy means important, busy means power.  However, I actually don’t think I keep busy to feel important.  Like he pointed out, I am running from something.

By excelling at school, I become an academic.  By investing my time in extracurriculars, I become a dancer, a writer, a photographer, a “you name it.” By keeping my schedule filled with fun excursions and coffee convos, I become outgoing, fun, and friendly.

I use these things, these activities to define me, to allow others to define me…to make me enough. “Enough of what?” you ask.  Just enough.  Enough to find acceptance, to find love, to find myself.

I am afraid that me, plain ole’ Ashley, is not good enough.  I’m afraid that people will see me without all these credentials attached to my name (no, not my BA or MA…but smart, friendly, happy, etc) and reject me.

So I am running away from myself.  I am sprinting away from myself because it’s too hard to look at myself in the mirror without these labels, without these credentials and still find worth.

And this is where I truly understand Dr. Myers’ concept of poverty of being.  Instead of realizing my worth in the sheer fact that I am made in the image of God, I am finding my validation in things, in activities, in people, in people’s thoughts of me.

I guess I think that if I run fast enough, keep busy enough, I can find my identity in all of these things that are keeping my busy and thus have no time to actually confront who I truly am.  Therefore, I prevent realizing that I’m not enough.  However, in reality, I’m actually preventing myself from realizing that I AM enough.

It’s time to slow my sprint to a leisure stroll so I can walk up to the mirror, wipe the goop off my face and look at myself for who I truly am- a child of God.  That is it.  With this one fact, I am enough.  I am worthwhile…and it’s not because of what I do for others or what I can prove to myself.  It is solely because God created me….in God’s image…and….wait for it….it was good.