the false promise of abstinence

Abstinence was drilled into me as a young girl. To the point where it was implied (and at times, even directly said) that sex was bad. At the same time, like a dangled carrot, I was taught that if I wait (because that's what 'true love' does), then sex in my marriage would be amazing. At the right time, with the right person—in a marriage relationship—sex would be good. It would be better than good. It would be incredible. Easy. Passionate. Fulfilling.

And so I waited.

Partially for the right reasons and partially out of fear. Fear of becoming damaged goods... Fear of messing up God's perfect plan... Fear of disappointing the man I hadn't even met yet... Fear of sex itself: the big, bad, ugly thing it was made out to be.

Then I got married.

And on my wedding night, those fears occupied the bed with me and my husband. They overcrowded and overpowered the room... the mood... me. The anxiety gave way to tears which gave way to more anxiety which gave way to, well, no sex. It just didn't happen.

I mean, how could it? I was terrified. Ashamed, even. I didn't know how to flip the invisible, internal switch from SEX:BAD to SEX:GOOD.

It took a while for me to get there. And, if I'm being painfully honest, I'm not sure I ever quite did. Sex and intimacy were always challenging for me throughout my decade-long. It still felt immoral in a way. Scandalous—as though I wasn't allowed to enjoy that which I'd saved for this very context.

The promise of abstinence leading to a great sex life in marriage felt like a cruel mirage. A ploy. A lie. A deception.

And now here I sit, single-again... Contemplating sex and abstinence in a different light, given the past few years of my life. In fact, this post has been sitting in my drafts folder since 2010, born out of a conversation with a friend—scribbled thoughts that I've been hesitant to formulate or to fully own, since I'm not entirely sure where they're going, if anywhere at all. And also because I don't want people to hear that I'm anti-abstinence—because I'm not.

I still believe that saving sex for marriage is what God intended and is ultimately best for us. But holding to that truth does not mean:

• That having sex before marriage leaves me damaged and unable to have a healthy sex life with my spouse.
• That saving sex for marriage guarantees a healthy sex life with my spouse.

Holding to that truth does mean:

• That I believe God can redeem all things.
• That a healthy sex life, like all forms of intimacy, takes hard work, honest communication, and vulnerability.

While I wish I'd understood that holistic perspective a few decades ago, I find myself still grappling to understand it now. Somehow, it's as though the myths are easier to believe, or at least easier to live life by. (Fear can be a powerful motivator.)

I figure a good starting point to freedom and healing is to talk about it. And so as I keep staring at this blinking curser, taunting me to find a way to finish this post, all I know is this:

I want to be fueled by love rather than fear.

In this thing.

In all things.

Originally posted on Prodigal. Read the comments there >

landing planes

{photo credit: josemanuelerre via photopin cc}

"The thing about big projects is that they tend to be less like one, giant to-do list, and more like landing planes - lots of planes - jet liners, twin prop Cessnas, helicopters - that just keep coming.

With large projects there are always things flying through the air that you must carefully place on the ground.

Some planes need to be coordinated one at time, and others come at you all at once. Some come down nice and easy, and some have turbulent landings.

The thing about landing planes, however, is that you never really feel 'finished' in the same way you do after checking everything off your to-do list, because you know that there is always another plane on the horizon.

Airports donʼt shut down and neither do big projects.

The planes just keep coming.

After auditions, you have to figure out wardrobe. Once you have the wardrobe finished, you need to walk everyone through their paces. Once youʼre on set, everyone needs to be directed. And then once you start you shooting, you realize all the changes you need to make.

Plane after plane after plane.

For a long time I felt defeated by the onslaught of planes. It seemed like nothing was ever really getting done.

And if by some off chance I was beginning to feel like I could breathe again, or like we were actually getting somewhere, inevitably some other problem would occur.

And then I thought,

This is the creative process, stop complaining! Itʼs messy! Itʼs rarely mappable! It is always dynamic and ever-changing!

Obviously you make plans, but factors outside of your control change all the time. Locations fall through. People donʼt deliver. Life happens.

So instead of holding my breath until 'things are done,' Iʼm starting to breathe while Iʼm 'doing the things.'

I do my stretches and I turn into an air traffic controller. I do it with joy and excitement because, Iʼm getting to land planes!

As Seth Godin says, we should be so lucky as to be people who get to solve interesting problems.

Landing planes means weʼre not on the sideline of ideation but weʼre executing, which means weʼre getting closer to making our visions come to life.

