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I Want to Speak Out from a Place of Freedom

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by Naomi Pattison-Williams

Releasing Toxic Souvenirs.

I. Christian Union.

It is early evening, and the September rain drizzles incessantly outside Room 231 in the Students’ Union building. The single-pane windows soon steam up as the room fills with students, the chatter increasing in volume as hugs are exchanged and holiday stories told.

I sit toward the back, making stilted conversation with the girl I came with—the only Christian I’d met so far in my new student dorm. Eventually, a group of people pick up instruments and invite us to stand, and I am swept into the comfortable familiarity of worship songs which remind me of home.

After we finish singing, we take our seats and the Christian Union president stands, Bible in one hand, mic in the other, to welcome us. I am feeling more comfortable now, eager to get stuck into this community, to belong just like the returning students seem to. I am away from home for university and ready to make my faith my own. The president will just begin with a quick explanation, he says, as to who we are as a Christian Union, and goes on to list some core values. My mind wanders as he goes through them, only jolting to a halt when I hear that women will not be permitted to teach at these meetings. Had I misheard? Why was no one else reacting? I had grown up sheltered, perhaps. I didn’t know this was still a posture that any Christian anywhere took in the 21stcentury. Horrified, the rest of the evening disintegrates into a fuzzy blur as all I hear is a faint ringing in my ears.

 

II. Kenya.

We lounge in various shapes in the white tiled room, soporific in the humid night air. We are at the tail end of our trip through Kenya, a bunch of young student lawyers eager to make our work matter to God, spending each day in this beautiful country asking questions about what justice looks like in prisons, in courthouses and over plates of ugali and precious bottles of Stoney Tangawizi. None of the six of us are really in the mood for the group Bible Study tonight, tired and relaxed as we are. Tomorrow we go to the beach for our final day, and our minds are already leaping through the turquoise surf of the Indian Ocean.

I had struggled throughout the trip with the apparent arrogance of the male leader. With his certainty that his particular interpretation of the Bible was normative and correct. With the disparaging comments against any who disagreed with him—our Kenyan hosts included. We have so far avoided coming to direct blows, but tonight, as we continue our study on 1 Corinthians, I wake up with a jolt of adrenaline as I realise we will be talking about what Paul has to say on women’s roles in the Church. As I begin to voice an alternative interpretation to his, he rolls his eyes patronisingly: “Here we go. Go on then, Naomi, let your horse out of her stable …” I was mortified (and aside from anything, this was just a bizarre phrase.)

 

III. Seminary.

There is a pause in the lecture. A student who, through no fault of his own, reminds me of that same leader from that Kenya trip, raises his hand. He asks the teacher a leading question, one that seems to be a trap; a test to check that our teacher’s theology is indeed “sound.” My suspicions are confirmed as my classmate expresses satisfaction that the prof’s theology does indeed line up with his.

We stop for a class break five minutes later and my hands are still shaking as I pull muffins out of my bag to share with a friend. I am so angry at how certain this student is of his rightness, at his apparent inability to consider and value a viewpoint different to his own. My friend reminds me that all of us are on a journey—including our classmate. I agree, but those damp, humid nights in Christian Union and in Kenya—plus many others either side of them—are already flashing through my mind.

 

IV. Release

Snow falls gently outside—as it has done for the past 24 hours. My blank notebook lies open in my lap, but I am mesmerised by the scene outside the cottage window: I have never seen snow and ocean juxtaposed in this way. It is perfect. The longer I watch the snow fall, gathering up on branches and fenceposts, the more I remember my friend’s words: we are all on a journey.

Or in the words of Brene Brown: we are all doing the best with what we have.

I think of how I have been affected by experiences in which women’s voices were silenced; in which the only audible voice was a strident, arrogant (and male) one. And yet, while I don’t want to diminish those experiences, I also don’t want them to rule me. I don’t want to go from zero to a hundred when someone triggers a memory of those places. I want to be a better listener—a more humble listener—and be less fearful of a different point of view. I think, too, of all the times I have hurt someone deeply, by virtue of wherever I may be on my own stumbling journey. I think of all the ways in which I, too, am still growing, still learning, still falling and still rising.

I want to release those memories, clutched in my heart like rotting fruit. I want to offer forgiveness, and ask it from those who probably don’t even know I need it from them. And so I do; I release my right to be angry and resentful. I release my claim over these people whom I have caricatured over the years. I release them, and allow them to release me.


