Thanks for the Pain

Being an effective writer means being vulnerable. It means delving deep into the inner realm of human emotions and putting to words what everyone feels but few express. It means opening our secret chambers to view to let others see that their eccentricities, awkward thoughts, and inner agonies do not isolate them from the rest of humanity. Writers unlock the vault of emotion and allow humanity to feel united through our common, unspoken struggles.

Still, it is more comfortable to share through the voice of a third party—a story of someone else's experience. Sharing other people's struggles still makes us dig within ourselves to find and express the unspoken thoughts and feelings of humanity—but without the incrimination of its being our story. If we must share our own, the most comfortable choices are historical events far enough behind us that we can laugh, shrug, or at least assure ourselves that we have since grown.

But nobody's experiences are finished up and neatly sealed off. (We call those memories, and even most memories have unresolved threads.) It's what we are experiencing that creates our need for help.

When I was a toddler, my dad dubbed me "the one who admits it." As it turns out, he made both a descriptive and prophetic statement. I hereby publicly accept the calling.

I had a crazy week—and by that I mean that I felt loco. I only left the 40 acres once, but my emotions sang the scale below Middle C almost all day, every day. I went to bed burnt out and woke up wishing for bedtime—or at least my afternoon walk. I fought tears and lost three or more times most every day.

There's a big problem with this. It isn't me. I'm the girl who laughed, smiled, and acted normal enough the day after a major break-up that my closest girlfriend wondered if the ordeal was still bothering me. (It was, of course—but the tears of my soul often flow inside sealed chambers.)

This Monday morning, I found myself kneeling in prayer and sobbing. Now, usually, I would pray it through, tell my face muscles to smile, start singing Steve Green's "Always", and go have a great day. Or at least pretend to have a great day.

This time, as I prayed, the still small voice seemed to tell me to go ask my mom for a hug.

I didn't exactly want to. I knew Mom would be tender and understanding, but it isn't my style to ask for emotional help. Still, the thought persisted, so I dragged myself to her room.

When Mom saw my tears, her mouth dropped open. "What happened?"

That was the problem. "Nothing," I had to whimper. "I just need a hug." I clung to her and sobbed on her shoulder for quite awhile before I could admit that my tears had been caused by something that had happened 51 weeks before. Humiliating—but I learned something. Compassion doesn't put people through an application process. When people are hurting, I shouldn't judge if they have a legitimate reason, and give them a glorified "move on and get over it." I should take the raw pains of years gone by just as seriously as yesterday's wound.

The week continued, and I just kept struggling. I'd think of my dog's death, and the tears would well up. I would try to study for my Western Civilization I CLEP exam, and feel like the biggest history dunce ever. I'd remember a friend in Washington, and cry just for missing them.

Then I'd send up a prayer and claim a promise. I'd choose to be happy. Get a drink of water. Have a happy mealtime conversation. Go for a walk. It wasn't that the usual fixes didn't work—they just didn't work for long. Sooner than I wished, I'd be standing in the need of prayer once again.

On Tuesday I roamed the woods like usual, talking to God about how humiliated I felt to be struggling with...should I call it depression? Had this ever happened to me since I'd learned about choosing to be happy? And since even this week I'd repeatedly claimed and reveled in His precious promises, why would this ache not go away? What was going on with Cheyenne? I want to be who He is making me into, I let Him know; but I really did like the way He'd had me before.

Or did I? Hadn't I been praying for compassion?

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God" (2 Corinthians 1:3, 4).

A strange awareness welled up inside. Could it really be?

"God," my voice quivered, "thank You for the pain. Thank You for allowing me this unexplained struggle so that I can sympathize with others who are struggling."

Thursday evening. Crying into my pillow. Mom came in for worship, and began telling me other friends' sorrows. Big things. Bad things. Recent things. Not the historic drama causing my tears.

"Oh, honey, are you crying?" Mom's face melted in sympathy, and she laid her head down next to mine. I could see the pain in her eyes just from seeing mine. I hadn't even started talking yet.

When I did, she listened and helped me sort out what's really going on.

Today on my walk, I thanked God for the pain again. I really do want that compassion He's teaching me.

Even more, I want helpless reliance on Him. I want to know to the core where to hang my soul—and how.

So, in the sea of seemingly silly sorrows, I have kept afloat through the power in prayer, sympathy, and the Word. "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth.... I sought the Lord, and He heard me, And delivered me from all my fears. They looked to Him and were radiant, ... This poor [woman] cried out, and the Lord heard [her], And saved [her].... There is no want to those who fear Him.... Those who seek the Lord shall not lack any good thing" (Psalm 34:1, 4-6, 9, 10).

