Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 20

rebel diaries :: war stories.

Way back when, I offered this space as a place for others to share their story. I called it rebel diaries and so many of you offered your perspective and hurt and hope and belief. Today, I host another friend. When I first saw these words, I knew there were people who would need to read them. She agreed to let me post them here, and included a note for you. 

Dear Reader,
Please read this, hold this gently. It is not an essay for the faint of heart. Truly, I'm in recovery. But War never ends for some people. This is in acknowledgment for all the human beings who want to share and can't, who over-share and feel ashamed, or can't seem to share past the surface for fear of feeling alone. You are not alone. All those things, all the things, they don't make you crazy. This is for everyone who has a War Story.
Sincerely, 
Your Story Sister

{{ Trigger Warning :: suicide and self harm }} 

Of course it only makes sense that these are my War Stories.

Because when these things happen to you, the outcome is not a death. It’s a thirst for life like never before. It’s a need for God beyond words and comprehension, a grace-filled rain storm that turns into a monsoon. A hurricane. Thrashing.

Of course these are your War Stories. 

Because there’s no other way to describe the war in your head versus in your heart, in your head verses in the world.

These are my War Stories.

When a person tells your husband they are in love him, because they ..what? They love him? They love him and they want your marriage to be over so he can choose them. And you laugh at first but it sinks deep inside your soul and picks apart your bones. Because he says he will always, always choose you. But why did this have to happen to you? Didn’t they know he would always choose you? You want to shake them and tell them how stupid they are.

And because of that secret, they proceed to tear families and friendships and relationships apart in the process. 

And then you can never invite them over for dinner ever again and you lose another friend.

When your parents announced their divorce three days after the ink on your own marriage license was dry.

When you gain 50 pounds in the first year of your own marriage because, obviously, you stress eat the fuck out of ice cream.

When your mother, in the midst of you trying to find Jesus again, announced she was a pagan witch, someone who worships the earth and not the Savior.

And then when she married someone else six months after the ink on her own divorce papers were dry. Someone you had never even met. Someone you had known about before. Someone who doesn’t even know the damage.

When you don’t know what to say to your dad because you know it was his fault, partly, too.

But you’ll never talk about it, because no one asked you how you felt.

And that’s how War begins.

These are my War Stories.

When you feel pushed away by your in-laws. You’re not wanted because your mouth is too big for your words and they don’t like when you over-share. They just don’t know that over-sharing is your specialty, and some people like it. But they won’t. They don’t think you’re funny. They don’t know that your whole life has been a puddle of mishaps covered in grace. They just see the puddle.

All the while, through the War, you were listening to other stories; people who were ripping at their very seams ran to the phone and you picked up to listen. They called it suicide counseling, said you were a staple, without you they’d be lost. The biggest helpline in the nation. You ran it, you successful college grad! But instead, you called it the worst 9 months of your life. You called it crying every day because hearing problems from every corner of the world makes every corner of the world unsafe.

People who said they wanted to die.
People who said they were hurting, bleeding, right then and there.
Those things never leave you. Just like the War never leaves you.
A rope, ready… your words keeping them on the brink of life.
No pressure.

Some days you take the pills someone left behind for you, something to keep you going and suppress your appetite while you’re at it. You gain and lose but at least you can get out of bed in the morning. Until that one time you take too much because you’re so fucking tired and you can’t find sleep for too many days you keep them and stare at them in silence, throw them away but you still keep a few and then you flush them down, down, down the toilet. Except they sit there at the bottom, too heavy to flush, disintegrating and you stare at them while you press your face against the wall.

Tomorrow is a new day, you say.

A War like that leaves a desperation so tight in your throat for God that you can barely breathe. Like swallowed sand, stuck to your insides and drinking up all the tiny droplets of life you have left beneath your surface.

These are your War Stories.

You will cry every year on your birthday. And then drink. And you’ll lose your bikini bottoms in the ocean and moon everyone on the beach and knock over a small kid in the process and laugh by the end of the day. 

Those will be the days of hope. War ceases for a moment. 

You all know that saying, right? Before things can get better, they have to get worse.

