Jonny Boy

Jon Denney….

It seems as though the majority of the time I’ve known Jon, I’ve been seeking to find adequate words to describe him. And here I am again after his passing struggling to find the words to describe who he was to me and so many others. The word that has continually popped into my head when thinking of Jon is “heavenly”. I had so many hellish moments during my friendship with Jon and him just taking up space with me during my hells made them heavenly. And over time, I began to become more heavenly just by knowing him. Jon always had a way of centering me… reminding me who I am. He always sought and found the heaven in me. I remember our last phone conversation. I was making a derogatory joke at the expense of myself for feeling things so deeply. Jon chuckled as he normally did, but then replied with.. “Keely, that is who…you…are…don’t ever change”. I have replayed that conversation over and over again. Letting it sink in so I won’t forget. The many moments where he saw my soul and said it was good. Jon did this for so many in his life. That wasn’t the odd part. The odd part was that I believed him. Jon was the kind of person you believe in. You believe. Heaven just received a dose of Heaven. The truest of homecomings. 

MIracles

I’ve been working in the community mental health field now for over 4 years. I still remember where I was standing when I decided that I wanted to be a therapist. I had this overwhelming sense of purpose and meaning that presented itself in my career choice. I entered the field believing in the human spirit’s ability for change and growth. I did not consider, however, the impact it would have on me. My clients have, in a sense, become my Church - a gathering together of misfits and those forgotten. The coming together of those that are often cast aside, marginalized, and ridden with addiction and other mental health ailments in order to try to live life whole. I have often found the face of God in the homeless man that brings me a bowl of soup because he is worried that I might not be getting enough to eat. Or the man that has spent 20+ years in prison, and yet, still chooses to whisper words of grace and trust in me. Or the child that has been abused in every conceivable way reaching out and holding my hand as we walk. Those who choose to wake up everyday, work long hours (MUCH longer than me), and choose to give hope to their children, when they, themselves have had hope beaten out of them through abuse, trauma, or a biological chemistry that has isolated them from society. It never entered my mind, that these “lost souls” could so swiftly point me towards a deeper truth and hope than I could have claimed years before. They have graciously destroyed my “house of cards” concept of God in black and white print. Though painted with a thorough legal history, gang affiliated tattoos, and a sailor’s mouth, they have become my heroes. For slipping through their beaten down lives comes miracles in every form. They have become my constant reminders of my own frailty as a human, and simultaneously, the beauty that arises through seemingly pain-ridden circumstances. I have the utmost gratitude for these individuals. For they have become the faces of God in a seemingly hopeless world. They have become His constant miracles. And I have become a witness. 

Just "us"

To the addict.

To the murderer.

To the divorced.

To the homosexual.

To the promiscuous.

To the thief.

To all the marginalized. 

Forgotten. 

or Condemned.

You are raw, vulnerable, and exposed.

Every hidden intent and action laid bare for all to see. 

Your mistakes, inadequacies, and misfortunes all held against you. 

You receive pointing fingers, malicious whispers, calloused judgments.

You’re tossed aside again and again by those that deemed themselves “good” or “worthy”.

I am just like you.

I am no better. 

If I am better at anything, its hiding. 

Just like the rest of us. 

Because we are all the same.

All broken in our own ways.

And the Truth is, I need you.

I need you to be a better version of myself.

A more honest version of myself.

Without you, I am stuck in my own false race of approval seeking and image keeping.

In your presence, I feel my own vulnerabilities.

I feel my own fragility as a human being.

I feel connected.

myself.

Home.

And maybe that’s why Christ seated Himself amongst the Humble.

Maybe He felt Home. 

My most vivid moments of Heaven on Earth have been seated across from those that are marginalized. 

I wonder how the Church would look if those that are marginalized had more of a voice.

Maybe we would all be a little more authentic. 

Maybe we would be able to confront more honestly our own demons.

Maybe we would realize that there really isn’t many difference between us after all.

Because the Truth is, the Root of our brokenness is pain. 

And all of us experience pain. 

And all of use seek to mend and stifle that pain in different ways.

I’m a therapist. 

I listen to people and their stories.

I get paid to listen.

But not just to their words.

I get to listen to their hearts

And I have yet to find a bad one.

Their hearts are the rawest, most authentic parts of themselves.

It openly reveals their intentions, and most of the time, that intention was to be good.

Most of them talk of how they feel ashamed and isolated. 

How they have been labeled “bad” and they struggle to not believe it.

They speak of the humiliation they have received amongst “Christians” and “the Church”. 

I cringe.

For I have felt similar things.

We keep tallies and measuring sticks in our back pockets at all times to ensure our “goodness”. 

If we are not like “them", if we have no done “that”...

then we are in.