Jesus chose to be brutalized by human pain so that He could understand me and test the strength of His promises. Now He offers me the same blessed experience.

Yes.

Thank You.

Amen.

Daring Dreams

Perhaps it's because I opted not to put up curtains, and the moon shines through my windows freely. Or maybe it's because my major current occupation is thinking (in several variations). Or perhaps it's because my social life has been quiet, and my mind likes to hatch up plots. Anyway, lately I've awakened remembering more dreams than average.

Usually, I've been glad to end the involuntary imaginations. For instance, I dreamed that my late (yet still beloved) dog, Kodiak, had been kidnapped and needed rescue. I dreamed of learning a dark secret from a good friend's childhood. I dreamed that a hiker buddy died. I dreamed I went back to Inchelium, WA, and didn't quite fit in anymore. (I dreamed plenty of less dramatic plots as well. I'd tell you about them—if I could remember.)

I dream in the daytime, too; but daydreams are merely the products of ordinary wistfulness. Conversations I'd like to have with friends. People and places I'd like to visit. Hugs. Special events. How to get to know people better. How to heal from hurts and frustrations. What to do with the rest of my life.

But dreams differ significantly from goals. Dreams can be ridiculous, emotional, over-sized, lofty, or repining. Dreams are fairy tales you wish would just happen. Goals are determinations you intend to make happen.

The non-traditional, accelerated college program I'm enrolled in* starts out every student's studies with a Life Purpose Planning workbook, with pages full of exercises to help young people answer the question, "Why am I here?"

I'll admit it. I was skeptical at first. I'm 26, and I think I have a good idea of who I am, what my interests and passions are, and what I'd like to experience and accomplish in life. But, since I also enjoy healthy introspection, I plunged in. I answered those questions about my strong and weak points, activities I enjoy, how I learn and relate, people who have influenced me, callings I have accepted for my life, lifelong dreams & aspirations, and who I feel particularly drawn to minister to. I thought about failures and successes. I pinpointed the "biggest need" I see in the people around me, and how to model my life to address that need.

Then, I wrote out a "life purpose statement." Mind if I share?

I am resolved to live in total surrender to God and to let my heart be immersed and satisfied in the truth of His love—and to share this fulfilled experience with all who are hurting and longing for something better. Through writing, speaking, friendship, teaching, listening, and mentoring, I seek to influence, encourage, and disciple children, teenagers, young adults, and women in all walks of life (but especially the abused, oppressed, and forgotten) so that they too can find in Jesus the fulfillment of all their needs, and reach their own full potential. I want to share with all I can influence that the Lord heals the broken-hearted, that He satisfies the needs and longings of the heart—but that we need to be real, candid, and honest with ourselves and Him for this to happen. I want to help others see that they have an incredible worth—an unshakeable worth rooted in the love of God for them—worth that can't be annulled by the careless and uncaring people around them. I want to exemplify a life totally set apart for God, totally willing to follow and obey (wherever He sends me), and totally willing to share my own deep experiences for the enrichment of other lives.

A lofty dream. I found myself enamored. My college coach responded: "Pure beauty. . . . How?"

How. A question that pulls us down from the euphoric heights of daring dreams, to the human reality of finiteness.

I had two choices: allow my dreams to remain beautiful, untainted, unfulfilled dreams—or to turn them into goals.

Goals are practical. They aren't always glamorous. Goals can be simple, plain, and unsung. But goals propel us toward our dreams, and because of that, goals are priceless.

I took my daring dream to the God who gave it to me. I asked Him how to make it realistic. Then, together, we started breaking the dream down into strategies, large and small.

• Pray & study to understand God's love and my worth to Him.
• Memorize texts on God's love & human worth.
• Intercede for people I know are hurting.
• Write articles that are relevant to people's lives.
• Blog.
• Send encouraging letters.
• Deepen superficial friendships, seek out new friends, and take time to listen to friends who already trust me.
• Seek personal healing through the Word, books, DVD series, etc.
• Minister through tangible acts of service.
• Study great communicators.

The list goes on. But even these items can be a bit too lofty for real, nitty-gritty, everyday life.

So (with the help of the workbook), I've made a calendar. By the end of March, have Psalm 34 memorized. In April, do Psalm 37. In March, start re-reading The Desire of Ages. Start writing weekly notes to encourage friends and acquaintances (I've even got specific names on the docket). Observe the people I associate with at midwifery study groups and try to pinpoint in what ways they are hurting. Read a new book a friend recommended, about finding our worth in God. Pursue a friendship with a girl I've just become reacquainted with. Make a prayer list. Pray for compassion.

