Sometimes I Wish I had Never Learned to Fly

The ostrich is known to be the largest flightless bird. 

I've often wondered if ostriches wish they could fly. 

If they experienced flight, would they still be content walking along the ground?

Years ago I had the opportunity to learn to fly. I learned to steady the plane and watch for distress. I learned to watch for potential turbulence, adjust speed and elevation during a storm, and even gain flight time on exceptionally windy days. I learned the meaning of the colors on the control panel and learned to distinguish the planes variety of sounds, whistles, and warnings. I learned to communicate with other pilots mid-air and I learned the importance of constant contact with the control tower. I learned to seek out the jet stream and let the pneuma guide my flight. I learned to identify my longitude and latitude position in flight, as well learned to plot my destinations, my duration of flight, and my approximate estimated time of arrival. I learned to make adjustments of weather, temperature, and seasons. I learned to schedule take-offs and landings to ease passenger's comfort, safety, and/or maturity. 

Oh, how I loved to fly. 

I'm beginning to learn, however, that flying has become a curse more than a blessing. Just like the ostrich, perhaps if I had never experienced flight, I would not know what I was missing. I could have been perfectly content with two-feet-on-the-ground. But now? After flying? 

I use to think that giving people experiences was a good thing. My second-half of life realism tells me, however, that some experiences only set me up for prolonged disappointment. Perhaps disappointment turns into memories of the past. But can a person who has flown be content to be ever-grounded? Can flying simply become a good dream?

I have an entire shelf of books on "flight." Perhaps it is time to pack away the books so I won't be reminded of my time in the sky.

Sometimes I wish I had never learned to fly.

I am ruined.

Discontent.

Frustrated.

To be grounded is to eat crumbs off the table while others feast on fresh bread. 

God, help me be content. Keep my eyes from looking into the sky. Let the crumbs fill me and my two walking feet satisfy. If I'm not to fly again, please replace my desire to fly with something attainable - a new goal, new idea, new vision. Open my eyes to joy around me so I can be happy on the ground.  

I wish I had never learned to fly.

Overwhelmingly Sad

**Written originally on February 6, 2018 at 10:16 pm, but never published**

  

I am just two days away from my last day at Loma Vista. It's been home for me and my family for over 13 years - now it will suddenly be over.

My journey of departure has been long. Little parts of me have been dying for years now. Only recently had I discovered so little of me remained alive. Authentic Connie has ever-so-slowly been slipping away. So subtle, only people closest to me have noticed.

The two things that most stirred this decision:
1. To be in a place where I can be authentically me.
2. To be able to follow God in a way that is true to myself and what I believe.

To feel such total freedom and total loss simultaneously is strange.
To drink wine for my mourning heart and also for my joyous deliverance is oddly paradoxical.

My heart is confused and torn.
I want to get off this roller-coaster of emotions.

I know You are with me...but I am afraid.

Seeking Your face is not easy. Seeking Your face is not comfortable. Seeking Your face is not logical.

When does faith transcend logic? If we only choose that which is logical, are we living by faith?

Not a Token

 A few weeks ago I was interviewed by a panel of men. The panel was made up of the National Director of my denomination as well as two other District Ministers from the Central and Northern United States. 

In some way I was honored that my name came up as a potential member for a board which studies the theological background for policy, faith, and belief in my denomination. But in another way the interview left me feeling ill.

The interview was going along fine. We all four shared background information, laughed a bit and then I shared on my understanding of the difference between inerrancy and infallibility. They asked me my opinion on other topics like racism and women as Lead Pastors. I was being completely honest (though it may not have been the perspective they necessarily agreed with) and then one of the District Ministers paused the interview to explain to me that I am not just a token woman on the board of ten people. "Your participation, insight, and opinion is just as important as everyone else's," he assured me. I really do think he meant well and was trying to be encouraging, but I sure felt like the conversation went side-ways.

First - I am not an idiot. 

The board consists of ten people total: one person is the National Director (a man), then each of the five districts have a District Minister present (also men), followed by four "members-at-large," with one lady presiding. The set-up alone dictates that a woman feel like a token. Even IF the other four members were women, there would never be an equal representation, especially given the difference in titles and authority.

Second - Oppression Leaves Wounds

I was surprised to discover something about myself I did not previously realize. The District Minister followed his 'token' statement with a question asking, "Will you be able to speak up and share your insight and opinions?" I sat quiet for a few long seconds. I have no doubt these three gentlemen are kind people. I have no doubt they love Jesus and love the Church. I also have no doubt they have no idea what kind of oppression I have been through as a woman, especially a woman in ministry. My seconds turned into a minute as I tried to determine how to respond.

