for when you think you want control

January 18, 2013

“This is the second time in my life where I cannot control an outcome. The first time was the disease, [the second time is] now.”

Lance Armstrong,  in his interview with Oprah Winfrey

Lance ArmstrongLast May when Phillip Phillips won American Idol, he didn’t jump up and down or make number one signs in the air or fall to his knees and make a big scene. Instead, he humbly sang his song until about mid-way through when his emotions twisted up his throat and he had to stop singing and just put down his head.

Phillip Phillips seemed like a man who knew that the outcome of that competition was completely out of his hands. He looked genuinely shocked to discover himself as the winner.

I heard a quote where someone said the human soul wasn’t made for fame – watching Phillip win was visible proof of that statement for me. 

Last night in a two hour interview with Oprah, Lance Armstrong finally admitted to using performance-enhancing drugs. He said every time he won a tour, he knew he was going to win. He orchestrated it to be so.

Oprah said, “Fame magnifies whoever you really are.” I think she’s right.

Lance Armstrong said he was a guy who expected to always get what he wanted.

He was a controller of outcomes in every area of his life.

Except when he got cancer.

And when he got caught.

Did you watch Part 1 of the interview?

17 Comments · Filed Under: faith, imperfection

how one brush equals six pots filled with miracles

August 8, 2012

Brushes are good for throwing. They fit right in your hand, perfect to squeeze in the angry moments. And you can close your bathroom door and just throw that brush against the tile as hard as you want to.

The brush might dent or break, but you won’t care so much about that in the moment. It’s just nice to throw something, to make a loud noise, to lose control for a bit of time. Assuming you ever had control in the first place.

Phones are good for throwing, too. Not iPhones – too expensive. But for those of us who still have landlines, those cordless phones are the best. I kicked that habit about six years ago when, in a fit of stubborn frustration, I threw the phone across the room. When I finally went to rescue it, two of the numbers were stuck pushed in. It was unfortunate if I ever needed a 5. Or a pound sign.

I don’t throw phones anymore.

In John 2, I read about the couple who invited Jesus to their wedding. His friends and his mama, too. I know the whole point of the story is the wine in the water pots, but I just can’t help imagining what sort of friend Jesus was to the bride and groom. Did he cry when they made their promises? Did he and the groom shake hands, exchange looks, embrace?

What did he think when he watched the bride?

Did he think of his church? Of you?

Of me? Was I holding a brush?

Yesterday was a brush-throwing kind of day. I don’t throw them at people so don’t go worrying for anyone’s safety. But sometimes slamming a brush into the sink is better than slamming my head into the wall. I’ve decided to call it a celebration for Lysa TerKeurst’s book release week. She wrote a book called Unglued and let’s just say I was.

Sometimes I forget freedom, the abundance of my gifts, the everyday graces, the beauty of acceptance. Sometimes I throw brushes, pout, worry over things seven miles outside my circle of perceived control.

I forget the six pots filled with dusty water, the ones that held nearly thirty gallons each. I forget the twinkle in Mary’s eyes when she told the servants, Do whatever he tells you. And the water filled up to the brim worked invisible miracles inside those stone pots. And the master of the banquet was impressed as  the rich wine graced his lips. He drank down the miracle, satisfied.

Imagine if he knew where it had come from.

It was Jesus’ first miracle. Only his mother and a handful of servants knew about it. It wasn’t life or death. It wasn’t world peace or starvation or anything dangerous at all. Running out of wine at a wedding was more of a brush-throwing kind of moment. But Jesus still saw the need and worked a secret miracle to meet it.

I am desperate for twinkling eyes, for thirty gallon water pots, for believing in things I can’t see, for cups filled with secret miracles.

28 Comments · Filed Under: faith, imperfection

when full rooms make your knees shake

August 6, 2012

The room is packed to the corners with women, every round table nearly full with familiar faces. She introduces me quickly and I stand at the microphone, perusing the room.

Those girls were at our wedding. That one back there volunteers in our youth group. This one works at my kid’s school. There’s our pastor’s wife, my mother-in-law, the women who drove from Raleigh. There’s some friends who go to a different church, some girls I went to college with, a few women who work at LifeWay, college students home for summer. Surely they can’t be ready to graduate? Aren’t they still 16?

I begin to talk the way I do, hands moving too much, eyebrows raised to the ceiling, open. I am nothing if not open. And that is why I will later come home and close up in a ball, tightly sealed, quiet.

