REFLECTIONS ON TURNING 40

Save for the year after being orphaned, this year has been the toughest of my life. I finished four years researching and writing my book, and I didn’t pay any attention to how completely burned out I had become. It certainly didn’t help that 40 was looming and, while I have no hang-ups with getting older in and of itself, it kicked off another cycle of grief.

At its core, grief is loneliness. Obviously you are lonely for the person who no longer shares life with you, but it is also lonely knowing there is no one else who misses her the way you do or remembers him the way you do. Even my brother and sister – the closest people to understand the early loss of our parents – have different experiences, memories and reactions as members of the Orphan Club. 

In this place of exhaustion and loneliness, things that I thought were foundationally solid have been called into question. When you are forced to take a pit stop in life, you actually have time to survey your surroundings. Sometimes you like where you have ended up and sometimes you don’t. This is terrifying for someone who has built a life and career as the how-to girl. Slowly and painfully, I began to see the world differently. 

During my soul searching, I realized how judgmental I have been. In my own defense, I honestly didn’t realize I was being judgmental – I thought very open to other experiences and perspectives. But I secretly thought I had it all together and when you think this way, it is seductively easy to slide into a condescending attitude. Over the last year as I have been shaken to the core, I realized that I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to be that person. 

I think we choose to be judgmental because it makes us feel safe – we can hide behind the walls of our belief systems, our ideals, our routines, our absolutes, our decisions. Coming out from behind those walls to question those things is deeply frightening because we have to venture into no man’s land. The Franciscan friar Richard Rohr calls this place liminal space – when we have left all that we know but we have not yet arrived at the next place. In liminal space we cannot be sure where we will end up when we emerge. In fact, we fear we will get fully lost and never emerge at all. 

I was chatting with a friend the other day about all of this “40 Stuff,” and he looked me dead in the eyes and said very calmly, “It is human.” Going through these times in life is part of our personal evolution. Learning to accept and embrace the process doesn’t always look pretty, but it is so very important. Somewhere along the lines, amidst all the how-to’s and rules and checklists, I forgot the beauty of being human and all the messiness and uncertainty that it entails. 

So I am surrendering to this season and have stopped trying to control or rush it. I suppose it’s kind of like giving up the expectation that my life will look like a Renoir depicting clear images to the world, and coming to grips with the fact that it might end up looking like a Jackson Pollock with random paint splattered on a canvas. Or it could just end up looking like a three-year-old’s drawing. I suppose there is beauty in that as well, but it is difficult to see when the work is not yet finished. 

So as I turn 40 today, I realize that I don’t know much. I don’t have a lot of answers. In the months of musing and reflecting, however, I have some thoughts. 

I think authenticity matters because it is the only way we can hear the hearts of people who believe differently than us as well as the voices of our own tribe. 

I think staying bunkered in “us vs. them” mentality – always defining ourselves by what we are not – leaves no room for our own growth as well as extending that same opportunity to others around us. 

I think real change, revelation and connection takes place when we ask more questions and give fewer directives. 

I think wisdom is mined in the dark places, and if we refuse to allow seasons of darkness dwelling, we miss out on some of the best stuff in life. 

I think we only grow more tired, tattered, impatient and unkind when we do not create quiet places for our souls to rest and reflect. 

I think vulnerability is worth the risk of getting rejected because when we spend our lives covering up what we truly feel and think, we only guarantee chasms of loneliness between others and us. 

I think it is brave to ask for what we truly want and need from those closest to us rather than expecting them to just intuitively know. 

I think it is only when we accept ourselves as good enough – not pinning that acceptance to elusive achievements but right in the here and now – that we can love ourselves and others well. 

I think we all need intimacy – the connection between two human beings with the ability to say I see you, I accept you despite all your imperfections, and I love you. 

I think cultivating patterns of forgiveness with others and ourselves is better than striving and failing under the weight of perfectionism. 

I think having the courage to linger in the questions is more powerful and transformative than rushing to find the answers. 

And I know it is scary as hell to take the leap to put all this into practice. 

That’s all I’ve got.

ERYN-FAYE FRANS, Canada's Passion Coach®
ErynFaye.Com

THE ANSWER

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

It is the best, and sometimes hardest, answer to give.

