A Different Way of Seeing

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Today, I was offered a fresh page in a relationship.  Imagine an ivory piece of stationery with nothing written on it.  Pure, crisp, clean.  

Imagine a favorite shirt coming out of the dryer, and it's warmth on your skin as you breathe deeply and smell spring left by a dryer sheet.

Imagine grace washing over you like a waterfall; water that is just right in temperature; as it cascades over your head, and you stand under the water for a long time, letting its hydration wash away pain, scrub away past mistakes.

Today was like that.

Relationships are tricky.  What I've learned? is that when friendships hurt--it is because I have something inside of me wrong or twisted, that fails to trust the good intentions of the one I'm relating to.

When I am insulted, it is because my friend has touched an insecurity.

When I am wounded, it's often because my friend has spoken truth, but it's truth I haven't told myself yet.

When I am incensed, I am often responding to a trigger, losing sight of the face and heart right in front of me, forgetting who they are to me, and all the acts of friendship which have preceded that moment.

When I feel controlled, I am deeply afraid and anxious---because what would life be like if I were not in control?

I'm not saying pain is not real.  I'm not saying others don't sin against us.  

But I find that when I clean up my heart?  There is less to hurt.  

If you knew the story? You'd know, I didn't deserve another chance.  

I'm glad my friend decided to try again anyway.

How to Be with a Suicidal Friend

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I've been truly suicidal twice in my life.  But I've lived with clinical depression most of my adult life.

I was a happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid.  Just ask my parents.  Somewhere around age 30, I got hit with a whole wheelbarrow of emotions, and the tendency to cry when absolutely nothing was wrong.  And it's never left.  This post is not about that.  But you can read about it here.

The first time I was in a place where I could have truly committed the act? It came on suddenly. You NEVER hear that.  There's this idea out there that people who kill themselves have been in the throes of depression (secretly or openly).  I'm here to tell you, THAT is not my experience. I was NOT in a season of melancholy leading up to this night.  I was with friends, and had a moment of feeling acute rejection---which was not detectable to them.  It was a thought which grew into a big, black cloud in a matter of hours.  By the time 2 of them had dropped me off at my apartment, I was swirling in deep, black darkness.  It's tough to even describe, but as surely as I've felt the presence of God----that night the presence of evil wrapped itself around me like the worst kind of blanket, and slowly began to suck the life out of me. 

I was absolutely despondent and filled with a deep sense of hopelessness.  More than anything, I wanted to go and jump in front of the E train which was a few blocks away.  Only sheer exhaustion kept me from doing it.

I'm not going to pretend my experience is the same as everyone else's.  But, besides that night---my first 2 years back in the Northwest?  I prayed every day for God to kill me---or to let me go home, to heaven.  And I entertained suicidal ideation for years---as a way of escape, any time life got tough and for a long time after New York?  Life was always tough.  I've been around the block a few times on the suicide thing.

So here's my best advice on what to say, and NOT to say.

1.  Offer absolute acceptance and love and not one shred of judgment.

If your friend has told you they are suicidal, they are handing you a huge gift of trust.  In the two times I was suicidal---I could not tell a soul.  In fact for me, one of the things which has to be present for me to truly be capable of the act---is I have to feel cut off from my main support system.  Something has gotten in the way of those closest friendships or I wouldn't feel what I feel.

2.  Don't give advice.

The sheer level of grief a suicidal person is experiencing is life draining.  They are exhausted. Having to listen to someone go on and on about how they overcame something or having to hear a person talk down to them (no matter your intentions, this is how it will come across) while pretending to be grateful will drain them further, and make them feel more like a loser.

3.  Listen, listen, listen

Find out what has been happening in their life.  What brought them to this place?   What would give them hope?  What do they feel like they need right now to make life worth living? What are they angry about?  How can you best support them in this time?

4.  Know that talking about suicide is not going to make them more likely to commit it.

If they have opened the door and invited you in, telling you they want to die---they need to talk about it.  They want to talk about it.  Find out how long they have been thinking about it. Find out how they intend to carry it out.  (If they have a plan on how to end their life, stay with them until you feel they are out of danger, or until someone else can be there, especially if they have the means at their disposal to do it.)

