Day 26 of 31: Do You Hate Scars as Much as I Do?

I view my scars as God's trophies of a battle well fought...
And reminders that He helped us win that battle,
making us stronger for the next!
--Angela Harper, cancer survivor

When grace is ushered in for good,

And all our scars are understood.

--Mercy Me, “The Hurt and The Healer”

            Just when you think you’re feeling accomplished and doing pretty well today, you run your forehead into the edge of a van’s hatchback, and you have to call your mom to take you to the ER at midnight.

            What happened last Tuesday night turned out to be pretty funny and totally fine after all was said and done--and after I was able to fall asleep in my own bed.  But the incident brought up the way I feel about scars on my body and how vanity and insecurity can creep in, even when you feel like you’re the most confident girl in the world.

            Vanity of vanities.

            It was dark out and super freezing—about 15 degrees.  I was carrying a box out to my friend’s car.  I put on my bulky winter coat with its huge hood.  There was snow and slushy ice on the ground, so I was watching my feet to make sure I didn’t slip while carrying the box.  My hood had cut off my peripheral vision, and besides I was looking at the ground anyway.  Smack into the hatchback, right above my eyebrow. Ouch.

            I put the box in my friend’s van and then started walking back into the church, thinking I just need to sit down for a minute and Maybe I shouldn’t drive home. 

            Thankfully, my friend Mary Anne was there and asked me if I was okay.

            “Yeah,” I told her.  I thought I felt a tear roll down my cheek, so I wiped it away with my glove, only to realize it was blood.  I looked at Mary Anne. “Oh, I think I’m bleeding.”

            “Yes, honey, you are.” 

            At that point, I put both my gloved hands under my chin to catch all the blood.  We finally made it inside to the kitchen, only to make a little scene—those poor people trying to clean dishes and pack up leftover food had to see me barge in with blood gushing down my face. 

            I know my friends were tired and ready to go home, but they were all super sweet and helpful—letting me sit down, close my eyes, and hold my head back while one held the towel on my gash and others wiped the blood off my face and coat and called my mom and gave me some aspirin.

            What fascinates me about experiencing this is that as I sat there and listened to my friends assess the gash on my forehead—how long it was and how deep it looked—there was about 90 seconds where it was all I could do not to break down crying.  I didn’t want to cry because of the pain, but I wanted to cry because I DIDN’T WANT A SCAR ON MY FACE.

            Vanity of vanities.

            For about 90 seconds, I wasn’t being logical or reasonable, and I was only thinking how my face wasn’t going to be the same after this.  Lies creep in when we’re wounded and try to make us believe we’re no longer beautiful.

            That 90 seconds passed, and I was me again, telling myself to stop being ridiculous.  But my forehead was now feeling pretty sore, and as I sat in the passenger seat while my mom drove us to the ER, I closed my eyes and pouted for another 20 minutes.

            I now have 3 scars on my forehead: one from having the chicken pox, one from running into a doorknob when I was 3, and one from running into a hatchback when I was 27.  I didn’t like this interruption to my night and to my week.  I didn’t like this interruption on my forehead.  I wasn’t in the mood to hear jokes about how someone will probably still marry me even though I have this scar. 

            Vanity of vanities.

            I finally smiled and told my mom, “I’m milkin’ this for all it’s worth.  I’m staying home from work tomorrow.”  I knew it wasn’t all that rebellious of me to take the day off tomorrow, since I would just swap it with another day off, but it brought me great comfort to think about sleeping in and resting at home the next day.

           

            I lay on the little bed in the hospital room while Mom and I waited for the doctor to come in to stitch my cut up.  I was ready to laugh about it now, give up the vanity, and just be thankful that my mom was there to help me and that the cut wasn’t any closer to my eye.

            But then a nurse came in, and somehow as we talked a little about my medical history, I told her about my gallbladder surgery that I had 3 and a half years ago.  I should be thankful for the surgery because now I don’t have all that indigestion and stomach pain from the gallstones. But the surgery is a sore subject for me because it left 4 scars on my stomach. 

            Vanity of Vanities.

            I remember that the day of my gallbladder surgery and the week of recovery afterwards were pretty rough.  I was nauseated from the medicine, and my incisions were sore.  I couldn’t roll over in bed because of my stomach pain, and I wasn’t regaining my strength as quickly as I expected.  That week of recovery left me discouraged.

            After that week, I went to the surgeon’s office for my follow-up appointment.  I had had big bandages over my incisions up to that point, so that day my surgeon took them off.  I about had a hissy fit in his office when I saw my scars for the first time.  I pointed to my belly button incision and said, “This looks so disgusting.  Don’t you think this looks disgusting?”

