What is Truth?

As a couple and family therapist, I spend a surprising amount of time talking about "the truth." Couples I work with spend vast amounts of time "discussing" (that's putting it politely, in some cases) who remembers an argument correctly and how they can tell when their partner is telling the truth...or not. My non-therapist friends ask me things like, "So what's the truth about marriage? Is it worth or it not?" Academic types like myself do woefully exciting things on Friday nights like read long-winded research articles looking for statistical differences between treatment groups, and I am lucky enough to be in a field that doesn't tend to look for "the truth" and an end-all, be-all answer to the deepest of life's questions about what is love and what is forgiveness and what is trust. Rather, my love for research is fueled by insatiable curiosity and a fascination with the unknown. I'm young and adventurous enough to think it's exciting to search endlessly for something, knowing I will never find one solitary answer. So when I'm doing research at midnight and sitting at my desk drinking green tea and eating a(nother) handful of gummy bears, I don't bother myself with looking for the truth. The search is just as thrilling.

Which brings me to my point...what is the truth? This is why lazy Sunday afternoons are dangerous; my mind takes me on wandering journeys. And I love it. And if you're reading this post, I'm guessing you're not opposed to my wandering mind journeys either. Truth. That's a small word with a complex meaning. As a therapist who ascribes to many postmodern and social constructionist ideals, I believe that truth is what we create. As humans, we are meaning-making creatures. If I look for every possible way you are an untrustworthy, callous jerk, I will probably find all sorts of evidence to back up my truth and prove myself "right." If, however, I look for ways in which you are kind to me or to other people, I can probably find evidence of that, too. I create what I want to create.

Our truths are always overshadowed by our life experiences, our fears, our doubts, our hopes, our desires, our prejudices, our running script of what we "should" do. We never have the exact same carbon-copy truth as anyone else. How beautiful, how messy, how divine, is that?? You and I can have a conversation, and we will both remember it totally differently. We will walk away from the same conversation, the same experience, the same interaction with different feelings, different thoughts, and different ways in which this has impacted our world.  

I cannot speak for others. I don't know what your truth is. But as I now have been around on this planet for an (almost) whopping quarter of a century, I have been doing some thinking about what my truth is. So I asked myself, "What truth do I want to create?" Here it goes:

My truth is that we are all children of the light. We are meant to be chasers of humility and sowers of goodness and bringers of joy - I'm talking real joy, not just fleeting, earthly happiness. This is where truth is found: in relationship with one another. We are hungry for connection in our world. We are meant to reach outside of ourselves and touch each other - sometimes in ways that leave deep, lasting marks, and sometimes in quiet ways that leave only faint traces. We are created not for ourselves alone, but for each other, and to honor and follow a God who sacrifices all for us.

So that's it - that's my truth, pure and simple. It isn't a long truth, and I never said I needed it to be right. It doesn't even need to be your truth. In fact, I wouldn't want it to be your truth because I believe you should create your own. My truth comes from a God who is brave enough to say, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life" and who constantly, quietly, persistently invites me to follow him through darkness and light alike. So as I continue letting myself fall into a relationship with this God who loves me to so tenderly and so fiercely, I strive to be a tireless seeker of (my) truth and a follower of the light.

Where is Home?

Right now, I'm back home for a weekend visit. I've been thinking a lot about this idea of coming home because, as I was driving back to Arlington yesterday, I realized that I have not one home, but several. And I am truly blessed by that.

For those of you who know me well, you know that strange things make me cry: windmills (yes, windmills), cheesy commercials, a really well painted bookshelf, seeing dads loving on their children. Well, we have a new thing to add to this ridiculous list: dust storms. Yesterday, I was about an hour away from Dallas, when I saw this tiny little dust tornado spring to life and return to the earth as quickly as it had begun. When my first thought was, "Wow, a little piece of home," I was shocked. And it brought tears to my eyes. Why the ridiculous emotions, you may ask? Because this dust storm didn't remind me of my Dallas/Fort Worth home, but my Lubbock home in the West Texas desert. Despite the fact that I have been there a year, it has not truly felt like home to me until the moment I saw this dust storm, so much a part of daily life in West Texas, in an unexpected place.

I spent the next part of my drive reflecting on what it means to have a home. It's not simply a place to live, work, or study, but a place where you find community and connection, setting down roots and growing beyond fences. While Dallas/Fort Worth/Arlington will always be my home with the deepest roots, I also consider Waco a second home, and now I can add Lubbock to this list. All these places have been a part of shaping who I am and what I do and who I love.