You find yourself in the bathtub, drunk after swerving home. Dark rum. You find yourself with a kitchen knife and a broken razor and cold water and the pain seeping right down the drain because there’s no other way to take it out. 

Relief. Guilt. Relief. Guilt.

Like a ticking time bomb.

Because they told you that babies wouldn’t be made and cancer was sure to come, it was sitting right there inside. Your heart broke so much that you just couldn’t bare anything but to hurt the body that forced this punishment against you.

29 scars will be left on your heart. Luckily, none left on your body. But you’ll never forget, will you?

Because when you wrapped up your pulsing, bloody leg when you finally caught your breath, you keep trying to push your sweet puppy away while he reaches out, protecting, to lick your wound. He and your husband sat outside the locked bathroom door together, crying, wimpering at the sound of the water washing down your own blood. Torture, for everyone. You know because you feel it flowing. 

You think, maybe, that seeing the red lines in the days afterward means you’re still alive.

But you try to heal. And you overthink. You lose your breath. You can’t sleep and your chest is tight every day every day every day WILL SOMEONE JUST RIP ME OPEN? You lose sight of what forgiveness is and you let that bitter taste in your mouth go all the way down into the pit of your stomach and consume your whole body. You let it consume your whole body because being angry and frustrated and anxious is better than not being at all, and you know that.

You fight the battle of Depression. You do your best to avoid those triggers that cause you anxiety that feels like it’s ripping through your heart and shooting down through your spine and out your toes. Like bombs. Because that’s War.

And you lose most days.

But most days are not all days and sometimes there is no firing squad facing you and you can get through the line at the grocery store just fine. Other times you abandon your cart and run for cover inside the car while you hyperventilate. It is all you can do to save yourself.

And looking back you knew Jesus was sitting there right beside the bathtub where you sat fully clothed, though submerged in water, head tilted back and waiting for God to strike you down dead right there. 

You remember the water in the river. Where you stood on slippery rocks, knowing, just knowing, this was from the hand of God. Some day that water will quench your thirst and wash away the sand in your throat, the dirt from your eyes. You will feel better, like you did then. And at that point, when you think about all the War, you can’t believe you were ever mad at God because he was right there the whole time.

When every day is a battle, these are your War Stories.

But War ends.

Because some day, now, you will forget why you had to start fighting in the first place.

You’ll lay down your weapons and become a warrior, not a fighter. You’ll start to feel all the feelings again some days. You will have bloody, murderous nightmares that professionals say are a normal way of dealing with stress. You will find comfort in just one pill a day and dumping the moonshine from the stash in the freezer down the drain. Eventually your prayers will be answered and you will find some people who like hugging you and sharing coffee with you on Sundays and will not judge the amount you charge to your Macy’s credit card because you don’t have any money or other coping mechanisms. They will loan you good books and compliment your hair.

They’ll even tell you they think you’re a good person because of the War.

Soon, you might feel your heart beat again. And then you’ll realize that you are a human, a living, breathing person who has a heart and a soul and a brain and a God. Also, you find out that babies can be made and there is no awaiting cancer. So you walk around Macy’s each time you visit and hold those tiny pieces of cloth and think about all the wonders to be. And you will feel those things, those human, good things again. You already do, see?

the infinite weight of dreams.

"I have 57 things to tell you." 

She didn't even give me a chance to say hello. I laughed and made myself comfortable, resting against the wall behind my plastic chair in my office. Staring at the face of a friend in my computer screen, I settled in for a long conversation. 

"Okay. Thing number 1. Give it to me." 

And then for the next 30 minutes, she spoke into the very fears I'd been hiding all day—no—all week. She looked at me and reminded me of my vision, of why I was doing this thing called Story Sessions. She took a stick and poked and prodded and waited until the fire was lit again.

She didn't know I was about to give it all up. She had no idea the questions swirling in my head over these past few weeks of maybe this is over and perhaps I took on too much and what if they all wake up and don't want to hear from me anymore.

She took all of those and threw them in the fire too. She laughed and pointed at me through the screen. 