We are all on a journey.
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Because we are all on a journey. And when I do speak out for the things that I believe right down to my bones, I want it to be from a place of freedom.

Author information

Naomi Pattison-Williams
My name gives a clue as to the English and Japanese in me, but my favourite thing about it is the Hebrew meaning: “pleasant,” a reminder that somehow I am pleasing to my Creator. My heart is a little bit in the various corners of England where I’ve spent most of my life, a little bit in the cherry-tree’d loveliness of Japan where my family is from, and a little in the wide open spaces of my husband’s native Western Canada where we are now making our home. I am currently studying at Regent College in Vancouver–a dream several years in the making–and feeling wildly thankful for it. You can find me on my blog naomipw.com or on Instagram @naopwilliams.

The post I Want to Speak Out from a Place of Freedom appeared first on SheLoves Magazine.


This Face is a Story

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by Holly Grantham

I’ve taken to staring at my face in the mirror each night.
After I’ve gently washed it.
After I’ve patted it dry and
brushed my wet bangs off to one side
I stare.

At first, I did so halfway
as if off handedly catching my reflection in a storefront.
Unintentional. Removed.
But then something would snag my attention.
A stray hair.
A rising blemish.
And my eyes would focus.
Linger.
Now, I stare.

I stare into all the people I’ve been.
The truths I’ve faced.
The lies I’ve hidden.
The other night my finger lightly traced the wrinkle formed when
I cried for three days straight.
My face is a rusted canyon, I think.
I marvel at how it’s all right there:
Carved.
Pressed.
Etched.

This face is a story
a song
a place
You don’t have to cut me down to
Observe my rings.
The years of abundance and of
want
All are there.

Slowly, I trace my brow
my cheek
my jaw.
I sigh at what I’ve seen
received
endured.
How life has been turned
over and under and into
my face
How I am not yet done


I stare into all the people I’ve been.
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Author information

Holly Grantham
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.

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Why I Call Myself A Writer

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by sheloves

by Lydia Mikkael | twitter: @lydiamikkael | blog: thenakedbeing.com

My bags were packed, the hotel was booked, and the childcare was in place. I had never done this before, and I was equal parts nervous and excited. Drawn by something I couldn’t quite articulate, I was attending my first writer’s conference. I’d long dreamed of being a writer, but the most I had to show for it was some bad poetry in a box in the closet. I felt silly even telling people about my trip because it would be followed with questions I had no answers to, like what genre I wrote or what I had published.

The first morning of the conference, I arrived too early so I spent five minutes writing my name on a nametag. I spotted the coffee and slowly filled a cup. As I scanned the information table, coffee in hand, the title of one of the presentations caught my eye: Fighting Imposter Syndrome. I’d never heard of that before, but it seemed pretty relatable to me at that moment. I scribbled out my name on the sign-up sheet as illegibly as possible.

To my surprise, the presentation was packed and the room was full of people who were much more accomplished writers than I. For a split-second, I wondered if I was even an imposter at the imposter session, but then the speaker began. She introduced the idea of imposter syndrome, a phenomenon where people are unable to internalize their accomplishments and instead feel they will be found out as a fraud. As I listened, all of her points resonated with me. Even when meeting other writers that morning, I had dismissed myself first, before someone else had the chance. I networked with the business cards I had labored over, coupled with the disclaimer: “it’s just a silly little blog, nothing serious.”

As the speaker continued, I began to melt-down. I did this in all areas of my life! When people ask what I do, I stutter. I don’t have a career because I am working slowly through a graduate program. I am going slowly because I want to be with my kids while they are young. The amount of hours I spend as wife and mother don’t seem conversation worthy, but neither does talking about my hobbies or hopes for the future. Whether I’m with other couples, at a playdate, or in class, I immediately size up the room to see the ways I don’t fit: I’m the youngest here; I have less experience; I do things differently.

As my life slowly unfolds I struggle with feeling like I belong anywhere.