45 years of being told to... 

"be silent," 

"submit to your husband's authority," 

"don't teach a man"

...and now I was asked if would be able to talk freely in this group of the National Director and five District Ministers? My answer surprised me as much as it silenced them.

I told the District Minister thank you for encouraging me to share and for giving me permission to speak. Then I decided to get (just a little!) more vulnerable...

"I have been in ministry for 25 years. As a female church leader I have had it engrained deep in my soul that my opinion, insight, perspective are not as valuable as my male counter-parts. I have been publicly shamed, publicly silenced, and publicly reminded about my inferiority. Thank you for your permission to speak, but I need you to know that though I have a lot of good insight I also have 45-years negative conditioning in which I was taught not to share freely and not to speak up. While I would like to answer your question in the affirmative, I have to be honest and admit that the message of silence and subjugation that has been taught to me in church has left me oftentimes unable to speak. I am trying to find my voice, but until I do, I will need to be reminded and invited quite regularly to share my thoughts and opinions." (I said something along those lines, though probably not as articulate!)

Until the direct question of, "Will you be able to talk?" was addressed to me, I hadn't realized how guarded and silent I have become. Perhaps I should have asked if what I have to say is worth his time? Do my words have the same weight as the other nine people? Does he have the patience and empathy to continue asking my opinion and encouraging me to share? 

My intelligent, but voiceless self is the unfortunate fruit of church. 

There are insights I see and strategies I understand that could be of much use for the Kingdom of God - but instead I stay quiet, doing just as I was instructed. The question remains as to if I can find the courage to share. Do I speak only if I know I am heard or is my job simply to speak? Perhaps I am not accountable to the listener but I am accountable to myself for oftentimes choosing not to speak.

Hmmm...lots to process and consider. Hopefully one day I'll read this experience and laugh at how far I've come. For now, I am grateful to be more self-aware and pray God gives me courage to talk more even if no one is listening. 

Until We Meet Again

On Tuesday night, July 6th, my Grandpa passed away.

Like watching and waiting for a laboring mother to deliver, we watched and waited by his bedside - providing comfort, speaking our love into his ears, and holding his hand until his laboring ceased and he was delivered to his Savior. His wife of 69-years sat by his side holding his hand. 

"He was 91, what did you expect?" many critics say. You don't know my grandpa. He has been in and out of hospitals for the last 20-years. We were used to the many, many calls of, "he might not make it." Miraculously, over and over again he continued to recover. 

This time it was different. 

My Grandma chose a teal snoopy t-shirt for my Grandpa to wear when he came home from the hospital on Monday. Snoopy was dancing happily over the words, "Just Keep Smiling." Through his labor pains his simple Snoopy t-shirt bore witness to his enduring gratefulness for God's presence and grace. When his spirit had departed and body was still, Snoopy was still dancing. His picture (above) from his 90th birthday party captures his smile and comforts my heart like he is whispering a reminder to "Just Keep Smiling."

We weren't ready.

You would think we would have been ready for Grandpa's departure. Instead death came quickly, like a thief in the night. After hours of watchful care, we decided to read Psalm 27, pray together and sing some hymns - three of Grandpa's favorite activities. At every space in the house was a Bible, plus the Bible's on the bookshelf - by his bedside, at the table, by his chair, on his desk. I picked up the Bible by his chair. Inside his Bible was his mask and the bulletin from my church from the Sunday I preached a few weeks ago. My heart felt that deep pain knowing I wouldn't get to see him in church, smiling from ear to ear. Once we finished singing, we began preparing for bed. 

While we weren't looking he slipped away.

I know I have much to be thankful for and have many memories to bring me comfort, but for now my heart is grieving as I remember and ache in his absence.

Thank you, Grandpa, for your gift of music, your model of service, your timeless sense of humor, and your love for Jesus. I love you and already miss you so, so much. Until we meet again...

   

Broken Identity

I 

After scrolling through my many drafts of 'unpublished thoughts', this one called to me to let it loose. I have changed a lot from this post written over two years ago, but still have a long journey ahead. Written originally on 2/14/19 at 11:23 p.m. Enjoy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Last night a friend was with her daughter in the emergency room.