"You're my general, but I'm your VP. I make a damn good one. Are you listening?" 

.::.

She was the first person I texted a few weeks ago when something was different. I'm a feeler. When I notice a shift, it's echoed in a feeling that often I can't articulate. 

"There's something about today." I sent her in a rush, my heart beating out of my chest. "I don't know what it is...but there's something here." 

Her reply was immediate. 

"I agree! I was just about to text you!" 

I paused. 

"Really?" I asked, although I probably shouldn't have been surprised. 

"Really. I noticed it this past weekend on your face. New light and new life -- an anointing of some kind -- new." 

And the words kept coming—encouraging, affirming, celebrating. The words came again last night when I texted her in a different kind of emotion, the swell of anger roaring in my ears. 

"I'm so pissed." I said. "I just need to blurt it somewhere." 

And she responded, holding space and reminding me of my calling.

.::.

Almost every week, she'll send me a message with an idea for the community. Couples retreats. A marketplace. Prayer calls. The ideas are endless and never waver with creativity. From the very beginning, she's held my hand and nodded as I move and shift and change. 

When we switched to subscriptions, she was the one I wanted as the caretaker for the original Story Sessions page. 

And almost every time there's a new member welcomed into the community, she's one of the first to comment, whispering a welcome home. 

.::.

I almost threw in the towel these past few weeks. Multiple times, I was just too tired. Too discouraged. Too beat down to even want to try and figure out where I was experiencing the most malaise because there was a definite feeling of growth paired with this undeniable feeling of purging. 

But I kept going. I didn't quit. I held on to that growth for all its worth and tried as hard as I could to wade through the purging.

It was because of these women—and so many others—who lifted my head and spoke into me right when I needed it. It made me realize that often, our dreams are thick and bright and heavy to hold—maybe even scorching to the touch because of their intensity. We leave them at arm's length, too afraid to get too close because just breathing in the fumes may cause us to crumble.

Perhaps this is why so many dreams lay wasted. 

Arms get heavy. Blisters form on ill-prepared feet. Shields slip and arrows find a crevice within the armor. 

With people around you though, linking arms and whispering reminders and grabbing your face between their two hands when needed, anything is possible. Dreams feel light. Visions gain clarity. The scorching intensity of our hopes suddenly serve as a settling furnace and not one that will burn to ash whatever touches it. 

Dreams are heavy burdens those around us can help carry if we let them. We have to loosen the hold first, though—have to stop and listen when those who believe with us grab our hands and begin speaking into our vision. 

What dream of yours feels too heavy? Might you lay it down for a bit so we can speak into it for you? 

you won't ever forget it.

Every Thursday, I'll be taking a question I've received about writing from readers and answering it here. Have a question? Send me a line. I'll choose one a week. 

what do you do when panic fills you and you want to just quit working on a manuscript and run away from it?  How do you continue to right when others are telling you that it's pointless and stupid?

The other week, I was talking with a friend and the conversation started turning toward writing. 

"For me, writing is always an excavation." 

She looked at me and shook her head in confusion. 

"What do you mean...an excavation." 

"At some point, every kind of writing feels as if I'm stripping off my skin. Like I'm pulling something deep from out of hiding. It always hurts but I'm always better for it in the end." 

And it wasn't until I said those words that I remembered something I heard Erwin McManus say about art—about how the best kind feels as if you're ripping something out from beneath and within you. How creating in and of itself is a form of trauma because you're right in the middle of the Muse breathing into you and pushing into you what will eventually be pulled out of you. What happens is magical—but it's also traumatic. 

I think this is one of the reasons why we have writers' block. It's not because we're blocked. It's because we're scared. It's because we need rest and we're not giving it to ourselves. It's because we know the words we're supposed to write and ohmigoshIcan'tsaythatbecausewhatiftheyreadit? 

What do I do when panic fills me and I want to quit working? 

I quit. I breathe. I close my eyes and remember the rush of the words flowing from my hands and the hope I felt when I began and how the story makes me feel—all of it—the messy parts and the in between stages and the redemption at the end. Eventually, I'll open up my eyes again. Eventually, I'll place my hands gingerly on the keyboard. 