            I have no idea why I asked him this question except that my doctor was so unfeeling about everything that I was looking for a little sympathy.  But my surgeon couldn’t have cared less about my scars.  He looked up from his paperwork, gave me an annoyed look, and said, “No, it looks fine.” 

            I wanted to stomp my foot and yell, “Fine? You think this looks fine? Fine was before my surgery, before you botched up my belly button!”

            Vanity of vanities.

            But I did not yell at my surgeon.  He had me sign some stuff, then I paid my copay at the front desk, and walked through the parking lot to my car.  I plopped into my driver’s seat and turned the key.  Why do I want to cry about this?  But lies creep in when we’re wounded and try to make us believe we’re no longer beautiful.

            Of course, it’s petty. Physical appearance doesn’t define us, and physical beauty is nothing without a beautiful heart.  There are more important things to worry about, and others have deeper wounds that we need to help with. Most of us would even say that emotional wounds are more difficult to deal with than physical ones. 

            When I was 19, I had a friend whose heart was still bleeding from an emotional wound from her high school days.  She asked me for advice.  She asked me to pray for her.  She asked me what we could do to stop everyone she loves from having to go through what she went through.  That was her wound. 

            That wound made her vulnerable—because lies creep in when we’re wounded and try to make us believe we’re no longer beautiful.  She needed me and other friends to remind her that she was valuable, she was important, she was beautiful, she had hope in God. 

            Over the course of 3 years, I saw God heal my friend of this wound.  Maybe there’s a little scar tissue now, but she hardly notices it, and she lives free of the pain that used to pierce her.  And now when I know people who are experiencing a similar wound, I will call up my friend to see if she’ll tell them how God healed her wound.  I want her to tell them that maybe there’s a scar still, but it doesn’t hurt to touch it anymore; it’s only a reminder of how God stopped the bleeding and took away the pain.

            Through my little ER excitement of this week, my vanity is actually off the hook because my scar blends in with my eyebrow.  Most people will never even notice this scar unless I show them, and the plus side is that I now have a few less eyebrows to pluck.  I had to throw away the gloves that I was wearing that night, but I was able to buy another pair at Target for $3.50.  No harm, no foul.  God has even provided what I need to cover the medical bills.  I’m as good as new.

           

            Every scar comes with a story.  Every story can have a good ending when God heals and redeems.  Lies creep in when we’re wounded and try to make us believe we’re no longer beautiful, but our God is the Healer. I know you may have deeper wounds and worse scars than I’ve ever dealt with, so I pray God will comfort and heal you tonight.  Please listen to the song “The Hurt and the Healer” by Mercy Me.  xoxo

 

 

Working with Dad (The Pastor's Daughter)

Dad & me!

            After I finish the 31-day blogging challenge, I’m going to take a long break from blogging about me.   My next writing project will be to write a book with my dad.  My dad has told me for years that he wants me to help him write a book about the experiences he’s had in almost 40 years of church ministry—all the things he has seen God do, all the things he has learned to do, and all the things he has learned not to do in leading a church.

           

            Dad helped me put my mailbox together last weekend.  (He was actually doing all the work.  I was just holding it in place and occasionally handing him the screwdriver.)  As he was working on my mailbox, I told him that I was ready to start writing his book with him.  “It’s super easy to self publish something, Dad.  Have you thought about what chapters you want to write?”

            He sighed, “I think I wrote them down somewhere, but I forget.” 

            I laughed, thinking, This is why he needs me to help him make this happen.

            My dad’s office is just 2 doors down from mine at church.  I started working on his church staff  5 and a half years ago.  It’s pretty special, I know.

            I was hired onto the church staff right before I graduated from college.  A few weeks before graduation, I ran into my friend Laura on campus.  Laura had lost her dad to cancer in January of that year.  As we chatted in the dorm lobby, Laura asked me what I was going to do after graduation.  I told her that I was going to work with my dad at the church. 

            Laura smiled and said, “I would give anything to be able to work with my dad.”

            I didn’t know what to say, but I nodded.  Finally, I said, “I’m very thankful.” 

            I still think about Laura’s words often.

            Dad didn’t actually offer me the job.  Pastor Paul—our family life pastor—was the one who called me and asked me to meet with him.  I was 21 and was just a few months away from graduating from college.  At that point, I knew that I wanted to work in a church teaching the bible and shepherding people to grow in their faith.  I had prepared my resume and was ready to apply to churches all over Indiana (near my family) and in Michigan (where my profs had connections) and wherever God would open up an opportunity.  I was willing to work with teenagers, children, adults—any area of ministry where I would have the opportunity to teach God’s Word and to guide people into a growing relationship with Christ.    