“Us vs them”

Separation. 

Isolation. 

Not just from each other. 

But from ourselves.

The further we push “them” away, the deeper our callouses form. 

For there really is no “us” or “them”.

But just people.

Our Fathers.

Our Daughters.

Our Mothers.

And Our sons.

Breaking Boxes

There are layers to every person. Some operate mostly on the outermost layer and are completely satisfied. 

I have always immersed myself in the innermost layers and have had to force myself at times to surface in order to be functional. 

But lately, I have struggled to sink into those deeper layers. 

I think I am beginning to understand why. 

Fear.

I think there is a part of every person that deeply fears those deepest layers in themselves.

To have to delve into the mess of sorts is a nightmare at best.

Those are the places of deepest hurts, longings, betrayals, and all other forms of existential thought.

And something in us enables this sense of fight. To fight off those parts of ourselves.

Fight the feelings associated.

Fight the sense of hopelessness.

Fight myself.

I avoided most places where I had to engage in introspection. 

I think because it was going to force me to look at a part of myself that I had no control over… 

My brokenness. 

My Depravity.

And I hate being anything other than “good”.  

Or what I thought “goodness” was.

And I was so tired of wrestling.

So I just lived. 

Mundane day to day life. 

Wake up. 

work. 

eat. 

sleep. 

over.

and over. 

and over again.

And I was content for awhile, but it didn’t last long.

You can only run from yourself with yourself for so long. 

I was so tired of feeling like I never fit or belonged. 

So I sought to force myself into a box and tape my mouth shut. 

To keep myself from being myself. 

And because I’m a fighter, I fought. 

And in order to keep myself in the box, and from breaking out, I avoided most people and things that would force me to look at the being in the box. 

I just didn’t fit.

And it was so miserable. 

Cramped. Suffocating. Stuffy.

The only way to survive being in the box was to die slowly from the inside out.

And that’s what I did.

Very slowly. 

Almost unnoticed. 

Until one day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t know myself anymore. 

I began doing drastic things to try to break free, but to no avail. 

I had forgotten the being that I had trapped in the box. 

I had forgotten who I was.

My life was set out for me….

I would become a therapist, get married, have children, continue doing therapy (maybe while teaching on the side), grow old with my husband, and then our children would have children, and then we would be grandparents to those children, and then we would die. 

And that was my life. And that was what I was “supposed” to do. Because that would make me happy. And that was what all of my friends were doing, and it was “normal”. And I was taught that if I did not want those things, well then, there was something “abnormal” about me. 

Or maybe that I was afraid of commitment, 

Or maybe that I didn’t love children, 

Or maybe that I wouldn’t understand the fullness of God until I experienced marriage. 

The list of reasons why I did’t “fit in the box” was long and exhausting. 

And there is NOTHING wrong with those things. 

But they become wrong, if they become a box. 

And if the object or person does not fit in the box. 

Because then, they are not longer living authentically. 

They are living in rules, not in love. 

I always thought that my lack of “fitting-ness” was disconnecting me from God. That maybe my lack of “fitting-ness” was due to some inner sin or dysfunction that separated me from Him.

But I have found that Jesus aligned himself most with this that “didn’t fit”. 

Probably because He didn’t quite fit either.

He didn’t make it in the box that others had set out for who He was going to be and why.

Instead, He contradicted any label that was thrown at Him.

I cringe to imagine what would have happened if the Son of God would have forfeited who He was in order to fit in the box that we (depraved humanity) had set out for Him.

Maybe I should fear the same for myself. 

The Table

There are certain failures that take longer to heal.

And certain seasons bring heavier reminders.

I began remembering on Easter.

An ironic day to remember all my past dead end decisions, dead end relationships, and dead end hopes.

The day when the Dead One rose, was the day that I remembered all my dead.

Sometimes…. I doubt my "dead ends” have risen.

I wonder if they are buried deep under a mountain of denial and avoidance just waiting for the right moments to reveal themselves.

It’s when these doubts occur, that fear begins to envelope me.

I am absolutely terrified that others will see them.

They will see my insecurities.

Inadequacies.

Failures.

And any other shameful portion of my existence. 

I have fought so hard and so long to not be seen.

To keep those weaknesses at a distance,

But at the cost of myself.

For although the failures and inadequacies are painful amongst other humans, they are a means of homecoming in the midst of the Divine.

A seed always dies before it grows.

"Then it happened that as Jesus was reclining at the table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were dining with Jesus and His disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to His disciples, "Why is your Teacher eating with the tax collectors and sinners?"But when Jesus heard this, He said, "It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.…"

When I used to imagine this scene, I was on the outside looking in. I watched Jesus eat with “sinners and tax collectors”, and would think to myself that I wanted to be like that. I wanted to associate with those that were “sick” and not neglect their needs. 