As my life slowly unfolds I struggle with feeling like I belong anywhere.
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I mulled over this feeling back at my hotel. Instead of the relaxing evening I had anticipated, I spent it flooding my take-out dinner with tears. The next morning in the conference parking lot, I laid my head on the steering wheel, wrung dry. Feeling like an imposter at faith too, I racked my brain for the name of a prayer I used to love. Thanks to Father, Son, and Google Search, I found it: Patient Trust, by Teilhard de Chardin. I read and re-read the last line of the prayer until it stuck:

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
… accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

I opened the car door and swung my legs out. I resolved to spend the second day of the conference as if I believed I was a writer, instead of feeling bad for myself that I wasn’t. I would choose confident language when speaking about myself. I would listen to the speakers with the potential to apply their messages to my work, instead of as fodder for comparison and falling short.

As the snow crunched beneath my boots, I realized, maybe I wasn’t such a faith imposter either. I had just summoned the notion of Lex Orandi, Lex Credindi. This Latin phrase is a Catholic theology that translated as “the law of prayer is the law of belief.” Basically, a life of faith is not necessarily preceded by belief, but instead, living a faithful life can help us believe. The times in life when my faith has felt dry and the words of my prayers no longer fit my image of God, I said them anyway. Or I tried new words. I wrestled through the motions until I found them meaning something again.

I pray like this every day. There are days (and weeks) when I know I love my husband, but I don’t feel it. So I respond with a grateful text, a tender touch, to remind him—and me—that I do. There are days that I don’t enjoy being a mother and dread the cry of my child being my alarm. But I pull myself out of bed anyway and discover true moments of joy hidden throughout the mundane.

And there are lots of days I don’t feel like I’m a writer. So I sit down and write about it until I remember who I am.

____________________________________

Lydia MikkaelAbout Lydia:

Hey there, Lydia here. I split my time between learning how to be a therapist, story-teller, wife, and mama of two. And when I’m not doing that, I organize the spice rack alphabetically and leave way too much highlighter in nonfiction books. Like a sunflower, I thrive best in community and full sun. You can find me on facebook, twitter, and my blog.

 

The post Why I Call Myself A Writer appeared first on SheLoves Magazine.

When You Trust The Struggle (And Not The Work)

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by Claire Colvin


Remembrance Day was this week and here in Canada we wear poppies purchased from veteran groups to show support. I’ve had one pinned to my shirt at work all week. Yesterday I must have pinned it on differently because every time I went to answer the phone I stabbed myself in the arm with the pin from the poppy. I’m a receptionist and I answer the phone a lot so by midday this was becoming a real problem.

At first I tried to ignore it. It was just a pin prick. It’s fine. Just keep going. There’s work to be done. But it kept happening over and over and it started to really hurt. I considered it for a while and thought, “Well I can’t not wear a poppy.” Apparently my brain didn’t get as far as say, moving the poppy to the other side or repositioning the pin. When a friend stopped by, I complained about the assault on my inner arm.

“Why don’t you swap it for a sticker?” she asked.

And I sat there a little dumbfounded. The answer was quite literally right in front of me. The poppies come in two main formats—the velveteen pins that haven’t changed since I was a child, and the sticker version that showed up a few years ago. I could just swap mine out. But I hesitated. It felt like quitting or giving up. Finally I took the pin off and put on a sticker, and it’s remarkable how much the day improved when I stopped stabbing myself.

In the days that followed I kept thinking about why I was so resistant to making such an obvious change. I’ve been listening to Lori Gottlieb’s book Maybe You Should Talk To Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed. In the book she discuses James Prochaska’s five stages of change: pre-contemplation, contemplation, preparation, action and maintenance. I cannot count the number of times I’ve been frustrated with myself for not making a huge change immediately. It never occurred to me that most humans don’t make changes that way.

My brother keeps sending me texts encouraging me to walk more. He’s concerned about the knee I injured last year and the thing is, he’s right to be. He’s also a doctor so he knows what he’s talking about. He cares about me. His reasoning is sound and his suggestions completely practical. But I haven’t done it yet and I don’t know why not.

So now I’m trying to figure out where I am in Prochaska’s stages: Contemplation? Preparation? How do I get out of this stage and on to the action? Gottlieb would ask, “What are you doing now that is serving you better than this change would?” It’s an excellent question. I wonder if I resist change because I’m afraid that I won’t like the result and the work will feel wasted. What if the idea of change is simply overwhelming on it’s own?

One of the residents I work with does 50 pushups every morning when she wakes up. I asked her about it once, thinking that this must be the habit of a lifetime but she told me it was a much more recent change. She starting doing pushups when she turned 90 because she was concerned that she was losing her strength. When I asked her how she got started, her answer was both simple and practical:

“I didn’t start with 50,” she replied. “I started with one. And then I added one more.”