My hands shake remembering. I knew it would be a bit more difficult to speak in a room full of women I know. But I wasn’t prepared for the emotion of it. I didn’t cry, although a few times I felt like I might. It was a little like heaven, all those women gathered in one place, women I knew or used to know. Women I wished I knew better.

It also felt like something else, something of fear and self-awareness, of hiding under a big round table. Something of running away.

Three weeks ago I stood in front of a room filled with writers and speakers and strangers. I had fun there, felt sure of my calling there, spoke words and didn’t replay them.

But last week when I shared stories with a room made up of friends at my very own church in my very own neighborhood, well. I haven’t yet recovered. Being in the right place doesn’t always feel that great. Sometimes it feels terrifying, unsure, small. But small is a gift I haven’t stopped giving thanks for. I have tasted the miracles that come from weakness, from inadequacy, from a hard leaning into a source outside of myself.

This morning I read in the book of John, right there in the beginning, how the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. I know this Word is Jesus, that the Father was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in Him and through Him. And then John 1:16 sings truth in black and white, lifts off the page and colors my whole kitchen with light.

“For of His fullness we have all received, and grace upon grace.”

We aren’t the only ones who lean. This word grace means favor. A kindness. God, freely extending Himself to us, giving Himself away, leaning toward us. He leans toward us. 

I would still prefer to speak to a room filled with strangers. Isn’t it obvious why? It is easier to manage their opinions, to control what they see, to stay distant. To speak among friends is to risk rejection, fingers pointing, exposure. But this risk is worth it if we want to grow in community and be challenged to live what we say we believe. Is Christ really sufficient? Have you really received His fullness? Does grace really multiply?

My earthly eyes see full rooms that push me to my introverted knees. The Spirit begs me to see a different kind of full — fullness of heart, fullness of spirits made one with God, fullness of Emmanuel. We are not alone. Grace upon grace.

I close my Bible, consider the gifts, stare out the window three minutes too long. The words fullness and lean are still on my mind. I don’t have neat conclusions. I will carry these words with me into the day.

41 Comments · Filed Under: grace, imperfection, vocation

when your normal is someone else’s weird

April 20, 2012

If you start on I-40 in California and keep driving east, lots of days later you’ll end up in Wilmington, North Carolina. A few years ago, I traveled with my friend Alisa to Wilmington. We didn’t start in California, but that’s where she’s from. I remember her being excited about finally making it to the other end of I-40 and seeing the Atlantic Ocean for the first time.

When we arrived in Wilmington, we drove straight to the beach. As we got out of her car and reached the sand, Alisa said out loud but kind of to herself, Wow, you really do have grass on your beaches. It wasn’t a big deal of a thing and I’m not even sure she was talking to me. But her words come to mind every time I see tall grass on sand. To me, it’s normal. But I carry California Alisa’s comment in my pocket and remember that my normal is someone else’s weird.
Next week I’ll be traveling to California for the first time. I won’t be driving 1-40, but it will be my first legit trip there. When I traveled with Compassion to the Philippines last year, our team met up at LAX so I got to see California from the air. But that doesn’t seem to count.

While there, I’ll be speaking at a retreat for a group of women in Carlsbad I absolutely can’t wait to meet. We’ll talk about grace and Jesus – two of my most favorite things. And also? I would really like to find an In-N-Out Burger because that just seems like something that needs to happen.

Preparing to travel and speak and get the kids calendars in order so my mom and mother-in-law know what to do while The Man and I are away, I’ve realized my capacity for thoughtful writing is about as deep as Cookie Monster. And also me want a cookie. I leave you with a few bullet points because everyone likes a bullet point.

  • I really liked this post by Mary Carver: It’s All McDonald’s @ Giving Up on Perfect
  • My April e-letter will go out next week. I’ll share links to stuff, write a blog post just for subscribers and maybe something else I haven’t thought of yet. Who wants a cookie? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter here.
  • I changed my twitter name to @emilypfreeman because that’s my name.
  • Speaking of Compassion, their next trip is May 6-11. They’ll be traveling to Tanzania this time and my sister will be going with them. Check out the rest of the team and follow their trip.
  • I got the page proofs for my second book, Graceful {For Young Women} which gets me all over again excited.
  • So there is no grass on the beach in California? Really? What is something you have learned is normal to you but weird to everyone else?
34 Comments · Filed Under: imperfection Tagged With:

for when you’re not cut out for this

February 1, 2012

I hang up the phone and see I’m still shaking. That did not go well. More radio interviews line up every Monday in February. I’m not cut out for this. I try to distract myself with email and the laundry, but I can’t ignore my shaking hands and the sweat under my armpits, turning my pink shirt darker pink. Finally I sit, and try to reason it away. You’ve done countless interviews by now, why do you still get so nervous?