            I met with Paul during the hour before our church service started.  It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving—6 years ago this very week.  Paul explained the job description of what he wanted me to do:  leading children’s ministry and assisting Paul with family ministry.  Both sounded wonderful to me.  I walked out of his office thinking, Did that really just happen?  All throughout that Thanksgiving service, I kept telling God thank you for how He had provided this job for me.

            I had to go back to college that night.  The next day I was walking through the student center when my phone rang. It was Dad. 

            “Did Paul give you something to think about?” he asked.

            I chuckled at the obvious.  “Yeah. There’s a lot to think about.”  But I never doubted that this was what I wanted to do. 

            Some have asked me what it’s like to work with my dad.  The basic answer is that besides our weekly staff meetings, most workweeks don’t require us to work together.  If there is a major issue or if I need to present something to the elder board, I’ll go into his office and discuss it with him.  Usually, though, its just that I’ll stop in his office to say “Hey” and “How late are you staying tonight?” and “I didn’t know you were going to India” and “Did you see that picture Rachel just texted us of Russ?” and “I don’t think that shirt matches your pants.”  

            The realistic answer to what it’s like to work with my dad is this:  Sometimes we ride to work together.  Sometimes Dad pops into my office when I’m in a meeting and asks to borrow my car keys.  Sometimes when Dad is on vacation, my coworkers will ask me to text him about something. Sometimes I’ll tell a funny story about Dad to my coworkers when we’re all eating lunch together.  Sometimes after I have presented something at a meeting, Dad will later say, “Mary, you’re saying Uh and Um so much.  Just pause instead of saying Um.”  Sometimes I need someone to help me carry a table or move furniture, and I’ll first ask Dad before asking anyone else.  Sometimes Dad sees that I’m setting up for an event, and he’ll stay late to help me to do it. 

            We’ve ridden together for hospital visits, and we’ve ridden together to the homes of families who have unexpectedly lost a loved one.  He has looked at me in the car and said, “It doesn’t get much more heart-wrenching than this.”  I’ve seen my dad extend comfort and care to families during their time of loss, and it makes me admire him all the more.

            Once Dad was preparing for a funeral when he came down with the stomach flu.  He called me into his bedroom.  He was lying flat on his back in his bed with the lights off.  He hadn’t moved for hours.  With his hands over his eyes, he managed to say, “Mary, I need you to go their house tomorrow. Talk to them, write up the tribute, and share it at the funeral.”  I was nervous about it because this was a very tragic situation, but I also was happy to help, especially if Dad trusted me to do it.

            Otherwise, Dad and I almost never talk about church work at home.  We do like to share good stories of things that have happened at church recently, but any planning that needs discussion or any problems that need attention—that we don’t ever bring up at home or at birthday parties or at ballgames.   I guess my dad has learned over the years that it can be healthy to take a break, to leave well enough alone until the next day at the office. 

            I have heard many pastors and ministry leaders talk about the struggle to not “bring work home with them.”  (I imagine this is true of most jobs.)  But after I made it through my initial 6 months or so on the job, I have not struggled with this.  I believe that is because I have seen my father model it so well.  I do not take this for granted because my mom has told me that it took time for my dad to figure this out.  But I have gleaned it more easily because of his experience and his example to me.

            A few weeks ago, Dad texted me to ask if I’d pick him up for work the next morning.  I replied, “Yes, I’ll be there to get you at 9:00.”

            Dad texted back.  “Why so early? 9:30.”

            I laughed so hard.  I know that 9:00 really isn’t early.  Most of my friends have to leave for work by 7:30am.  But Dad’s schedule usually includes late night meetings and weekend hours, so he is not the early bird to the office.  And my coworkers would tell you that I have followed this trend as well.

            So I texted back, “Lol You’re the boss.  See you at 9:30.”

            More often than not, I am introduced by people in our congregation as “the pastor’s daughter” instead of as the director of children’s ministry and women’s ministry.  But I don’t mind that at all.  Why would it bother me? I am more proud of my dad than I am of my seminary degree.  My daddy has spent his life building this church.  I know the good, the bad, and the ugly about our church just as well as anyone—and I love this church with my every breath. Seeing what Dad has worked hard to build, remembering all the times he has fasted and prayed for our congregation, reliving the miracles and the joys that God has done for Dad—they have only caused me to want to further that.

            Shouldn’t we write these things down?  We don’t want to forget. 

            The cool thing is that my younger brother David is now going into ministry as well.  Dave wants to be a church planter, and now Dad will get to live it all again with Dave.  Dave needs this book from Dad, and I need it too.  If you see Dad in the next few weeks and months, encourage him to write this book. #legacyalert

 

Dad & Dave on Brazil missions trip

Day 23 of 31: Part 3--It Doesn't Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful

My brother-in-law Brandon put together my headboard for me this weekend!