It will always be hard, but it should also be fun.

Every landed plane deserves some kind of celebration.

Whether it be a quick toast or a high five, you absolutely must celebrate along the way.

One last thought on landing planes. As you put those puppies on the ground, know that you have a choice. Landing planes can be exhausting and defeating, OR it can be exciting and hopeful.

Each new plane coming your way can feel like itʼs driving you deeper into the ground of despair as you cry out, 'No, not another one!' Or, you can see these planes as yet another amazing chance for you to be better, to grow, to try, and to get you one step closer to making your dream a reality.

Breathe. Do your stretches. Donʼt freak out. Land those planes. Celebrate each one that hits the tarmac.

Then repeat, repeat, repeat."

... ... ...

Above is my favorite excerpt from Blaine Hogan's book, Untitled. In ministry, I often felt exactly how he described—nothing ever really seemed "finished". Each completion or victory would just bleed straight into the ongoing work that still needed to be done. I so appreciate Blaine's challenge to breathe "while I'm doing the things" and to find ways to celebrate the accomplishments along the way. A good and timely word for my heart.

Anything stand out to you in this passage?

Buy a copy of Untitled >

on failing well

i heard catherine rohr once say, “failure is really redirection.” that is so powerful, if only i could find a way for my heart to really grab onto it. ::

i feel like i fail a dozen times a day in a dozen different ways. while some of it is genuine mess-ups, some of it—i know—is really just that sense of not-enough-ness that hangs over me like a cloud. (i close my eyes and see that dirty little boy in the charlie brown movies—what's his name??—the one with the dust cloud that follows him everywhere.)

if i could really grasp failure as redirection, maybe just maybe that cloud would lift some...

::

not redirection to avoid what i’m facing. but rather to deal with what’s going on in my heart as i face it head on.

::

the old testament has always given me a great deal of hope. i think it's partially because those we consider men and women of faith have so much failure throughout their stories.

it makes me remember that they didn’t see themselves as people of faith in the way that we do now, gifted with the ability to look at their lives in their entirety. i bet they were just like me and—right in the midst of their grit—found themselves wondering if God could redeem their failures.

because we see their stories all the way to the end, we know He can.

i need to remember that He can see my story all the way to the end, and trust that He can redeem mine too.

::

perhaps failing well means choosing to trust that the story isn't finished—that the Author is still writing.

worthy of my suffering

I want to live worthy of my suffering.

He’s assigned me my portion, and I want to live worthy of all of it—the gifts as well as the trials.

I’m not saying that God causes me to suffer. But He makes it very clear that suffering and trials are an inescapable part of this life. And I desire to steward well even that which He allows.

I want to live worthy of everything He entrusts into my care. I want to carry my suffering well.

I desire to face my lows with the same depth of character as I face my highs. I aspire to walk through the valleys with as much uprightness as I walk the mountaintops. I want my seasons of want to be as fruitful as my seasons of plenty.

To live worthy of my suffering means to carry my cross with humility, dignity, courage, faith. I want to bear my suffering honorably—not resenting the refining process or scorning the fire in which my faith is tested. I only want my faith to be proven genuine and for Him to consider me faithful.

I want to show myself trustworthy.

Even with this.

Because living worthy of my suffering really means living worthy of His suffering.

shifting sand

I've been thinking about riverbeds lately.

And how, over a span of time, the rushing water cuts itself a unique course. In flood seasons, the water may overflow the banks, and once the flood recedes, the river's path is likely different than it was before. Maybe slightly. Maybe drastically. But even one rock overturned makes the river flow differently.

...

I've been thinking about suffering lately too.

And how it carves and scrapes and plows through the riverbed of our lives, ultimately changing our course and our current. The changes—sometimes slight, sometimes drastic—lie far below the surface of what others can see, leaving us more different inside than our exterior lives will ever show.

...

The entire path of our lives is transformed by the ever-changing current of our experiences. No matter how hard we may fight it, we are changed by what happens to us. But as Maya Angelou so beautifully said, we can "refuse to be reduced by it." And we can refuse to be defined by it.

...

Dry riverbeds don't change. It's only the violent, rushing water that has the power to shift and shape an entire river. I cling to that visual reminder that the pain, heartache, and discomfort stand as proof of life.

...

What I've learned from the shifting sand of my own riverbed is this: Embrace the shaping. Don't fight the current. Give yourself grace for the new normal.

And trust that the divine finger isn't finished carving the course yet.

{photo credit}