All of these items have dates and deadlines attached to them. They are specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-sensitive (S.M.A.R.T. goals). They may not be dazzlingly romantic, or even the essence of the "pure beauty" reflected in my life purpose statement. But they are threads in the tapestry. They are pieces of the picture. They are steps up the mountain I seek to climb. They are things I can work toward today.

Because of this, I can look at even my little goals as daring dreams. Except these dreams I know how to accomplish.

Some dreams (like the ones I wake up remembering each morning) are better discarded. Some are sentimental, wistful, even silly. But a golden few are just too good to not come true—especially when we can choose and determine to make them happen.

Will you dare to make your dreams come true?

*College Plus. See http://www.collegeplus.org/tf/9009.

Published Outside YD

My hours of writing and then submitting variations on an article to every newspaper in Iowa have begun to be recognized. The Gazette is a large Iowa newspaper based in Cedar Rapids, and they accepted it as a guest opinion article. Other papers, including the Des Moines Register, are taking it as a letter to the editor. It's a good day in Mount Sterling. :-) Pray for change all over Iowa!

http://thegazette.com/2012/01/09/state-should-support-the-practice-of-midwifery/

http://dmjuice.desmoinesregister.com/article/20120114/OPINION04/301140023/1038

http://www.thonline.com/news/opinion/article_a04a5c9d-564d-5334-b759-1d94559fbd11.html

http://www.freemanjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/517605/Hero-or-felon-.html?nav=5070

http://www.press-citizen.com/article/20120111/OPINION05/301110018/Are-midwives-heroes-felons-?odyssey=nav%7Chead

http://keotaeagle.com/index93.htm

http://www.reinbeckcourier.com/page/content.detail/id/509358/Cheyenne-Francis.html?nav=5003

The paper for the University of Iowa published it even though I'm not a student! http://www.dailyiowan.com/2012/01/19/Opinions/26552.html

I even saw that somebody had reposted it to their blog. :-)

The Test of a Calling

In every notable room in my parents' house, simple wooden shelves whisper volumes to anyone who stops to observe. They tell the purpose and function of not only the room, but also the people who use that room most. This ordinary furniture tells the secrets of thoughts, goals, dreams, and desires.

In my mother's office, the bookcase is loaded with volumes on two topics: spiritual instruction, and natural health and healing. The shelves in my father's studio host an eclectic assortment of artsy trinkets—and music books. The bookcases in the living room reflect their shared interests: gardening, traveling, family photos, hiking, nature identification. Like the pictures on the refrigerator, bookcases—full, empty, or absent—can help you get to know even a stranger.

I thought carefully when selecting the books for the shelves in my bedroom. I chose the books that I thought I would read and refer to most—and I boxed the rest up. Only later did I realize what the bookcase had to say about my passions, dreams, and interests.

Three of my seven shelves support books on birth, midwifery care, and home remedies. I placed them in the bookcase first, since I am, after all, a midwifery student. Two more shelves hold my spiritual books—not all of them, but the most special, as well as the ones I plan to read this year.

The remaining two shelves didn't make as much sense to me when I unpacked my books; I simply arranged them how my heart mandated. A few inspirational self-help books on personalities, relationships and romance, healing from past hurts. A handful of music books. My dictionary and thesaurus, Chicago Manual of Style, and Stein on Writing. Three empty journals received as gifts, twelve already filled, and one in progress. My writer's notebook, my binder full of Writer's Digest articles, and my writer's portfolio.

"The test of a calling, to me, is this," a friend recently remarked. "Can you do anything else? If so, do it."

When I left my job at Young Disciple, I didn't expect to be quickly called back into writing. Sure, I knew I would always have a writer's heart and I'd always dabble around with words. But, reasoning that the world has plenty of good authors (and no end to the mediocre), I planned to make my difference in the tangible world of mothers and babies.

And yet, as the bookcase testifies, the writer's calling has its stronghold in my soul. I can barricade myself with other pursuits; but like my friend, I have found that "God won't let me do anything else." As I cultivate new skills, knowledge, and interests—exploring the potential of new callings, to midwifery and other ministries—I have come to understand that in order to thrive, I must remain true to the calling God has already placed on my life, the talent He has already given. That's why, without abandoning my midwifery apprenticeship, I've added freelancing jobs and studies in journalism (plus a blog) back into my life, concurrently.

Do you know your calling, or would you like to discover it? Perhaps—just maybe—your bookcase already whispers it.