On Christ the Solid Rock I Stood
This is about the millionth time I’ve started a blog. One for my witty musings, another for random satirical prayers, another for what I can’t remember. But here are the facts: 1) I like writing, 2) I have a lot of words, and 3) I’m pretty funny.
The newest edition of blogging has been brought to you by trauma therapy. That’s right, I graduated from talk therapy (where my traumas and triggers were always just below the surface of the past week’s bullshit) and found myself with the recommendation of a more prescriptive mode of therapy to discover and reprocess all of my innards.
Thankfully, I carry no shame in talking to a licensed human being about my crazy. I crossed that socialization bridge a long time ago. And I gladly preach the gospel of therapy regularly, because some of y’all are… wild.
As a preacher’s kid, “just a little talk with Jesus” is what I was taught would make everything alright. I’ve been to more all night prayers than most humans. From birth to adulthood, every single meal required an extensive appeal to the Most High. Every trip in the car longer than 30 minutes also sought counsel from the Big G. At Thanksgiving, we prayed (a lot), and stood in a circle while everyone said what they were thankful for - children to adults, every. one. Every Christmas we read the entirety of Jesus’ conception and birth at sunrise, before holding hands in a circle, praying, and then going to church. We were PRAYED UP, honey.
And yet, some of the most evil people I know share my DNA, my childhood church, and/or so many prayer circles.
I have seen and experienced too many humans focused so intently on an outward ministry that their homes crumble. I have witnessed and been on the receiving end of family members doing the Devil’s worst, right after coming home from Sunday service. My first bully was my paternal grandmother, and she’s been consistent ever since.
It’s a wonder that I’m relatively sane.
Opening up this space also requires that I admit, I have and still carry some of that same twisted water into my work, my relationships, and my body. Socialization has done some nasty work on me (more on that another time). And, my testimony will be of unraveling.
This is for the recovering church girlies, for the youngins balancing faith with a good fucking time, for the queers struggling to see themselves in Christ’s love, for the elders who are ready to Hosanna Forever and Milly Rock on every block… there is time and space left to do the work - unravel.
For years I’ve had questions and far too many rapid-moving, anxious thoughts. Literally wrestling against flesh, blood, principalities, wickedness, perfectionism, worthiness, capitalism, men, and on and on.
I’ve told my therapist that I feel angry that a monkey I didn’t ask for and don’t deserve has been put on my back to carry since childhood. But (and/wherefore/therefore/hence), I can see, feel, and hear the ways in which I have continued to feed this monkey generously for years.
When you know better you do better, they say. Well, in Jesus and everybody else’s name (we’re not Christian exclusive over here), we are doing better.
When I reach the end, I want to hear “well done” - not because I never wore pants or never cursed. Not because I went to church every single Sunday and gave my 10%. Not because I praised the loudest or stomped the hardest. But because I cultivated joy and peace and safety for myself and others. Because I made things and people better with every interaction. Because I was a good steward of my mind, body, soul, and my resources. Because I did not stand on that solid rock alone, but made space for other people to be there too.