5. Help them discover why they want to kill themselves.

In most of my suicide ideation? I am hurt by someone close to me and want revenge.  I want to take my anger out on myself so that whomever I'm mad at will be sad and I'll get even. Sometimes, though---it's just an escape---the same as a movie might be.  Having a "way out" can provide comfort when the pain is sharp.

Some people kill themselves over despair over their future, feeling trapped in an oppressive work environment or relationship.  Some people panic when big world events happen like the stock market crashes. There will always be an element of hopelessness in a suicidal person. The key is finding out what is making them feel that way.  

After you've helped someone figure out why they want to die, gently lead them to alternatives which might accomplish their true goal.  So, for me?  Reminding me of how the person I'm angry with has shown me love would help.  Or reminding me of upcoming events I want to be present for might help.

6. Be real

The two things which made me stop even thinking about suicide are these:

1-I read about all the attempts gone bad.  The internet is full of stories of individuals who tried to kill themselves and the aftermath they now live in.  Turns out?  It's not that easy to do.  And people mess it up ALL THE TIME.  And live maimed the rest of their life.  Scary stuff.

2-It's a hard question theologically.  And not one I suggest you broach with certainty.  But I've come to the personal conclusion that suicide is murder.  And unrepented murder.  I don't want to take a chance on eternity with that on my record.  Scary stuff.

Yes, I would talk to suicidal people about these two things.  It might be the only thing which saves their life.  They might get mad.  But mad energizes.  And energy is good.

7.  Do not take the stance that the person "just wants attention."  

First of all, SO WHAT IF THEY DO?  I have no problem giving the homeless money EVEN if I know they'll use it to drink---because Damn it, if anyone has a right to drink---it's someone with no home!!!! (Most people drink for much less!) If someone is in despair enough to outright ask for attention by saying the "S" word-----WHY WITHHOLD IT?  

Second, being suicidal invites shame.  It is a TOUGH thing to admit out loud even to those close.  People don't throw that word around lightly.  If a person admits to feeling this way, and you have any ounce of love for them (or humanity) take it seriously.  Smother them with love. Where did we ever get this idea that giving someone what they are asking for LOUDLY is less worthy than giving it to them just because???? (Yes, this attitude makes me absolutely crazy.)

Third, most suicidal people are not just wanting attention.  If they are talking about it, then they are thinking seriously about it, and are in deep pain.

8. Keep treating them normal.

After the crisis has passed, be normal.  Don't walk on eggshells around them.  Check in on them, but don't tiptoe.  Ask them for favors.  Make them feel needed.  Tell them your problems. Maybe not the next day, but let them know you still see them as a whole, sane, wonderful person that you love, want in your life, and even need.

Sooner or later, we all encounter people in crisis.  Sooner or later, we all are the person in crisis. We all need one another, and we can all be the friend that comes alongside.

If you're ever feeling suicidal, message me or call me.  

Here's another option I've used from time to time:

http://www.samaritans.org/

Be well, friends.

Pura Vida

“Grace is unconditional acceptance given to an undeserving person by an unobligated giver. ”

— Tullian Tchividjian

I've been reading the book One Way Love by Tullian Tchividjian and it sinks in like pure water. It's the story of grace in the life of a believer, and every sentence hydrates my spirit, and I can't quite drink it fast enough, and no matter how much grace I read about, and try to drink in---the next day I find myself returning to the same water cooler, pouring it down my throat in great gulps, as if I've never encountered the water of grace before.  But the truth is, it's rare in our culture.  And without real life experiences, it's a concept very tough to grasp at the heart level.

There have been some big moments in life when I've been handed grace.  And they haven't come when I thought I was doing well spiritually.  They have come in the moments when I have absolutely felt the least deserving.  Well, of course, you might be thinking.  Grace comes when you mess up.  That's what makes it grace.

I used to think that too.  But, I think we only notice grace when we've screwed up.  Because that is when we are thirsty for it.  When we are in a place of success, or spiritual intimacy we don't feel we need it, so we aren't looking for it.