My heart broke to read her text to please pray.
Everything in me wanted to jump in my car and hurry to the hospital just to be present with her, give her a hug and pray with her. But between a Wednesday afternoon class and my Wednesday night program my hands were tied until late that evening.

Finally, my chance came. Kids had been picked up, classrooms cleaned, offices locked, car loaded -  now I was off to the hospital at 9:30 at night. A quick zoom down the freeway toward Fresno Community Hospital and my heart was pounding to give my friend a hug and reassure her of God's presence with her.

Quickly, I found a parking spot and began walking toward the emergency room doors when suddenly I froze. My feet literally stopped moving and my heart sunk within me.

My anxiousness to approach the door wasn't because of the armed guard in front of the door so much as the question that always proceed hospital visits.

Being in my fifth year as a pastor I should be calloused to the question - but I'm not. Even worse, the question itself drives a knife already lodged within my spirit even deeper causing me greater pain. I wondered if I could handle the pain today. Do I have the courage and the strength of identity to walk to the guard and ask to go in.

The person who was moved in her spirit just a few hours ago by the grief-filled text of a friend, responded and rushed to the hospital. But in the approach of the door that same woman froze. She couldn't respond to the Spirit's movement because of the limitations (even though just implied) put upon her.

Has your identity ever been so striped that you can no longer even speak it aloud? Or has the constant questioning of your identity gone on for so long that it forces you to begin questioning your true-self too?

The simple scenario that made me so anxious goes something like this:
"Good evening. Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm here to visit a friend. I'm her pastor and would like to pray with her."
"You're her pastor?"

You know that smirk people get when they don't believe what you're saying? That smirk and accusative question is the one that hurts the most. Sometimes my skin is tough enough I endure the smirk and go on in to pray. But other times I simply am not strong enough.

This particular evening I just didn't have it in me.

Perhaps my energy level was just too low to be able to handle the pain that comes when my identity, value, and honesty are questioned. Perhaps the wound in my heart from this topic is too raw for me to have the ability to endure another twist of the knife. Or perhaps I just didn't want to be reminded, once again, that I'm operating in a role in which I'm not respected or appreciated.

Whatever the case may be, my friend who was just behind the emergency walls, didn't get a hug and prayer from me on this night (at least not physically).

I drove home pondering the scenario. I had just driven twenty minutes to be with a friend at a time of crisis in her life. But I couldn't get past the questioning guard at the door. Even worse, I didn't even ask because I couldn't stomach the potential rejection. The guard may have even willingly let me in with a smile without the accusatory questioning--I'll never know.

Driving home I was reminded of Galatians 5:1, "It was for freedom that Christ set us free, therefore keep standing firm and do not be subject again to the yoke of slavery."

When I'm operating in Christ, I am allowed to live in full freedom as a fellow image bearer who loves Jesus in all that she is and all that she does. But when I operate under human leadership I have limits put upon me - I am once again enslaved.

Peaceful Fragrance

Peaceful Fragrance

** Written in spring 2018, but never published**

My feet hit the ground running this morning as I jumped to chase my ever-intensifying to-do list. Shower. Dog. Eat. Water. Then hurry to get to work to before the day is gone...hurry...hurry...hurry...faster...faster...faster...

Watering a few plants around my yard I'm deep in thought about my work to-do list, which is growing deeper and wider by the minute, and my family calendar of upcoming events. Mentally chronicling my day with most urgent to things I can do tonight, my heart rate beat faster than the water pouring from my hose -

then suddenly, there it was

a smell in the air hijacked my thoughts. It was a gardenia.

My husband and I have owned three houses in our married life and every one of them have faced west. What this means (to all you non-valley folks) is that there is not one part of my front or back yard that does not suffer the cruelty of our three-digit summer temperature. Flowers like geraniums, gardenias, hydrangeas and azaleas (just to name a few of my favorites) cannot survive in my yard since there is nowhere to hide from the scorching sun.

With foolish-thinking, I still plant gardenias in the off-chance I might see a flower. The greenery on the plant and structure of the branches are beautiful, even without the white flower. Today, I saw flowers! Not just one, but multiple flowers.

The smell of this little white flower ushered me back in time to a day when I was a little girl. I would walk around our neighborhood smelling flowers. One neighbor had a gardenia plant. I remember I would pick the delicate flower and then put it in my pocket. Back at home, I treasured the tiny fragrant jewel! The flower would become my companion for the day, traveling with me to far-away places (in my imagination) all the way to my dreams, being tucked safely under my pillow to smell through the night. It was a season of imagination, adventures and beauty.

