Tag Archives: Fear

Sometimes they’ll call me a whore.

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As I’ve mentioned before, I’m fortunate to be part of a fierce group of women faith writers. A few of these lovely ladies live near me, and we meet together every six weeks or so to lift up and encourage one another, as well as do some old school workshopping.

We tend to leave these gatherings full of new energy, a renewed since of purpose, and overflowing with words waiting to be put to paper.

After our most recent meeting, one afterglow email read:

“My soul was full after today’s lunch. So grateful for this handful of preciousness that God has given us, it filled a hole I didn’t even know was there until suddenly it wasn’t empty anymore.”

A Facebook post happily reported:

“The NorCal Buds met today. [One member] shared a retreat recap and we ate [another member’s] homemade bread while chatting about tribe and platform and which paragraphs I need to cut out of my manuscript. All this while five kiddos napped or watched Sesame Street in other rooms. Power to the mamas, right?!”

Right.

But earlier that day, as I relaxed into easy mama friendships and felt my perfected defenses soften, I realized I was harboring an insecurity I’d thought I’d lost years ago. This thought consumed me and, unlike my peers, I left feeling not emboldened, but instead like I’d been punched in the stomach.

My husband tells me I’m the most confident person he’s ever met. On a confidence scale of one to ten, I’d say I’m an eight. Don’t get me wrong—I often come home bemoaning a possible misunderstanding with a friend and needing my husband to talk me down from the did-I-say-something-offensive-without-meaning-to ledge. I’m not comfortable in short shorts or a bikini, and I refuse to go out without makeup. But all in all, I’m at peace with myself.

Then, after a few years’ hiatus, I started writing again. And not just writing, but faith writing.

And all of the sudden, I’m back in junior high: searching for affirmation, hoping to prove I’m “real,” and asking my lady friends the writer’s equivalent of “does this dress make me look fat?”

So why the current crisis of confidence?

Because soul baring is hard.

Because my heart and faith and politics are all on my sleeve, and sometimes people will call me a moron, and sometimes they’ll call me a whore.

And sometimes I’ll even lose friends.

After an especially inspiring sermon a few weeks ago, my husband wrote on our kitchen chalkboard:

¤ Brave?

¤ Safe?

This is a reminder to us that each day when we wake up, we have to decide how we will live out that day. As the guy who gave the sermon said, our grandkids will remember us no matter what, but the way they remember us will be very different depending on which option we choose.

I want my grandkids to remember me as a woman without fear.

But how will they know that I go to bed most nights thinking, “I can’t do this anymore. After years of being in comfortable skin, I can’t handle this,” but that I wake up and do it anyway?

The only way they’ll know is if I write it down.

After our last manuscript meeting, I drove home with my friend, Cara, and related a small bit of how I was feeling to her. She said, “This is a no apologies relationship, friend.” The freedom in those words is astounding: No apologies for who I am, or how I feel or think. Where can fear survive in the face of that freedom?

The truth is, it can. Our fears are not always unfounded, but it is always up to us how we handle them.

I think back to the words I first dog-eared in a now-soft worn book almost two decades ago, and I promise myself this—this—is how my grandkids will know me:

I’ll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I’ll teach her to
write everything down on her tongue,
write it on her thighs.

I’ll help her see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I’ll explain to her that it’s better to regret the things
she has done than the things she hasn’t.
I’ll teach her to write manifestos
on cocktail napkins.

[…]

I’ll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leaving the door open.
I’ll teach her to follow the words.

My Two Americas

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In 2005, I worked in the heart of Richmond’s Iron Triangle. I was a single mom at the time, and I often had to take my son to work with me. As he will gleefully tell you, there was at least one time when I sent him to the car, which was parked about 1/4 of a block from the Center, to get something. He had heard stories about the Triangle, and he was frightened. I felt no fear for him, a white boy walking 1/4 of a block. The Center’s kids knew me, knew my son, and were outside of watch him walk to the car. Nonetheless, he was frightened in the few minutes it took to walk there and back. In retrospect, I realize I made the wrong choice, and it is certainly not a choice I would make again.

In the town I lived in at the time, which is about a 10-minute drive from the Iron Triangle, there was an outdoor musical event/town picnic one night of the week for the month of September.

One day after a shooting outside the Center, after I saw several young black men handcuffed and put into the rear of a police truck, I went to the outdoor festival with my son. It was a beautiful night, and we had a great time. As I reflected on the stark contrast between the two events–only a few miles and moments apart in time–I felt compelled to write about it. Yesterday, following the sad outcome of the Treyvon Martin trial, these words came to mind again, and today, 8 years later, I post them here. In 8 years, little to nothing has changed.

My Two Americas

The whole town must have been there:

blankets spread, corners held firm with baskets, rocks found in flower beds.
An elderly couple at a table pulled from their patio,
and shiny-haired children, dancing barefoot in September glow.

I held my breath and waited for the next song to begin,
the small blond boy’s father to pull him from the stage.

So warm, watching these families and their infinite smiles, children
undeniably bright, college bound.

And I thought back two hours—
my work, McDonald Avenue—and saw

corn-rowed boys
face down, hands behind backs, wrists cuffed.
Ten police cars, 20 guns drawn, pointed
at three nappy heads.

I am hit from behind – the boy from the stage –

His father smiles in apology at the miscalculation
of his small son’s steps.

My Fearless Voice?

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I recently joined up with a wonderful group of women who are charged with “fearlessly expanding the feminine voice in our churches, communities, and culture.” And oh, how they do! Strong, fearless voices reach out through the blogosphere,* books, social media, and prayers, to put the hopes, dreams, joys, and sorrows of women into words. It is an honor to be among them.

But I wonder.

How “fearless” is my voice? How often do I let fear of divergent views of friends and family sway or swallow my words? And this even though I know I will be loved by my friends and family even when disagreements arise? How often do I decide to push away the nagging, burning words of personal experiences because they may expose too much of my life, with its successes and failures, its ups and downs?

The answer is far too often. Will that be any different after I write this post? Will fearlessly admitting to my fearfulness allow me to say it all, do it all, expose it all? I doubt it.

But the more I am exposed to the strength of others around me, and the more I see them write of the hard things of life, the more I am strengthened and emboldened to do the same. We all need community, no matter our stage or station in life.

I am fortunate enough to have a community through this blog as well. Readers are in the 4-digits, and hopefully there will be more to come. So right now I’m reaching out to this community and asking for help. To keep me from flaking on my commitment to be a “fearless” voice, I have a favor to ask: if you read something here or elsewhere by me that you disagree with, would you please let me know? Bring it up in the comment section, on Facebook, on Twitter, or, if you’re family, anywhere other than the dinner table, instead of pretending the disagreement doesn’t exist? And then tell me that’s it’s okay for us to agree to disagree. That we’re still in this community together anyway. And if you see something you like, let me know that, too.

Fear comes from the unknown. So while it’s up to me to overcome hangups and obsessions, I do hope you might help me out a little bit along the way.

(*See the blogroll to the right for links.)