Grace is Jesus loving every bit of us, all the time.  It's him smiling at my forgetfulness, or wishing that at the next wedding that maybe I would be brave and actually dance.  It's him noticing the extra time I took for a child, it's him loving me when I feel ignored by those I most want attention from.

Grace is God always or almost always giving me the perfect parking spot.  Even at busy shopping malls during Christmas shopping madness.  It's when Matt Molt took the mike at a prophetic assembly, in part, to tell  me to "Sit in the front!"  :-)  

Grace permeates EVERY moment of our days.  You know how I know?  "Grace is unconditional acceptance given to an undeserving person."   It's always in my life because I'M ALWAYS UNDESERVING.  There's no such thing as me deserving grace.  I'm no more worthy today because I got up early to meet with God, than I was yesterday when I spent way more time on Facebook than I did praying.

But He loves me the same every day no matter what I do, or don't do.  It's easy to write that.  It's soooooo much harder to believe it.  

I'm a super relational person, and most negative emotions in my life come when there is a breakdown in relationships.  The past few weeks have been especially rocky.  Even when I know I haven't done anything wrong, if there's a conflict I feel wracked in guilt until it's over.  At times, I have to force myself NOT to apologize just to ensure peace, and not to give parts of myself away just because someone is mad at my choices.  It's taken to age 48 to allow myself to experience anger AND express it.  

The past few days I've been trying to forgive someone who hurt me again.  Everything inside me wants to do the exact same thing back to the individual.  An eye for an eye, right?  It's Biblical.  That's Old Testament, you say.  Yeah, so is TITHING.  Right back at you.  

But as I read my book on grace, and drink it down like gulps, Jesus reminds me grace is for everyone.  And if I have the Living Water, it's mine to SHARE.

When I see my friend, I will be open and loving and look them in the eye and forgive, even if they don't apologize.  Even if they blame me.  I can do it.  He gives me grace.  And the individual and the friendship is way more important than my momentary hurt.  Or being right.

---

Photo Credit: "Cold Water is Ready" by Brave Heart in Flickr Creative Commons.  No modifications.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/brraveheart/538063535/in/photolist-PxHxv-3t6i5-5zcTrL-rsNK66-mHa76Y-56M5aR-aaSdm6-8MCUGP-4i8TQ1-56bBSA-F27Ev-5jpFc7-hJ84Dd-5mfH6-cYXBzW-8fs7qH-5xuJuw-2jHeR-4ZmicB-chPQKq-32FJUz-64nFAF-4dr9U-eSvfbs-ffsNCV-516Zjk-hUud59-7upp8C-dadV3j-iH98pX-abdVK-7py1Ts-9Mm9zf-8vGnwi-4dr9T-wQab2-6bUpPC-pDb6cF-7SnBD6-7pu8ap-cnwiAq-B5hrb-cYtF8w-7utLtp-4kpkWU-59MPGn-cYvBgh-oeLk-mV9Jwz-5ReW2x

Accusation

3D Judges Gavel

http://www.stockmonkeys.com/

I have a lot of crazy stories from my NYC teaching days.  I rarely take them out and share them because I could “one up” my colleagues a lot if I did, but sometimes I tell them to my boss and we enjoy them for the war stories they are.

Plain everyday living in New York is hard.  New Yorkers get a bad rap for their apparent rudeness, but what most call rude is really just abrupt.  There is a need to save time in the city, because no matter the method of commute, most New Yorkers spend at least 2 hours round-tripping back and forth to work, on a good day..  One winter when my car was snowed under, I spent 5 hours a day traveling.  It was a nightmare.  With this reality, too much “nicety”, too much friendliness actually becomes rude to native New Yorkers or those who have assimilated. I remember being home in Sitka one summer.  My mom and I walked down Main Street, which is a 5 minute walk if you stretch it out.  Everyone was acting really weird.  They didn’t know me, and yet they were SMILING at me.  I remember being so frustrated.  “Didn’t they realize how rude that was?  Didn’t they know how long it took for me to stop and smile back at them?”