I think I look for big dramatic gestures to solve the problem because my emotions feel big and dramatic. But maybe I don’t trust the small changes because it feels like something so attainable can’t possibly be the solution. Surely there must be more struggle for this to really count. I get so caught up in the enormity of everything—Politics! Finances! Death, itself!—that I completely miss the small every day changes that can actually make a difference. I trust the struggle more than I trust the work.

I get stuck in uncomfortable or broken situations because I convince myself that things will never change. This relationship will always be strained. That boss will never see my potential. I’ll never get passed the thing that is in my way today. Familiarity makes the discomfort tolerable and when the work of change feels monumental it’s easy to convince myself that there’s no point in starting.

The world is a dark and complicated place and often my mind is dark and complicated too. It’s easier to throw my hands up in the air and say, “Well look at these things are happening there’s nothing I can do.” But there are things I can do. I can do one thing and then add one more. I can walk more. I can go to bed. I can stop stabbing myself in the arm with a pin.

 

 

Author information

Claire Colvin
Claire is learning to call herself a feminist. She has been writing and editing professionally for more than a decade. In 2013, her National Novel Writing Month entry was a science fiction story about a broken world where everyone was required to be as similar as possible. Claire wishes she could fold the world like a map so the people she loves weren’t so far away. She lives on a small mountain near Vancouver and writes at clairecolvin.ca.

The post When You Trust The Struggle (And Not The Work) appeared first on SheLoves Magazine.

When You Are Practicing

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by Abby Norman


I started a yoga practice in January. I am sure I am not the only one. I am doing an at home practice that I found on YouTube and y’all, I am not good at it. I think you could say I might even be bad at it. I lose my balance. I lose my place. I mix up my left and my right. I just don’t bend some ways. The thing I love about this particular YouTube channel is that she constantly reminds us that it is okay to be bad at yoga. Our job is to show up and do the best we can. We are practicing after all.

Practicing. I am beginning to love that word, and I am beginning to notice all the different ways it is used. We practice boundary setting. We practice self-care. We practice art. And many people refer to faith in Jesus as practicing Christianity. We don’t have to be good at these things in order to show up to them. It is a practice, not a performance.

I have a bad habit of quitting anything I am not good at right away. This meant I went to one track practice, and pretty much immediately ditched it for the speech team. At track I was in the slow group, but in speech I was good. I bought the most perfect yarn for knitting baby hats, but have mostly ignored the knitting bag because I have already had to re-start twice and that just feels like too many times. My sister’s twins are due in a month. When I am playing a board game with my family and I am losing, I always announce that the game is stupid. It is a joke, mostly. It is a joke I make because I don’t like being bad at something.

But the word PRACTICE is freeing me from that. You can be bad at a musical instrument, but you can’t be bad at practicing a musical instrument unless you never ever do it. But doing it badly is practicing, and the important things in my life are practices. I practice gentle parenting. Does this mean I never yell? Does this mean it is all rainbows and butterflies and no threats at my house? No. But it does mean that I try, that I admit when I get it wrong, that I show up tomorrow even when I don’t want to. I don’t berate myself for the ways in which I have failed. I am practicing still. I still have a lot to practice.


Practice makes me gentle—gentle with myself and gentle with others.
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The same is true with my faith. I am a Christian. I am a practicing Jesus follower. Do I always follow perfectly and quickly and correctly? No. But I don’t have to show up to the faith perfectly. I am practicing. That means I just have to show up. I have to show up to the page for my writing practice, and my church for the practice of community. I have to show up on the yoga mat in front of my TV if I want to continue to practice. And I have an inkling that none of this will ever lead to perfection. I think “practice makes perfect” might be true occasionally, but mostly I think practice makes me gentle­—gentle with myself and gentle with others.

As we come into this New Year with all kinds of ideas about how we are going to be better, let us forgo perfection. Let’s practice.

 

 

Author information

Abby Norman
Abby Norman lives, and loves in the city of Atlanta. She lives with her two hilarious children and a husband that doubles as her biggest fan. When not mothering, teaching, parenting or “wifeing”, she blogs at accidentaldevotional.com. Abby loves to make up words and is excited by the idea that Miriam Webster says you can verb things.

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