Eventually the words will start flowing and my breath will have replaced the chopchopchop of panic in my veins.

And can I just say -- your story is not pointless and stupid. Regardless of who you've been talking to, they're wrong. No matter who this story is for: it needs to be written because you've decided to take the risk of the first word.

Every story is important. Every story has the power to change the course of someone's life. Find people who believe in you. Remember those who breathe life into you. Every artist will have people who want to steal and suck the creativity out of your bones but you can't let them. Not now. Not when you already have flesh and blood in the game. You have way too much to lose—we have way too much to lose if you let the words of naysayers get in the way of your story.

Remember the magic. Remember the way the light hit the trees or the window when you decided "I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna write my book." Remember the pain of individual moments and remember the disbelief of your 10,000th word.

And then capture it. 

If no one ever reads this story except for you—you'll still be the winner. Why? Because you didn't let panic win. Because you looked at those telling you "this will never happen" and you said "it just did." 

And you won't ever forget it.

blurting.

The following comes from the 30 days of prompts I use for my Finding Your Arc eCourse. I couldn't help but share. There's something about blurting—about getting everything out—that gets me to just breathe and remember.

Close your eyes.No really. Close them. For at least five minutes. I'll wait.

What is it you hear? Write it down. All of it. No really. I'll wait again. 

The first time I did this, I was scared as hell to begin. It's a little bit Natalie Goldberg, a little bit Julia Cameron, but a whole lot of you. My mentor calls them soul-blurts. When we stop to listen to what's really being whispered in those deep spaces of our hearts. And if you're anything like me, thinking of listening to those voices inside, even if you know they're true, can be earth-shattering in the best way possible.

Think of your dream. Where you feel led, what lights you up, what makes you come alive? When you think of this, what words immediately come to mind? What phrases burn against your skin? This isn't time for editing. Don't worry about perfection here. You're wanting the grit—the core—the never been seen stuff. 

My soul blurts? 

I'm tired. I'm learning that the exhaustion is a season just like any other and that it's the pause that causes me to breathe—to remember the natural ways our bodies get us to stop and focus and wait...

...and I could go on, but then it wouldn't really be soul blurts because the most important piece of venting those inside spaces? 

Keeping them for you.

This is no inspirational-hope-you-post-it-to-your-blog type of stuff. This is your guts. Your innards. The messy bits. And while eventually there may be time and space to wade through them and pick the words to share later, now these words are for you. 

So go ahead. In your journal, write furiously the words that come to you as they appear. No editing. No erasing. Dig deep. This is more than morning pages. This is your soul in between the lines. Write it all—the messy, the hopeful, the distraught. Get it out so you can come back to it later.

unfolding.

She told us we would leave changed. 

Looking each of us in the eye while bundled under blankets and waiting as long as possible to shut the back doors allowing us to hear the tide roll in, she told us there was something happening. 

And I felt it. 

I felt it in my decision to go.
I felt it in the gypsy wagon that picked us up from the airport.

We arrived at our haven on Bliss Street right at dusk. We'd spent ample time at Target, assuring our preparedness for things like late night munchies and meals around the table and clinking of glasses. 

As soon as we pulled in the driveway, I was emotional. I hugged the neck of a friend who calls this place her backyard, walked into the house and out the back door. Teresa was already ahead of me, running up the dunes as fast as she could with the sand falling behind her.  I followed her lead, smiling and wiping at my cheeks because I just couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I was there. It felt like I'd walked through some portal and landed in a place of magic and wonder and sisterhood. 

"Elora! Look! A deer!"  

I stopped. I blinked. I gasped.

There she was—right in front of me—staring at me as if to say I see you. You're safe here.

 

I breathed deep. My roots sunk low. I think I knew then the weekend would be one of restoration.

The next day I stood on the shore as the sun rose and let the wind whip my hair around and freeze my toes. I napped on the couch while listening to the waves crash against the rocks. 

I walked the beach while the tide lapped at my ankles and learned that the trees there are called storm wood because they work with the wind, bending within the currents in order not to break. 