In addition to long commutes, the city had a way of making so many things we take for granted in Washington State hard.  Including teaching.  One year, I had a little girl who was struggling.  I did the usual things to support her, but failed to sense how intense her mom would take my every word, writing each syllable down verbatim, and bringing relatives to conferences as witnesses.  When Mom asked me to talk with her child’s after-school academic tutoring, I happily called them, until they began a full court marketing press maneuver, at which point, I ended communication with them.  Despite school policy which forbade it, Mom would sneak her daughter in a side door late, and then proceed to stand outside my door and watch me teach for up to an hour.

After 2 or 3 amiable conversations concerning her child, never having complained to me, the mom wrote a 5-page complaint against me and sent it to our principal, the district office, and the chancellor’s office.  5 pages!  The letter alleged among other things, that “Miss Truitt set out to deliberately destroy my daughter’s self-esteem.”  I was very grateful to be fortunate enough to have a student teacher that year who could vouch for my actions.  The complaint was never taken seriously.  And the letter was so crazy and unlike my character, that it didn’t shake me up too much.  I kept the letter for years, as a souvenir of NYC teaching, as a badge of honor, and as a reminder that teaching would never be quite so hard again.

A 5-page letter filled with lies wasn’t hard to shake off.  (It might be now, but back then, I lived in a studio the size of a nice bathroom, and considered dental floss a luxury.   I had bigger problems.). But what if the letter had contained truth?  What if it recorded every thoughtless word I spoke to a child?  What if it recorded the times that year I had lost my temper?  Or the times I had argued with a colleague (EVERYONE argues in NY.  It’s like required or something.). What then?  Would it have been so easy to dismiss?

No, it would have devastated me.  I would have felt the full weight of my guilt.  I think it’s every teacher’s worst nightmare that a parent might show up and yell at them for real transgressions.  Luckily, most adults realize we all live in glass houses. 

It’s easy for me to sit in judgment of this misguided mom for her criticalness and rock throwing, but honestly, don’t we do the same thing to one another?  We think that our brother or sister has a blind spot and if we just tell them, the big light bulb will come on over their head, they will magically change because they were just waiting for our wisdom, and they will forever after live lives of quiet gratitude to us for showing them the way.  We don’t see the years they’ve sought the Lord with tears for freedom for the exact thing we think we are revealing to them.  We don’t know how far they've already come, or much progress they’ve already made.  Or maybe,  we have no idea what a struggle it is for them just to have enough money for the month to eat every day. 

We confront in friendships, because we feel entitled to be heard.  We have heard the adage, “You teach people how to treat you, “and have taken it to heart and want to educate our friends about our hurts, our triggers, our exact Meyer-Briggs personality, and how they should respond to us.  They must be fluent in our love language (Never mind that love languages are a man-made construct) and need honest feedback when they've erred.

We believe we should be entitled to give input on every decision of our local church.  Why is the stage painted black?  No one consulted me.  How will that effect depressed people?  What?  No volleyball this year at the picnic?  But the best players moved away, our house church might finally be able to win.  Why was church cancelled because of a few snowflakes?  Andreson was clear . . .  There was church?  Someone could have been killed by all the crazies on the road who don’t know how to drive in snow.  And on and on.

If you’re at all like me, you’re now thinking of some of the most critical people you know.  If you’re like me, you didn’t look in the mirror. 

But lately? I’ve hurt people close to me by my judgments and criticism, way more than I would like to face.  I’ve handed people invisible scripts, and expected them to follow along.  When they can’t keep up, I let them know my disappointment in their performance.  Over and over.  There’s little worse than facing someone you love realizing the pain you've planted in them is so deep, it can be forgiven but not extracted.  That only God can undo the harm you’ve done.  And that it will take time.

I’m learning that God doesn’t watch Oprah.  He doesn’t read all the friendship quotes on Pinterest which offer really dumb and bitter advice for AFTER you’ve already blown the friendship.  He says, “Treat others how you want to be treated.” Not “teach people how to treat you.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been getting it backwards for a long time.  

