On leaving behind old stories…

I’ve been telling myself a story about who I am deep down for quite some time. Here are two: 

Timid — lots of memories of embarrassment causing my face turning as red as the tomatoes from Ben’s vegetable stand on Highway 138…red enough for a nearby Andrew to mention it and calcify the shame deep inside. 

Sweet — as the tea I grew up drinking, just like a southern baptist, southern-belle ought to be. 

I’m coming up on 40 and I find myself questioning those two stories about my identity. Because, frankly, I’m not sure those who know me now would describe me that way. Like, at all. 

Which begs the question — when did I start telling myself that’s who I was at my core? 

I’ve been trying to remember more about who I was as a child. 

Two vivid-ish memories from the house on Honey Creek I lived in until I was 4-5… one is getting in trouble at a party and getting spanked (or maybe just threatened to be spanked1) in front of others. And the other is singing Jesus loves me at the top of the stairs (sometimes at the top of my lungs) when other people were fighting. I don’t know what order they happened in (but I have a guess) and the latter doesn’t actually sound very timid. It sounds bold.

I texted that story to a friend and she replied, “…Calling out harm from the START of your life and screaming Jesus loves you as your peace banner!!! That was your flag back then like you still want one for your house now!”

Calling out harm and screaming ‘Jesus loves you’ as my peace banner. 

Cue all the sobbing and mind-exploding emojis. 

The two scenes from Honey Creek — getting in trouble and singing over trouble — help make sense of the stories I’ve carried and why they’ve been so difficult to pick apart, especially since becoming a mother.

***

I remember the first times someone gave me encouragement that wasn’t strictly along the lines of “you’re just so sweet and encouraging.”  

Aubrey, Jubi, and I were living overseas on a team of newly graduated interns. We were on a retreat of some kind and going around telling each other what we appreciated about the person. They said things like feisty, stand up for what you believe in, passionate, etc. 

Part of me felt honored. Part of me felt seen. And part of me was uncomfortable, as if my psyche wasn’t sure those were things that were okay to be. Especially as a Christian woman leader/person. 

***

Recently, I’ve wondered if I’m too much. 

Too loud, too angry, too “liberal”, too irreverent, too opinionated on the one hand

And

Too overwhelmed, too overstimulated, too stretched thin on the other. 

I often feel like I’m about to get in trouble. But I wonder if this is another case of: you’re actually not loud/angry/opinionated enough!

When I finally got back into therapy as a young mom, drowning overseas with two sensitive & intense girls, my therapist told me that while I felt too emotional, I actually was not giving enough space to my emotions. They were there, but I couldn’t accept them, I didn’t want to acknowledge all the anger and grief and fear that was really inside me. 

***

Here’s what I’m allowing myself to consider: God made me a sensitive, passionate person who was born to sing Jesus’ love in and through all the troubles of the world. 

I have spent much of the last few decades small and quiet, too afraid of speaking up and breaking the sweet tea mold I thought I had to live in. Afraid of someone being mad at me or disappointed in me or not particularly liking me. 

But I think it’s time for me to face the idea that I am not southern-instant-diabetes-sweet tea. Maybe I am a spiced chai. Medicinal strength. 

I was always drawn to David Gates’ poem for my daughters, but maybe it’s also for me:

I AM NOT YOUR CUP OF TEA

I am not your cup of tea

because I am made too strong

and frankly, too hot

for you to enjoy

maybe you can tolerate me

in tiny sips but I don’t want

to be tolerated. I want to be

devoured by those who value

all I am and who do not wish

I was in any way watered down

to meet your tepid tastes.