But I do and I wish I could talk myself out of it. The interview has been over for a full 15 minutes and I consider this blessed life I’m so thankful for but didn’t quite plan on, exactly. There’s no such thing as just a writer. You need to be a communicator in all aspects of the word – writing, speaking, sweat-less interviews. It makes me dizzy sometimes.

I’m not cut out for this. And even as I say it, as I say it, I hear the Lord whisper, No, you are not cut out. You have been placed in. He really said that, sure as the way I stumbled and uh’d my way through that interview. He reminded me I have been placed into Him. No, not cut out.

I am connected, sure, safe. If I’m looking to be cut out for something, confident on my own terms, standing on my own platform, unwilling to die? Life can be scary and tasks, daunting. God takes great delight in finding us in places where we don’t feel cut out to succeed. And that is where he sends his invitation of remembrance – that shaky, sweaty mess is a reminder that I am desperate to depend on a source other than myself. Success takes on a different shape there. It looks a lot like rest and feels a lot like freedom.

Have you found yourself in a role you don’t feel cut out for lately?

64 Comments · Filed Under: courage, imperfection, writing

when saying you’re sorry is a bad idea

May 11, 2011

Have you ever met someone who apologizes for everything? At first it is endearing and you think, Oh, look how thoughtful she is being of me! She is sorry she was late. But then you look at your phone and realize she is five minutes early. And she’s apologizing for it. And you realize that her definition of late is showing up two minutes past early. Before the night is over you have counted her apologies to the point where you can no longer focus on what she is saying because you’re waiting for her to apologize for it.

It’s exhausting to listen to her, until I realize I do it, too. I want to apologize for writing a non-fiction book because I know they aren’t as fun to read as fiction. I apologize for getting emotional when people pray for me. I’m not really sorry, but it’s what comes out of my mouth when it happens. I don’t know why I’m crying, I hear myself say, I’m so sorry. I’m being ridiculous.

When guests come over, have you ever heard yourself pointing out the mess to them and apologizing for all the imperfections even though you know that it doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful?

When the dinner dishes still sit in the sink from dinner two nights ago, do you hear yourself apologize to your husband for it, almost like you want to point out the flaws first before he gets a chance to do it?

The thing is, he never would. I completely accept your flaws but I am strictly opposed to my own. What I’m really saying is, Attention everyone! I have a very important announcement to make – I am a human being and I am ever so sorry about that.

We apologize for being emotional.

We apologize for being inarticulate.

We apologize for not having answers.

And in the doing, we sorry our way out of making art.

But these apologies aren’t really apologies, are they? A God-led sorry leads to healing, not hiding. Apologies said in true humility and repentance are intended to draw people closer to God and each other. A true sorry is said with an open hand, not a clenched fist. A true sorry is not about me. But sorry is a bad idea when it is used to cover up our beautiful, vulnerable, fragile humanity.

So what if we did the opposite? What if instead of brushing our emotions aside and apologizing for the brokenness, we invited a few people into it? What if instead of pointing out the mess on the floor, we welcomed them to sit with us among it? Perhaps we would finally see that we were made for greater things than this. We are living in the midst of provision, abundance, skill. Giftedness. We were made by design and on purpose by an unapologetic God. Dare to receive His making of you. And don’t forget to say thank you.

71 Comments · Filed Under: family, imperfection

for when you feel behind

May 9, 2011

We live our lives in measurable minutes, looking to the clock, the paycheck, the success of others. I got the contract. I’m winning! She got 2 contracts. I lose. I got the good metabolism. I’m winning! I got bad skin. I lose. I have food, a home, my health: I win! I worry, I pout, I covet: I lose.

And the cycle circles frantic on the level of our soul. We only let it go on because we don’t realize it’s happening. It’s become normal, familiar, and automatic. For some, the motivation is to win. For others, it is simply not to lose. I know it’s simplified here, but isn’t it true? Perhaps the reason we feel behind is because we’re chasing the wrong goal.