I’m not on the outside.

And I don’t want to be on the outside. 

I am the Dead waiting to Rise.

I am the Dying continuously on the Rise.

I wonder if a God who “does not consider equality with God something to be grasped” feels at home amongst the humble. 

And I never want to leave the table.

The Trees and I.

This time of year, the trees seem to lose.

They become completely vulnerable to the elements.

Their covering falls, and they are laid bare.

Completely naked to the judging winds that blow its fragile frame violently.

Why would anyone choose this state?

I am often jealous of the trees.

We were jealous of the trees in the beginning

For when we felt shame,

we went to the leaves.

I become jealous of their lack.

Jealous of their bareness.

Jealous of their simple frame.

For I know my own.

And at least in their lack, they are truly seen.

I wonder what that would be like.

To be bare. 

To forgo the shield of green covering.

For there is something majestic about the stark.

Something admirable.

Something captivating.

Perhaps I find comfort in the trees.

I am relieved to know that even in the loss

In the losing

In the lost…… There is hope.

That though the leaves fall and the winter comes, there will once again be growth.

And maybe the Beauty isn’t in the spring itself.

But in the resurrection process that we all witnessed through the Fall.

In the losing it all to gain it all.

For the spring wouldn’t be as beautiful if we did not know from which it came.

And maybe our beauty isn’t in the outcome.

Maybe it is the process of renewing the stark

Renewing the dark.

Because taking nothing, and making it beautiful is a miracle. 

And beauty is found in miracles.

In the miraculous.

And whenever I choose to be a tree with no covering

I am an awaiting miracle.

Fall brings me so much hope.

For I know I will rise again.

Vulnerability

We all so desperately want to be known.

I think it’s apart of being human.

We feel our souls hidden behind our skin

And we ache for someone to notice.

It’s the most frightening experience - letting someone see beyond the skin.

For our skin is our protection.

And beyond it, we are laid bare.

Vulnerable.

Vulnerability is our greatest Enemy.

And yet, simultaneously, the only means to our Freedom.

It’s the laying down of our arms - embracing both tragedy and miracle.

However, the alternative to vulnerability is ourselves - being left inside ourselves, to ourselves.

The alternative to living a life of vulnerability, is a life of imprisonment.

And weren’t we meant to live free?

Isn’t that what we were created for?

Freedom?

We all have our prisons.

The secrets that haunt.

The fears that consume.

The shame that kills slowly.

We are isolated with our secrets.

And that is where the most damage is done.

Because what if the truth about who we really are is not accepted?

What if our hearts break?

It’s a risk.

And we are all worth it.

We live in a world that shoves us into hiding.

“Fitting in” is the motto.

And we are told that if we don’t abide, we don’t belong.

But I’m tired.

I’m tired of living fearful.

I’m tired of striving for a “someone else” that I will never attain.

I’m tired of my lungs caving, and my heart with it.

Because no one can fight alone.

But we admire those that do.

We admire those that “don’t struggle”.

Because they must have reached this communion with God and are beyond the fight.

And we are defeated.

Because we know our own fight.

And we want to belong with those that seemingly don’t have to.

We desperately want communion with God.

But feel incapable.

Which leaves us with a question….

What’s wrong with me?

We begin distancing ourselves from God

because we don’t feel as though we can belong to Him.

We begin viewing our fighting as weakness.

But what good is a faith that has nothing to fight for.

And it’s only when we meet the eyes of another that are asking the same question, that we feel Home.

And Home is a place of belonging.

And isn’t life a constant going Home with glimmers on this side.

And I have only found those glimmers in my most vulnerable states.

Vulnerability is the most feared and yet the most sacred state.

For it’s only in this state that we are able to see the faces of God.

And head Home.

And how I have longed for Home

The truth is: I fight.

I fight lying voices telling me who I am and who I should and shouldn’t be.

I fight tendencies.

I fight fears that I am not enough, or too much.

I fight chasing after cheapened faces of intimacy.

I fight myself on grace, whether I’m worthy of receiving it.

I fight Him on justice, and whether it’s really fair to exist in such a fight-ridden world.

Call me Jacob because I am in a constant wrestling with God.

I may lose it all.

My heart may break, and will be wrung.

But I would rather my heart be breakable, than unbreakable.

I would rather be known, than “perfect".

And I would rather live authentically than enable the lie that we have all been fed.

And if I go down with my voiced failures and inadequacies, I want it to be for something greater than myself.

For Someone greater than myself.

And perhaps it really is true…..

That His love is made perfect in our weakness.

In our vulnerabilities.