I turned my back to the ocean then in order to snap a picture of the gnarled and twisted branches. Looking at my friend she smiled. 

"I know." She said. "It's heavy."  

We spoke of our year—each ripe with change and difficulty—and then she said something potent and mentioned how I write the weighty things and before I could even form a thought I blurted I don't ever want my words to be wasted—I want them to be temples.   

It took me a few hours (and an italian soda spiked with vodka) to realize the reality of what I said. 

Every minute I was in that house on Bliss felt like a returning. Every wave that receded back into the embrace of the ocean took another dead piece chipped away from this flesh and bone exterior.

So when I stood on a secret beach tucked away somewhere on that blessed island and threw a seashell with sharpied dreams back into the ocean, something clicked.

There's something to be said about all things becoming new. 

Even you.  

 

what to do when the magic disappears.

I have this prompt bowl on my desk. Whenever I need a reminder of magic or some sort of inspiration, I always reach my hand into the slivers of paper and see what comes out. It's like my own personal cauldron. Secret messages lay dormant here. I listen whenever I  pull from it.

So on November 1, when I pulled out break tradition, I pasted it on my Right Brain Planner page in my art journal and made a decision to approach the next month different than before—finding unexpected ways to build my own tradition. 

It's been harder than I anticipated. Habits are habits for a reason, and most of them are buried within assumptions and status quo. 

Not necessarily fodder for magic or inspiration.   You see, It's been a dry season for me—the words just aren't coming and I've learned enough to know that sometimes, that's fine. But sometimes, it takes drastic measures to excavate the stories waiting inside. 

.::. 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo again this year. 

And it wasn't because I had an incredible idea for a book—although there are plenty rolling around in my brain. It wasn't even because I needed to finish a project beckoning for my attention. 

Mostly, it was because I'd forgotten what it was like to show up every day and write. This was my something drastic. I haven't done very well. I'm kind of tripping along and wondering where the hell my words have off and hid.

Seven days in and I'm more behind than I've ever been. I'm fairly certain I bit off more than I can chew but I'm still doing it. I'm still opening up my laptop every day and writing. Some of it's good. Most of it's compost. All of it is worth something. Even if I'm typing 

 I have no idea where this is going I have no idea where this is going I have no idea where this is going  

because eventually I will know where it's going and I can push and pull and prod that story into submission. 

.::. 

What do you do when the magic disappears? You go out and search for it. More than likely, you'll find yourself breathing heavy and in the midst of a storm or a deep forest with no way out—if this happens, lean into to the mystery.  

Because the mysterious places is where Magic likes to rest. 

elora reads :: GREED

Back in August, my friend Kelly sent me a text saying "you need to read Vain."  

Being the amazing-publicist-that-she-is, I knew I could take her word for it and one-clicked the book on the spot. 

I loved it and then got super-excited-and-fangirly because it was going to be a series. And not just any type of series. It would be focused on the seven deadly sins. 

Brilliant. Sold. 

I waited for Greed (not-so) patiently and when I finally got a review copy, I read it all in a day. I'm so excited to tell you about it.

The Blurb >>  

Gather ‘round, love, because I want you. I want what you have, I want what you don’t have, I want more of what I already have. I want. But if you so much as ask for something in return, go ahead and walk away. Know if you want to play in my world, it’s every man for themselves and the weak become mine. Leeches will be obliterated because I make it my job to destroy them. I protect what’s mine and I take what’s yours...because that’s what I do. I want.

My story will not endear me to you and, frankly, I could care less if it does because I’m in this for the money and nothing else. There’s nothing redeeming about me. I’m a corrupt, money hungry, immoral asshole from Los Angeles. I’m every man’s worst nightmare and every girl’s fantasy.

I’m Spencer Blackwell...And this is the story about how I went from the world’s most coveted guy to the guy no one wanted around and why I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The author >>  

Fisher Amelie is the author of The Leaving Series, Callum & Harper and Thomas & January. She began her writing career as a copywriter for an internet marketing company wherein one of their client's said, 'Hey! You're funny. You should write books'. Which in turn she said, 'Hey, get out of here! This is the lady's restroom.' While washing her hands and the embarrassment from her face, she thought they may have had a valid point. So, she took the thousands of hours of writing stories growing up, tucked them into her pocket and began writing and writing and writing.