Perfection. I have a job coming up this weekend, and I feel behind when it comes to mind. But I’m beginning to realize I’m not technically behind at all. It isn’t the type of job you can really work on beforehand. But the reason I feel behind is because I’m worried about the outcome. I’m worried I won’t do the job well, and so the worry fuels the frantic wheel. I’m trying to catch up to perfect.

Expectation. Even though I have read the books and the blog posts and listened to the conversations, I still feel shame when my house isn’t clean. I know I shouldn’t. I’ve gotten better. The voices don’t shout like they used to. But the whispers are there among the paper stacks and the dirty bathroom floor. Their taunting convinces me that I am behind and I need to catch up to clean.

Beauty. I chase beautiful on the treadmill three times a week. Sometimes more. Usually less. I’m not always thinking of it that way, there are days when I go for healthy reasons, soul-feeding reasons, right reasons. But when I feel behind, when the wheel is spinning anyway, there is one more thing to throw on it. I am behind and I long to catch up to beautiful.

We are tricked into believing that the only relief from feeling behind is to catch up. But this is war, and the enemy is an illusive and foggy expectation. How can you catch up to a vapor? How can you ever run next to perfect, look her in the eye, and pass her by? We can’t but we try, and in our rush to get there we drop all the things we hold dear in order to lighten the load. Art is the first to go. Then patience, faith, and peace are tossed into a heap on the grass beside the track. But instead of a lightness, heavy comes instead. The pavement turns to quicksand, our opponent all but disappears in front of us, the race feels a joke, and we bear the brunt of it.

Show me where it says you are supposed to do it all. Point to the truth words that say you are expected to catch up. I want to see. This disease needs a cure, and only a Healer can give it. The only Healer I know invites the weary and the heavy to come for rest.

Release every detail of the job to him, from the equipment to the schedule. Tell him, cry if you must, close your eyes and believe. Open those reluctant hands. Feel the wheel begin to slow beneath you. Consider true beauty. Dare yourself to let it be true for you. What if there is no behind? What if there is only right now, this moment? Would anything be different?

94 Comments · Filed Under: breathe, family, imperfection Tagged With:

on editing

May 4, 2011

Page proofs for Grace for the Good Girl are due a week from today. And once I turn those in, I won’t see the book again until it’s a book, with a cover and everything. The heavy editing is over, and now we’re in the combing stage. It’s like looking for lice after the lice scare is over – you know they’re all gone, but any minute you might find one. That’s gross. I’m sorry. Go ahead, throw out your breakfast. You can eat tomorrow.

The Nester wrote a post yesterday called How to Edit a Room. Basically, she clears out everything smaller than a football and leaves only the big stuff. Then she sits in her newly quieted room and takes note of how it feels. She only adds back the stuff that has purpose, is loved, and is beautiful. She says it much better and Nester-ish than me so you’ll have to read the post.

Some of her advice on editing a room you can obviously apply to editing your writing, namely to take out all the stuff you don’t love. As I’m working on my second book, I’m trying to leave out all the parts someone would skip. It’s forcing me to be brave and trust the reader. If I put it in there, it has to be important and worth it. Such is the way of editing – we add, delete, correct, condense, re-shape, clean up, and make better. And I can’t help but let editing float over to so many other areas.

Schedule. I’m in a busy season right now. There are lots of things to be done and I simply can’t say no to some of them. If I sit in front of my calendar too long, my breathing gets shallow and my heart speeds up because I realize that I’ve already said no to the non-essentials and my schedule is still so full. And so editing my schedule looks like shifting my eyes from the burden of my calendar to the easy, light-load living of Jesus.

Fears. When I turn off phones and TVs and machines at the end of the day, that’s when the fears I’ve been living with seem to show themselves. I want to be relentless with these. Skip them. Be brave. Take them out.

Thoughts. We can control what we think about, and this is our first line of defense when it comes to editing our fears. Thoughts come fast and furious, but they only come one at a time. I can filter my thoughts through the screen of true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, or praiseworthy. If it doesn’t fit in one of those categories, I’m free to get rid of it.

Inhibitions. As our thoughts are edited down to the true and the pure and the excellent, our inhibitions will edit themselves. Let your unnatural and uncomfortable self fall away to the cutting room floor, and allow yourself to move freely and create liberally with an eye for beauty and a heart bent brave toward adventure.

Thanks Nester for encouraging me to think about the big umbrella of editing. Are there any other areas significant in your life right now that could use some red pen action?