As a parent. As a person of faith. As a person of science. As a human being.

Sure, there are those who use it as a cop-out. Shrugging their shoulders as they go with the flow. They hand it out liberally: a get-out-of-responsibility-free card, an excuse to stay on the sidelines, a reason to stay in lock-step with the group. Might as well leave the thinking to someone else.

But for those who honestly struggle. Those who want to know. Those who are willing to change. Those who will be inconvenienced by truth.

For those who teach. Those who inspire and motivate. Those who take responsibility to lead.

For those…

It is brave. 

It is sincere.

 It is humbling.

Sometimes it is the place where certainty and faith intersect.

Sometimes it is where Mom becomes a mere mortal.

Sometimes it is the only right answer.

Because life is full of mystery. And the Universe is infinite. And God is bigger than our minds can comprehend. And we are only human after all.

There are times when the only answer we can give is:

I don’t know.

So here’s me, grappling with questions about afterlife and how to deal with after school tantrums and whether my 12-year-old is mature enough to read Hunger Games.

CHRISTIE HOOS

So Here's Us

FORSAKEN .... FOR A REASON

"My God, my God why have You forsaken me?”

This was the cry of David’s heart as he began Psalm 22 and it was the cry of Jesus’ heart as He hung on the cross.This was also the cry of my heart the night after our oldest son’s second major surgery. 

He had been hit and pinned between two trucks on August 4th, 2010 and spent the next month moving down from ICU to each level of hospital care until he could be released.

Hunter, our son, had just had a muscle flap transfer and was in excruciating pain all night long - in spite of the heavy drugs. 

“I kept praying out loud for You to take the pain away ... to just touch him somehow ... and nothing happened - nothing changed. I cried and pleaded for You to hold my baby, to gently rock him, to soothe him ... and You didn’t.

I felt like I was praying to the walls of the hospital room.

I felt alone. I felt forsaken.

How could You not hear us? Not answer us? Turn Your back on us? 

Not help my boy ... Your boy? Your son who had come so far -- whose heart is so soft to You right now ... I don’t get it. I don’t understand.

I honestly felt forsaken.”

Have you ever felt forsaken by God? Did you ever get an answer from God as to why He seemingly disappeared when you needed Him most? Were you afraid to admit you felt this way?

I sincerely believe that God is big enough to handle any of our feelings. Let’s face it, feelings don’t equate truth. Remember, part of intimacy is sharing our gut-honest thoughts and emotions. It’s senseless to try to hide anything from our Abba Father.

However, many Christ-followers don’t know what to do with this feeling of spiritual abandonment. Many won’t admit to ever having felt it. And many will tell you that if you don’t feel Christ’s presence at all times, then it’s you who has moved away from Him. (So now you feel both abandoned and guilty that it’s somehow your fault! No comfort there.)

I will share with you what God impressed upon my spirit months later, and perhaps give you another perspective to contemplate the next time you feel forsaken ...

“Christie, it is far easier to trust me when you can see My fingerprints. It’s not as big a step of faith for you take when you can hear My Voice. And, there’s a greater likelihood of you reaching out to Me when you can feel Me right by your side.

But Who do you trust when you cannot hear Me, feel Me, or see Me? Where will you turn? Can you believe Me when I am silent? Can you entrust your heart to My Goodness when I am invisible?”

It was then I remembered the interchange between Christ and Thomas in John 20. It began with Thomas making the statement, “Unless I shall see in His hands the imprint of the nails, and put my finger into the place of the nails and put my hand into His side, I will not believe. ... Then Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Reach here your finger, and see My hands, and put it in My side; and be not unbelieving, but believing.’ Thomas answered and said to Him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Because you have seen Me, have you believed? Blessed are they who did not see, and yet believed.”

Huge questions for my soul to process -- and as I did, I began to wonder if I experienced feeling forsaken for a reason? For a higher calling? For a greater purpose?

Have you ever felt forsaken by God? Did you consider that there was a greater purpose at work? What questions did your soul need to process?

Let’s put the hard questions out on the table and talk about them ..... please share with me your thoughts.

CHRISTIE LEE RAYBURN

ChristieLeeRayburn.com