I am amazed how fast smells transport me back in time. This gardenia, in particular, had me tear up thinking about childhood fantasies, running through the neighborhood barefoot and feeling as light as a feather with no responsibilities at all.

The beautiful gardenia smell brings me warm, happy memories of childhood - a place I wish I could visit again. I recognize the blessing of a positive childhood and am so thankful for an active imagination, a love of nature and God who found me in the middle of my fantasy-world.

My prayer is that parents remember to fight for their child's childhood. Our culture wants our children to grow up too fast. Fight to keep them innocent, keep them imagining, keep them exploring. As my children continue to grow, I hope I created spaces for them to explore their world and see beauty in people and nature. My heart also grieves the many children who have not smelled a gardenia or put a flower in their pocket as their companion for the day.

Our world is full of sadness and injustice - but it is also a place where beauty blooms and love grows.

Not Enough

 **I had this experience in February but am finally getting time to write it. I hope this story brings freedom to my friends who suffer from hearing the same voice. **

Last fall, when I realized I may be able to graduate this spring, I sent a note to the Registrar’s Office to confirm I had fulfilled all my requirements to graduate. I put a sticky note on the wall above my desk to remind myself to keep checking for a reply just in case there was one-more-thing, one-more-class, one-more-form, or one-more-hoop I needed to jump through and complete.

I sent another email in December and another in February—still no reply. Do I just trust I am cleared to graduate? No, I must keep pressing…just in case.

After an email to my Advisor I discovered there was one more class.

Before the spring semester began, I had tried to register for this last class (and actually added it to my schedule 2x!) but was unable to click the registration button.

Now I found myself in February, unable to click the darn “register” button and needing now to complete online forms for a late class addition and pay a late fee. I won’t bore you with all the details because after more hoop-jumping to get it on my schedule with the help of my advisor and the Registrar’s office I am set to go (and the late fee waived). All ended well, but in the process, I had a confrontation with an internal voice.

In the middle of filling out paperwork and sending emails back and forth my heart raced, I got very, very angry and then found myself in a lump of tears over my desk. In between his online courses my son found me in tears worried, “Are you okay, mom? What happened?”

“I don’t even know.”

I pushed away from the computer and asked God, “What happened? Why did this event cause me to flip-out so dramatically? What is causing my extreme anxiety in adding this one class?”

Quiet.

I waited.

Sitting in silence—I heard it.

The internal record that plays in the background of my heart: “You’ll never be enough. You can keep adding degrees—but you are not enough. The problem is you..you are not enough”

The ugly Shame Monster that lives within me roared its insults against my identity, reminding me of the many, many ways I fall short and do not measure up, many being beyond my own power.

As this monster kept attacking and my internal self sat shaking, I became aware of what was happening.

I knew (logically) the accusations were not true, but in my heart I still believe them.

Up came decades of pain. Decades of voices and situations in which I was diminished, pushed-down, and discarded. Instead of silencing my tears, I let them flow. I would like to say those situations were not true or that I misheard the voices...but they are within me loud and clear. The pain of “not enough” was at the root of my anxious emails. This life-long cycle of always falling short was the lens in which I was seeing.

Through my tears, I began to hear other voices. From a distance at first—but getting louder. Voices of love. Voices of encouragement. Voices of courage. Voices of friends.

When Shame is attacking, it casts a shadow over our heart and blocks our ability to hear or see around it. Becoming aware of Shame allowed me to get beside it to hear the voices it had diminished behind it. I can’t say the Shame Monster is gone, but it did not win this round. I am grateful for the steps I have learned to recognize Shame, name it, and be aware of the power it has (or tries to have) over me.

I had to laugh out-loud when the next day I received a call from Fresno Pacific informing me I had been chosen to be the recipient of the Seminary’s 2021 Outstanding Graduate Award. My initial reaction was, "Why me? I'm not enough." As the thought crossed my mind I recognized it from the day before and told Shame to be quiet. Perhaps, I am enough. And just perhaps (thankfully) not everyone sees me through my negative lens, but sees God-at-work in me, through me, and often-times, in spite of me.

My encouragement to my friends is to be aware of Shame lurking inside, call it out when you hear its accusations, don't let it have power over you. Most importantly, allow yourself to receive and remember the voices of your friends and community when they share how they see God you.

To God be the glory,

Connie