The House of Grace

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I was cooking last night, and the kitchen was somewhat of a mess.  I knew one of my roommates would be home soon and I purposed to apologize for the disorganization and let him know I planned to clean it up before bed.  Then I stopped myself and realized how strange an apology like that would sound to him.  Because, you see, we live in a house of grace.

I found my home on Craigslist.  I was perusing shared housing, but not seriously, because it was August and I didn’t have time to move with school starting.  But this house was PURPLE.  And gorgeous.  I decided to check it out.

From the very beginning, things were laid back.  I agreed to move in and was approved before I even met my roommate who owned the house.  My roommate’s mom showed me the place and I said yes right away, and met my roommate and signed paperwork a little later.  My roommate trusted her mom’s opinion of me, and her mom approved of me instantly.

I was leaving a similar situation, also found on Craigslist.  My former living space was a 7-bedroom mansion-like place with fancy fixtures and heated floors and white carpet throughout. The couple I lived with were lovely.  His mom also lived there.  But it was never a comfortable place for me. 

Everyone was extremely quiet.  The lights were never on no matter what time I got home, because my roommates were frugal and wanted to save money.  Because the home was so immaculate, I felt self-conscious about ever leaving a single dish out.  If I did, it was cleaned and put away by the next morning.  And I felt guilty because I knew the mom had cleaned for me.  In fact, she cleaned for all of us.  She even cleaned my restroom, which also made things a little odd. So although no one ever sat me down and told me “the rules,” it felt very rule-driven.  Don’t leave the lights on.  Don’t make any noise.  Don’t leave anything at all undone.  But the rules were unspoken rules.  The worst kind.

I taught once in a school where unwritten rules prevailed.  Being a new hire, I felt lost much of the time because it seemed I was just expected to “know” things.  When I didn’t understand an email or had questions, I would go to the office and ask the secretaries.  They would answer but then scold me for asking them questions that my team was supposed to fill me in on.  Once I even got in trouble for teaching place value because I used old math texts to do it, and our current curriculum didn’t cover it.

Both my last home, and this school were “Houses of Law.”

Now? I live with 3 roommates.  The owner of the home is a great gal who works nights.  Then there’s 2 college-aged brothers, who were raised right!  The home is a beautiful 4-bedroom house with huge rooms and a 3-car garage.  The best feature is the great room---one gigantic square (purple!) space with living room, dining room, and kitchen all blended perfectly together in harmony.  It’s a great place to entertain, which I can do whenever I want.  (I had to ask permission in my old place.)

When I moved in, I asked about sharing chores, cleaning responsibilities, etc.  My “landlord” roomie was like, “Oh geez.  I hate cleaning.  I had to do it all the time in my marriage.  I don’t want to HAVE to do anything anymore.  So you guys don’t have to either.”  That pretty much sums up the culture of the home.

So . .  .no one does dishes or cleans unless they want to.  There are no musts.  It’s pure grace.  I can entertain all I want, and so can the boys.  We mostly share dishes, pots and pans and often borrow food.  We always tell one another, and the brothers are so honest that they even replace a serving of ice with a full bag. 

So how does our home stay clean?  It’s interesting the effect that grace has on us.  We all contribute.

I find myself preferring my roommates above myself.  When I’m cooking a lot, I clean a lot.  I don’t want my roommates to have to come home to a pile of messy dishes, so I clean them all, even if half of them belong to them.  I empty the dishwasher (my most loathsome job) even if I filled it.  I try not to hog the washer and dryer, and if I must move their laundry I try to do it so that important things like shirts stay unwrinkled.  When I do their dishes or move their laundry, I do so freely without judging them or complaining to myself (most of the time, we all have our days).  I’m happy to do it, because no one is forcing me to.

And we have all kind of found the jobs that make sense to us.  I vacuum the hallway and sweep the stairs a lot.  I bring the mail in and recycle our kitchen items.  One of the brothers vacuums downstairs and fixes everything broken. He also takes out the trash every week. None of us like to mop so our kitchen floor is often sticky.  We’re ok with that.  No one but me, I’m convinced, has a burden for counters.  I don’t think the guys even know they exist.  (The gal never cooks at home, is never in the kitchen.)  So I clean the counters 3 or 4 times a day.  It’s all good in our house of grace. 

