Looking Glass Shame

I share this video clip because – well, it’s me. It is real, it feels like life, and tastes like hope. Hope beyond abuse. Hope beyond loss. Hope beyond shame. Hope beyond hopelessness.

It was taken recently by my oldest child (selfie extraordinaire) when we were walking the streets of her college town after eating a vegan meal (I am not vegan, she is, but everyone should eat more plants) and walking several city blocks to where my car was not. Of note, this city was recently recorded as the worlds coldest city, as luck would have it, I was in a skirt.

The Mysterious Growth in the Character of the Wicked Man: Part 3

“It’s seems impossible to convince people that private behaviour cannot be predicted from public behaviour. Kind, non-violent individuals behave well in public, but so do many people who are brutal behind the scenes. The growing sexual abuse crisis in the church just underlines that fact the offenders can recognize ideal settings for child molestors even if the rest of us can’t.” – Anna Salter

This is The Man…

This is the man who has crawled after he collapsed.

This is the man, who stayed when he could go.

This is the man who daily fights just to stand under the crushing weight of my story – of our story.

That Sort of Girl…

“I’m just not that sort of girl, you know?”

“I know honey, of course you’re not.” (Little does she know there is no ‘sort of girl’ that takes her clothes off, no particular ‘sort’ at all…)

If I Were a Wolf…

I’d gain the sheep’s trust, from the oldest to the youngest. I’d get me a rep-u-tation for being a fine sheep, a faithful sheep, a defender of the Shepherd. Yep… that’s it! (I’m getting so worked up here…) I’d make sure it looked like I was real cosy with the Shepherd. After all, the sheep TRUST the Shepherd, they know His voice. Yep… that’s what I’d do – I’d watch the Shepherd carefully and mimic Him. That would give me credibility that I clearly don’t have on my own – I am a wolf after all.

Let The Church Be The Church Again

I am the poor woman, fooled and and ripped apart,
I am the woman bearing savage soul scars.
I am the victim driven from the pew,
I am the survivor clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old game I knew,
Of protect the strong and crush the weak.

Deep Memory, Maggots & The Manger

Deep memory wakes me in the night, like wormwood – when the bitterness you left behind seeps through the unguarded chinks in my mind. Your seed, the one with which you inseminated my soul; is rotting and wriggling like maggots from their parasitic placenta. In my slumber, you and your many faces come to me. You charm, coax, rub, hope, cajole, invite, entice, expect and enter. I avoid, explain away, rationalize, minimize, make excuses for, give in and finally open myself to the decay of you. I panic and wake myself, feeling the movement of imaginary maggots that I am certain must be there.

Give Us Barabbas!

hu·mil·i·ate (verb)
make (someone) feel ashamed and foolish by injuring their dignity and self-respect, especially publicly.

The Foam of Your Shame

“They are… wild ocean waves leaving nothing on the beach but the foam of their shame.” Jude 1:13