 What I liked >> 

Amelie can write, y'all. This is more than just your typical YA. It's gritty. It deals with some heavy stuff.  The main character isn't without his faults and she portrays this artistically. I liked the tension between Cricket and Spencer, the realistic setting, the shades of grey in a black and white world. I also appreciated Amelie's personification of Greed. The ghosts of Spencer Blackwell's past were articulate and haunting.

What I loved >>  

I approached Greed much like I approached Vain. Even though I knew a bit of Spencer's backstory (what we hear in the previous book) I loved how she plucked him out of comfort and placed him in a ranch. I loved Spencer's fight for Cricket and the out of left field plot twists (I honestly didn't see them coming—which is refreshing). Most of all, I loved the development of characters. Outside of those needing to remain static, no character was out of place. 

What you should know >>  

This is the second book to a series but each one reads as a stand-alone. I would still suggest reading Vain first if you haven't yet, only because Spencer is introduced and you'll get a sense of his character before jumping into the story.

There aren't many books that can capture an essence of something and portray it artistically. Amelie does that. Her writing is approachable and fun but her stories are so much more than entertainment. There's a depth to these stories that you can miss if you aren't careful.

Bottom line? Purchase GREED on Amazon  You'll love it. Promise.

 

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i declare.

I was talking with a friend yesterday about habit. 

"There have been a few moments these past few weeks where I say I'll do something, or that I want to do it, and then I'll completely forget about it. Like—I'll want to go to the gym, and will even have a moment to do it, and then end up at Target with Oreos in my hand instead." 

She laughed. 

"I read a book once that said like 45% of our day is created out of habit."  

I blinked. I grabbed a pen. I asked her to repeat what she said. 

"Well...don't quote me on that—I can find the real statistic because I can't remember if that was the real number, but it was something ridiculous like that..."  

"It's almost half of our day."  

"Yeah."  

"Half of our day is done out of habit."  

She nodded. "Yep." 

.::. 

In the spring, I received some coaching from my friend Dan. We didn't get very far {like the first session} before he asked what it was I wanted. I had to write it all down—every last bit. 

"And don't hold anything back. This isn't something you're going to publish or something."  

I waited weeks before actually doing this assignment. 

You see, I'm a visionary. I love creating and brainstorming and dreaming. When it comes to getting down and dirty though, I struggle. Oh man. I struggle. And some of it is the fear of failure and what-if-I'm-the-laughingstock and yada-yada-yada.

But most of it is my fear of success.  

Not the what will happen to my soul if I find success. I have enough people around me who will knock me down a few {or twenty} notches if I get too big for my britches. This fear of success is rooted in the belief that if something good happens, then something bad will happen in result.

And so, that list of wants? It was like the Pandora Box of my heart. Opening it was a risk I didn't know I was willing to take.  

.::. 

I have five words hanging on the wall above my computer. 

Beauty. Risk. Authenticity. Healing. Freedom.  

Next to each word, I've written goals for the month associated with that word. Sometimes I do it. Sometimes I ignore it. 

But I'm practicing the declaration. I'm strengthening that voice of want that's been so stifled all these years.

Because here's the thing: I believe you can have it all. I believe these wants—when lined up with our true purpose and calling—pave the way for a fuller and more whole way of living. 

How do I know? I've experienced it. 

Listen. This year of RISK  has nearly hung me out to dry. But it's been breathtaking and beautiful and scary and hilarious and heartbreaking and gut-level therapeutic.

The biggest risk? Following my wants.  Listening to my gut and declaring myself. 

With each declaration, I'm rewriting habits and lies. I'm cutting away loose ends. I'm letting that fire of rejection and resistance burn away the dead pieces. 

And I'm coming out more Elora than ever. 

// 

What would happen if you declared your wants? What would happen if you let yourself line up within your true calling and purpose? 

for when you feel like an outsider.