43 Comments · Filed Under: imperfection, writing

how to make art when there’s no time for art

May 2, 2011

The sun comes out after two days of rain and I watch the shadows show up in the backyard. A pile of clean, unfolded clothes hangs out heavy on top of the dyer, and I sigh when I look at it. I so should have kept the ironing board. I pull out the first thing I see, purple leggings tangled up with The Man’s t-shirt and a pair of underwear. I begin to fold and dream about all the other things I’d rather be doing.

The gift given to me by the hand of grace is encouragement. I have been equipped to encourage through writing. I find moments to write the way a dog looks for food. I take them greedy when they come and I steal them if they don’t. But some days neither is possible, and that’s where I am today, standing in front of the dryer, folding wrinkled clothes.

We’ve talked about the fear of art, of entering into a stare-down with your gift and daring yourself to win. But what is even scarier sometimes is standing in the laundry room, watching the shadows show up in the backyard. What am I doing here? Where is the art? It takes faith to believe  in the midst of the ordinary, to continue to turn to Christ in every ordinary moment and trust that as you do so, he will turn you back out again.

I have lived entire seasons in my laundry room, at my kitchen sink, on the bathroom floor. I have sat in the middle of the night with two screaming babies and looked desperately for some creative expression. I have wondered if I have any thing to offer, any gifts to give. I don’t believe the answer is ever to whisk myself away to a remote island and figure out my purpose, although I wouldn’t turn down that ticket.

I do believe the answer is to turn to Jesus, to look for my reflection in his face, to trust even though it doesn’t feel true, to ask him to make beauty out of the ordinary gray. All of our things look different. It’s not always a message or an experience or a speech or a book. Everyone may not have a book to write. But everyone has a story, yes? And we get to choose the story we live. Sometimes our art is big and loud. Most times, it isn’t. Most times, it’s a quiet word, a choice to love anyway, a grace-filled glance, a still tongue, a hot dinner, a made bed, a flint-faced belief.

I am an artist, and I make art with my words, my pictures, my ladle, and my dishrag.

63 Comments · Filed Under: art, faith, imperfection, lifestyle Tagged With:

the most unwelcome guest at Christmas

December 20, 2010

It was like a mini-post traumatic stress reaction. I hadn’t really been too nervous about his surgery. While I waited for the doctor to report to us in the waiting room, I worked on a photo calendar for my in-laws. When the doctor said all was well, we went up to see him. I spent the next 20 hours in that small hospital room next to my recovering four year old. There was no sleep that night, not really. And then the next night, either. Or the next. But he was well, the tonsils were out, I was doing okay, and we carried on.

We went home, had help, friends were kind, family was supportive. But my body started to give me signs that all was not well. The activity and stress began to catch up. And then I looked at the calendar – two weeks until Christmas. And then I looked at my reflection in the mirror – tired. And then I looked at my pantry – disarray. And as my sister dug through a cabinet to find popcorn that I swore we didn’t have (we did), I lamented my mess and lack of organizing.

She opened the popcorn bag, stuck it in the microwave, and offered freedom she didn’t even know I needed: You’re being too hard on yourself. The microwave buttons dinged, and as the little machine roared to life, my recent days played out quick like a movie reel, straight in front of me and laden with heavy worry – about this and that and them and those things. And in nearly every corner, I found shame.

It doesn’t take a hero to offer grace to the grace-filled. But to extend grace in the midst of ungraciousness? That is a most difficult task. And I can be a most ungracious girl to myself. When I forget an ingredient for the cookies, I roll my eyes and call me stupid. More than once. Out loud. And then it spirals into worry that I’m not good at having people over. I get too overwhelmed and I come undone too easily. I may have good intentions, but my follow-through is sloppy. And only an idiot would try. I should just go ahead and wish this Christmas season right away.

When someone else is running late, I am the first to dismiss it. It’s fine! I don’t mind! And I genuinely don’t. If someone else is struggling, I sincerely long to offer support. When you forget an ingredient for the cookies, I can laugh with you and we can make the best of it. I can extend grace to you and it is easy and right. Messed up is what makes you touchable, endearing, lovely.

I will extend grace to you in the midst of your tired and your need. I have difficulty extending grace to me. I don’t want to be my own most unwelcome guest at Christmas. I already see the potential to be swept away by the impossible expectations of perfect, invisible me. Has she been lurking around your house? Force that girl out and offer grace instead. Shove silly in her face and give yourself permission to laugh at the days to come.

68 Comments · Filed Under: imperfection, sisters
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