Thanks, Brandon!! It's great to have a big brother as my neighbor! :)

Part 3 of my reflections from The Nesting Place by Myquillyn Smith...

              Perhaps my favorite thing that Myquillyn Smith advises us to do is to welcome guests into our homes without apology.  Myquillyn writes about how she fell into the “apology trap.”  She writes, “I always apologized for my home to protect myself so people wouldn’t think I was a slob, or at least so they would know that I acknowledge I can be a slob and that I’m not okay with it and that really I have much higher standards than this and my house does not meet my requirements.”[1]

            For the first few years that I worked at the church, I would apologize when someone came into my office because it was messy.  One day I was apologizing for the “mess” when my friend Kate came in, and she gave me a half-smile and said, “That’s what you said the last time I came in here.”

            Kate’s words made me realize that my apologies were only distracting from my interactions with people.  The truth was and is that whenever I am preparing for an event at church, my office suffers.  Extra Amazon boxes on the floor.  Random props on my chairs.  Bigger piles of papers on my desk.  My office suffers whenever I’m working on an event, but I realized…that is what my office is for!  My office was built to help me and the ministries I lead function.

            So why am I apologizing for it? Am I apologizing because I think people will think worse of me because of the mess?  Am I apologizing because I think people will think I am immature because I didn’t organize the mess yet?  Am I apologizing because I’m not living up to my own clean-office standards?  (I’m sure my coworkers would laugh if they read that.)  Am I apologizing because I wish I were perfect at this but I’m totally not?

            If you have ever struggled with perfectionist tendencies (which I’d bet is true if you are the firstborn child in your family), then please keep reading. 

            When I was in high school, I was a perfectionist with my schoolwork.  I was convinced that if I just worked harder, if I just studied more, if I just stayed up later working on my papers, then I would get the A+ grades that I needed to earn scholarships for college.  This worked out all right until I started taking Pre-calculus and Biology II during my junior year.  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the A+ grades in those classes. 

            One night I was crying about it, but I walked into my parents’ bedroom and told them I would try even harder.  My dad took my hand, gave me a compassionate look, and told me to stop trying so hard.  He said to stop worrying about it.  He said they didn’t care if I got an A+ in every class. 

            You might know my dad and think that because he is a pastor, he is probably super compassionate all the time.  I will say that my dad is very gentle and patient, but he’s not always—what’s the word? Sensitive? Empathetic?  Dad is calm and easygoing and understanding and the best dad ever, but not very empathetic.  So that night when he took my hand and gave me that compassionate look, it took me off guard and made me reconsider. I realized that my perfectionist striving was not healthy.

            When it comes to my office and my home and even my car, it doesn’t help to welcome guests with an apology.  It does help to tidy things up the minutes before my guests arrive, but it does not help to say hello and then say, “I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for that, it’s just been so crazy, and I was trying, but it’s just such a mess, and it’s driving me nuts, and I meant to this morning, but then something came up, and it’s my fault, but it’s really not, and I was waiting on that person to come pick this up and get it out of my way, and I actually have a 3 more meetings this afternoon, but maybe I’ll start cleaning and decorating and organizing the minute you leave.”  The person who came to see me probably just wants to leave because I’m apologizing/complaining/oozing discontent vibes.

            I like what Myquillyn says:  “Imperfections bear witness to the fact that we are normal, approachable, real people.”[2] Amen and amen. 

            So lately I’ve been holding my tongue when someone comes into my office and telling myself, Mary, don’t focus on your mess; focus on your guest.  And I’ve been holding my tongue when people come into my house because I want to apologize for all the ways that my house is still unfinished, but why put a damper on the celebration that I am finally living in the house that took me forever to build?

            Myquillyn writes, “Don’t apologize for what you have. It makes guests feel uncomfortable, it encourages discontentment, and if you’re married and your husband hears you apologizing for what he’s provided, it could be hurtful.”[3]

            This is now my goal:  I won’t welcome my guests with an apology.  I won’t apologize for not being perfect.  It’s sometimes hard for me to hold my tongue, but I have found that it helps me to connect better with my guests.  It helps me to share my gratitude for my house and my joy in being able to spend time with that person.  It helps me to remember what Myquillyn says is the secret to creating the home you’ve always wanted: It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.[4]  (Check out Myquillyn's blog for more of her house-beautifying advice.)

Finished! So beautiful! Can you tell I love it?!!

---

[1] Smith, Myquillyn. (2014).  The Nesting Place: It Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful.  Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan.

[2] Smith, Myquillyn. (2014).  The Nesting Place: It Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful.  Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan.

[3] Smith, Myquillyn. (2014).  The Nesting Place: It Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful.  Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan.

[4] http://www.thenester.com/meet-the-nester.