I received the email early one morning last spring.  

You're Invited it said, and I read and re-read the email just to make sure I got it right.

Photo by Everest Road Photography

You see, there have been plenty of moments in my life where others were invited to the table and I was left looking in, wishing I knew what it was that set me apart as not included—not wanted. 

But this time, it was different. I was invited. All I had to do was say yes. 

I knew I had to say yes.  

And let me tell you. This intimidated me. These women who were invited were those I've read for years. They were those with audiences ten—no—maybe even a hundred times larger than this small yet loved community I have here. For a brief second, I thought there was no place for me. I knew I had to say yes, but I had no idea why.

.::. 

So I said yes. I packed my bags and drove the twenty minutes outside of town to a small getaway in the hill country to maybe talk about a future conference called IF:Gathering. I knew a handful of people via twitter, one or two I had met previously, and the rest I knew because of their words or song or inspiration. 

The first day was hard. I texted my sister I just don't know why I'm here—I feel like an outsider and it isn't bad, I guess I'm just confused. 

Two minutes after that text a woman came up to me, wrapped me in a hug, and smiled as she looked me in the eyes. "I've been reading your blog for years," she said. 

I started to breathe a little easier. 

The restlessness was still there, though. These were women with voice. With power. With substantial sway. I felt artsy fartsy sitting amongst them and was so fearful one of them would find out that I was some kind of fraud and send me home. 

Have I mentioned this was a spiritual retreat? Where we gathered to see what would happen if we let God move?  

Have I mentioned that God and I weren't necessarily on speaking terms? 

That night, we sat in a room and I listened as a woman I deeply respect spread her arms wide and as gently as possible reminded us of our worth. 

"Stop waiting for permission." She said, "you've been invited. The invitation is your validation.  Now go and live in that confidence." 

I rolled my eyes and dug my nails into the palm of my hand.  

But am I really? I thought. Am I really invited?

.::. 

The next day, we were placed in groups. I'd stumbled through breakfast conversation and was feeling shaky. The thoughts kept reappearing. Why am I here? What's this have to do with me? Why was I chosen? 

And then, these women started talking of wilderness. They started talking about how God is asking us to risk something and what could that be? What would it look like? What's holding us back? 

The levee broke. 

I started talking about these past six months—of this past year—and how RISK is my word for 2013 and I still trip my way through what I'm supposed to do because how do I know He's even going to catch me? Everything up until now sure feels like I've fallen on cement. I have the scars to prove it. The tears started falling harder and the women reached for my hands and elbows and knees and prayed.

And it wasn't the prayer of women just wanting you to shut up already so they can talk.
It wasn't the prayer of pity falling from lips who don't know pain.

It was the crushing hope of a prayer from the heart of a sister who sees the fight left in me and whispers "it's okay if you're struggling with belief. I'll stand here with you and believe for you until you can stand on your own." 

Photo by Everest Road Photography

This is what it feels like to be known. 

Not in the platform sense. Not in the how-many-blog-readers-do-you-have-a-day known. That's not reality. This was a room full of sisters eager for the skin deep knowledge to sink soul-level. I think something shifted in that moment—at least for me. Those few days weren't just a place for me to offer up my cynicism and raise an eyebrow with come at me, bro. This was humility in action. 

This was coming to lay everything down in order to pick up my purpose and run free. 

.::. 

The last morning, I woke with the sun. I sat on the porch and watched as the big ball of fire rose higher and higher and higher and painted the tops of the trees in this iridescent glow. 

"It's a new day." He whispered. 

I shrugged. "Yeah? And?"  

I could almost hear Him chuckle. "It's a new day for you. The night is over." 

And my breath caught in my throat because I finally knew why I came. 

.::. 

Yesterday, tickets sold out for If:Gathering in 42 minutes. I'm not really surprised, because I believe women every where are craving a place where they are known and loved and their dreams are worthy.

If you didn't get a ticket, consider signing up for If:Local.  

Take the leap of faith, rent a house nearby, and go in with a couple of girlfriends and even a few women you don't know. Be the one who holds out her hand and says, "you're invited." 

