E: for Entering In (also, for Enough)

I work in a trauma-rich environment.  That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace.  My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager.  I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such.  So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich.  It's the place where I work.

We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.

And here's the thing.  Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust.  In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%.  Think on that for a minute.  Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know.  Someone they trust.  Someone they love.  It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them.  It's someone their parents have let into their lives.  Or it's the parent him or herself.

That's trauma-rich for you.

Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care.  Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not.  At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in.  It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating.  I know, right?).

Entering in.

Experiencing the feelings.

Not numbing them.

Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.

Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.

So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear.  And then the whole cycle starts over again.

And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.

But there's a bigger problem.  And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals.  Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good.  You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure.  At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said.  She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.  It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it.  And she says it's impossible to connect without that.

As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something.  In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that.  What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right?  So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.

And I made it through.  And I didn't cry so much.  And then I realized I didn't cry at all.  And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write.  And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream.  So I quit taking them.  In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create."  But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again.  I wanted to feel.

{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do.  I needed to feel.  BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something.  Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in.  And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends.  Please.}


Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer.  A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread."  Our daily bread.  What we need for today.  He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna.  That "what is it?"  That literal daily bread.  Just enough for the one day.

I have so, so much.  And I still want more.  But He gave me Enough.  Because that's who He is.

Enough.

Not more than I need.  Not less than I need.  Enough.

During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most?  What do you ask God for?  A life of ease?  A life of plenty?  Or for your daily needs to be met?"

That really hit me.

Do I complain about not having enough?  Do I complain about disappointment?  Do I complain about discomfort?  Or do I ask for my daily bread?  Do I ask for justice?  Do I ask for God's will?  Do I simply ask for more God?

Do I ask for Ease?

Or do I ask for Enough?

When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with.  That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.

Oh, it won't be easy.  And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me.  There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human.  There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop.  But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.

And I will laugh.

And I will cry.

And I will write.

And I will live.

(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)

Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .

We used to be a bit more innocent.  A bit more naive.  A bit more trusting.  And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two.  Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.

My last post was in May. Early May.  That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down.  I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party.  We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family.  It was busy, and it was fun.

And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail.  It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone.  He asked me to call him back right away.

My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car.  So I prepared myself for that.

Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."

Robbed.  Awesome.

Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken.  We also determined our back doors were both toast.  And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.

So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen.  We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done.  And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door.  And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them.  We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers.  And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.

Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace.  There are also emotional ones.  There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing.  There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police.  There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank.  And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids.  Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.

We've installed a security system.  And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects.  And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.

But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson.  Or maybe relearned it.  There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."  (Ps 20:7)

And I know He won't let us down.  Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal.  I trust in the name of the LORD my God.

For When Your Hope is Gone

A while back, I read a series of books called The Chaos Walking. 

It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it.  One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself.  Then life happened.  While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life.  This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough.  But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.

There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend.  It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends.  For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends.  Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus.  The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet.  They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden.  Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend.  All the friend had to do was lie there.

Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends.  That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends.  So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough.  But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you.  When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden.  Who can hold you close.  Who longs to embrace you.  And I will count it a blessing.

Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:

But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.

...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)

AND

“Hope,” he says, squeezing my arm on the word.  “It’s hope.  I am looking into yer eyes right now and I am telling you that there’s hope for you, hope for you both.”  He looks up at Viola and back at me.  “There’s hope waiting for you at the end of the road.”

“You don’t know that,” Viola says and my Noise, as much as I don’t want it to, agrees with her.

“No,” Ben says, “But I believe it.  I believe it for you.  And that’s why it’s hope.”

“Ben—“

“Even if you don’t believe it,” he says, “believe that I do.”

(The Knife of Never Letting Go, p376, Patrick Ness)

God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense.  Believe it, dear friends.  And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.

Raising My Ebenezer

In my Bible reading for today, God led the Israelites through yet another river on dry ground.  This time they're heading in to claim victory and settle in The Promised Land, and they need to cross the Jordan River to get there.  {There are also a number of other things they need to do, such as allow God to completely "dispossess" the land from all the people settling it.  If we watch the news today, we can clearly see how well it worked out for them when they decided to live "peacefully" with all these people instead.}  In Joshua 3: 9-13 in  The Message, after Joshua has told the priests to begin crossing the Jordan with the Ark of the Covenant and instructs the Israelites to watch and pay attention to what God is saying, he says, "Look at what's before you: the Chest of the Covenant.  Think of it--the Master of the entire earth is crossing the Jordan as you watch."

Once they are safely across--with "not one wet foot"--Joshua instructs a man from each of the 12 tribes of Israel to take a stone from the middle of the Jordan River and build a monument on the banks to remember the day that God led them through on dry land.  This raising of the Ebenezer is a common thing in the Old Testament.  It's a reminder of God's presence.  His intervention.  His grace.  His plan.

This morning I was reminded of an Ebenezer that I could raise alongside US-131 heading south from Cadillac.  Last year we were driving our full van of sleeping beauties home from Beau's parents' house, and the roads were bad.  We should have stayed in Cadillac, but we weren't prepared for that, so we ventured home.  At one point, as we were driving across a bridge spanning a fairly deep ravine, we hit black ice.  Beau completely lost control of the car, and we were sliding toward the bridge railing and the edge of the ravine.  For 20 long seconds we slid, within feet of striking a railing that likely wouldn't have held us at our speed.  As we slid, I said, over and over again, "It's okay.  It's okay.  It's okay."

Beau reminded me of that this morning as we drove the roads of the first day of real winter to hit West Michigan this year.  He said, "You kept saying it was okay, but it wasn't okay.  I didn't have control, and I didn't think I'd get it back.  I figured we were going over." 

With tears in my eyes, I recalled my feelings at that moment.  And I replied, "I wasn't telling you that you were in control or that we'd be fine because you'd get control back.  I was telling you that it was okay if we hit.  It was okay if we went over.  It was okay if we were injured or even if we died.  To be honest, I'm quite pleased that was my first response.  Because it really would have been okay.  We know where we're going, and we know Who holds us."

And it really would have been okay.  Because we could look at Who was before us on that bridge.  The Master of the entire earth was crossing ahead of us and behind us and next to us.  He had us in his hands.  He was in control, even if we weren't.  Think of it!