What I’ve learned? Is that:

Grace motivates.  I do way more cleaning in this home than any home I’ve ever lived in.

Grace covers.  When I’m stressed and overworked and barely have time to eat, much less clean---my roomies cover me, and do my dishes without complaint, without keeping track or mentioning it. 

Grace creates peace.  There are no expectations, so there are no conflicts.  My pastor once encouraged me out of Romans 4:15 which reads,  “Where there is no law, there is no transgression.”  He went on to articulate that if I’m finding people disappoint me too much, it’s because I have too high of expectations.  Drop the law and you’ll drop the offenses.  Easier said than done.  But my experience in our home, tells me my pastor is right.

Grace brings out the best in me. 

I’m still learning how to apply grace in other situations.  I must lay out expectations on my students.  But how can I make my classroom a “House of Grace” so that my students feel safe and not controlled or coerced?  Is it possible to communicate expectations, but still leave the choice up to them?

Are my friendships “Houses of Law” or “Houses of Grace”? Do I allow my friends to make mistakes with free walks home?  Or must they always apologize to be back into my good graces?  Do I have a list of rules that go with my friendship or are there “no strings attached”?

How about my relationship with God? Or my emotions and thoughts towards my church and it's policies ?  Do I give grace there?

How do I interact with people I come in contact with in daily life?  At the grocery store? In traffic?  

Jesus said whatever I do to the least of my brethren, I do it unto Him.   

What about you?  Are you living in a House of Law or a House of Grace?

Illusion

La Merced

La Antigua, Guatemala

I never understood why Ana, our housemother, told us to be careful of Luis.  Nor did I understand why my friend Kim would parrot these words to me anytime he would come up in conversation.

For those of us living in the host home in Guatemala, Luis was simply “that shoeshine boy” or even “You know, that boy.”  We all knew who “that boy” was.  We passed him sitting on the stoop of La Merced every day on our way to language school.

I didn’t understand my friends’ precautions because after teaching four years in the South Bronx, no young hand-kissing, por-favor-buy-me-a-Pepsi-saying, mentally challenged teenage boy could pose a threat to me.

I loved to stop and chat with him, practicing my fledgling Spanish on him as he practiced his beginning English on me., saying carefully constructed pointed sentences such as, “HOW-ARE-YOU-MY-LOVE?” and kissing my hand, asking me to sit awhile and linger so he could read to me the sentences he had been copying and learning to read.  I never saw the harm in being near Luis.

Then, one moment in time, that will forever be landscaped in my inner eye, I saw a different Luis.  That day, as I made my way home from a café where I had sat eating my plate of papa fritas amidst a sea of stranger faces.  That day—

I saw Luis away from his usual corner.  He was standing in the middle of the street, a hugantic boulder clutched under each arm.  Across from him stood an annoying mosquito of a man who had obviously unfairly provoked him.  Luis, unsure of the growing emotion inside looked ready to pounce.

Around him a sea of people awaited his movements while the object of his wrath at times provoked him and at times attempted to pass. The boy vacillated between the choice of saving face through open aggression or backing down and staying alive, his face contorting as his body rocked back and forth considering his options.

The boy, in the eyes of the crowd, was beloved in an awkward sort of way and they stood watch over him to make sure he did not get hurt.  But to him in the intensity of the moment, the crowd was hostile—it turned him inward on himself and made him feel as though he must finish what had been started.

I too, know that feeling—that loathsome feeling of being watched, observed, and thereby judged.  Feeling all the world has stopped and awaits your movements—ready to render judgment whichever way you choose.  That turning inward on yourself which forces out of the imagination the possibility that the faces which appear so hostile might actually be friendly.

In that moment of vacillation, a stranger stepped up and gently removed the rocks from underneath Luis’s arms, pulling him gently to the side away from the gaze of the crowd.

I hope that in my moments, my strangers will rescue me the way his did him that day, removing the rocks of self-doubt from my demeanor, with which I’ll crush myself, if left alone.