Because when you feel like an outsider, there's no better place to heal than in the presence of your sisters.

Note :: before I even traveled to this retreat, I spoke with Jennie about the vision behind IF. It's a nonprofit. There's no goal or aim to make money off this vision. If you feel led, consider donating to the gathering. Click here to give. 

 

up in smoke.

We stood at the front of the auditorium, Third Day's You Make Me Mad blaring from the speakers. 

He was singing, and I was watching with a small smile. I always had a thing for musicians. 

"You make me mad....ohhhhhhh......you make me so damn mad...."  

I startled. Laughed a little under my breath.  

"Um. I don't think those are the lyrics." I whispered. 

He shrugged. "Those are the lyrics for me."

I shrank away in disappointment, attention shifting to my friend standing next to me and the story of her latest crush. Musician boy kept singing next to me, altering lyrics as he saw fit. Every time I would wince. Every time I would commit to pray for him—for God to get a hold of him because until he was on fire I couldn't (and wouldn't) consider him a friend.

 .::.

We were on our knees in a side room at another conference.  

Twenty minutes earlier, the band sauntered on stage and in our wisdom, we turned up our noses. 

"Look at how prideful they are...."
 "They just want to entertain us—this so isn't about worship to them." 
 "Ohmigosh did you see him smiling at that girl?!"  

So we left. Two full rows of teenagers packed up our things and walked out of the concert and into a side room to pray for the souls of those on stage.

"Break their hearts, God."
 "Let them know what they're doing is wrong, Father." 
 "Move in every one else—let them see the lies—help them walk out as well." 
 "Send a revival." 

And we stayed that way for the rest of the evening, cheeks red and tear stained, knees stiff from prayer. 

.::. 

Sometimes, looking back on these memories of growing up within evangelical culture, my chest tightens. It's as if we were so on fire we couldn't breathe from the smoke.

Now that I'm out of the fog I can smell the charred remains. 

The Homecoming routine set to Steven Curtis Chapman's Saddle Up Your Horses. 
 The thousands of people pressing against me as we waited for doors to open at a CARMAN concert.
See You at the Pole rallies.
Prayers desperate for revival and being so convinced there was a taste of it—even if only a morsel—during that worship service the last night of Disciple Now. 
It was the discipleship and mentoring group I so desperately wanted to be a part of and when I got in, felt ill-equipped to lead.
It's teenagers running down the steps at a Billy Graham crusade to lead 60-somethings through the Sinner's prayer.
It's summer mission trips to Mexico and retreats to the hill country.
It's purity cards and True Love Waits conferences and Brio subscriptions. 
It's being good and right and true and pure and checkthatbox right after you checkthisone and strive strive strive and give give give.  
It's crying in the corner of your bathroom, writing in your journal and wondering where you went wrong.

.::. 

Fires have a way of burning off the dead pieces.

What happened to so many of us was that the fire became so entangling that once complete we didn't know who we were anymore.  Lost in the fire we created, there was nothing left to do but wait out the flames. Now, standing in the ashes of faith, we're left with a bit of wonder. 

Where do we go from here?  What did it for us ten years ago sends us reeling now. We can't just host a prayer night or wait with the heavy expectancy of God showing up within an event.

Now, we rest in the vapors.  Everything else is up in smoke. 

Instead of striving, we're resting. 
Instead of checking boxes, we're allowing for blank space.
Instead of judgment, we make room for love.

We know what it's like now to feel His presence during a movie or a book or a song or a conversation with a friend. We know we can meet Him overseas, but He's also in our living room. Sometimes even in our car during commute. 

And when we least expect it, a tendril of flame licks at our hearts. But it's never consuming. It won't ever get that way again—there's nothing left to burn.  

 

This was part of Addie Zierman's When We Were On Fire Synchroblog.  Addie is a dear friend who's book, When We Were on Fire, comes out tomorrow. You need to check this one out—I'm serious. I read it in one sitting and did the whole gamut of emotions: laughed, cried, cringed. If you grew up evangelical, chances are you'll find your story within her words.