My DFW home means listening to NPR on long commutes, spilling coffee on my pants in sudden stand-still traffic, soaking up humidity and celebrating unexpected thunderstorms, finding art museums and coffee shops and taco shops on every corner, hiking around lakes, and visiting my grandparents. It is the place where I have countless friends and teachers who remind me of how loved I am and have seen me through years of struggles and heartache and insurmountable joy. This is the place where I remember running on playgrounds and seeing giant hawks on my way to school and standing in long lines at Six Flags and learning how to drive and scaring my mom half to death. It will always be my first and truest home.

I would have denied the possibility of this ever being true if you had told me this when I first got to Baylor 7 years ago, but I deeply miss the Waco home I left 4 years ago. It will forever be the place where I remember late night coffee dates at Common Grounds, imagining what it would be like to dive off the cliffs at Cameron Park into the Brazos River, endless Sic 'Ems, thinking that the halls of Brooks College are really the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, admiring the golden roof of the Chamber of Commerce, driving through rolling hills, and dancing it out with my roommates.

My new Lubbock home reminds me of friendly smiles at the grocery store, a big open sky, stretches of cotton fields as far as the eye can see, and considering it "traffic" if you have to slow down to 55 on the highway for a few minutes. It means falling into deep, spontaneous friendships with people that bring me so much joy and happiness and aren't afraid to call me out of my BS every once in a while. While I love all the cacti and dust storms and jackrabbits in Lubbock, it really is my incredible friends that make this place home.

So while I am a bit surprised that Lubbock has now made it onto the very exclusive list of my homes, I think I've decided to let it stay there. I will continue to let this big town-small city shape me and guide me into the person I am becoming, and I'm excited to see where else in the future I will be able to add to my places I find comfort in as home.

Beneath the Surface: Reflections from a Cavern

Have you ever had an experience where you didn't realize your heart was heavy until you realized you were finally and suddenly feeling free from burden? I had this realization during my trip to Carlsbad Caverns yesterday. Logically, I knew the past few weeks had been filled with a near-constant stream of stress, a tidal wave of emotions, and some painful decisions. Despite what I thought, I wasn't fully aware of how this was affecting my body, mind, and soul until I went below the surface (literally) and was able to let go of all this pressure.

At first, it was so exciting to see all these amazing rock formations that have taken thousands and thousands of years to develop, and I was filled with a surge of Look-How-Amazing-All-This-Nature-Is! energy that kept propelling me forward to see the sights. If you're ready for a real mental imagery treat, I truly felt like a puppy pulling on a leash and wanting to run up ahead. We can blame it on the caffeine rush and too little sleep the night before. After some time descending into the cave, though, I felt my hyperactive energy shifting into a state of quiet solitude and contemplation.

While the outer edges of the cavern trails were pretty crowded and filled with noisy visitors, the inner trails became much more sparsely populated. In a moment where we stopped to investigate some stalagmites more closely, I suddenly became aware of how silent it was. Gone were the sultry drips of water, the raucous teenagers, the desert winds, and the calls of the cave swallows. With the exception of my amazing friends/travel partners, there was no one in sight. And in my mind, all that was left for a few moments was a giant stillness. This mental emptying took me by surprise, and it was so beautiful. Usually, absence makes me think of missing something or someone. In this instance, though, the absolute stillness of the air and the absence of noise and thought meant freedom: freedom from distraction, freedom from stacked-up pressures, freedom from a need to take care of others, freedom from worry about the future. And you know what? When all that was gone, I didn't miss it.

I've been reflecting a lot on the idea of letting go of my need to have certainty and to have a plan. While I usually like having some kind of an outline for my life, I feel like I am continually on this journey of learning to be in free fall when life veers from the outline. As I write this, I can hear my mom's words of "There is a time and a place for everything" running through my head. There is a time for planning, and there is a time for trusting. There is a time for staying in the safety of what is known, and there is a time for venturing out into the depths of the unknown spaces of this world.

I found myself thinking of what these caverns must have been like for the early explorers, before there was a lighting system and paved trails and restrooms 79 stories below the earth. And then I start to wonder, what parts of my own heart have I not yet discovered? What depths of God's merciful and mysterious love have I not yet been able to experience? What wisdom have I not yet gained to understand His creation and His people - people with hardened hearts and broken hearts and hearts that are hungry for connection? As I ponder these things in my heart and make space for all the vast unknown, I am slowly and (sometimes) patiently learning to trust in a God who has laid down a trustworthy path for me serve others with deep and courageous love.

Stay with Me

It's only Wednesday, and already, this week has been filled with a lot of heaviness. On my drive home tonight, I was feeling really pensive, and this song came on the radio. While the exact content doesn't exactly fit what I've been experiencing this week, the sentiment behind "Stay with Me" was enough to bring me to tears. Never mind the heaviness of the week - we can blame it on that soulful voice of Sam Smith that I love so much, and probably the sentiment to saying goodbye to another class of students I've been blessed to teach for a semester. 

 

 

I find lots of my inspiration for living from music. Naturally, I started thinking about how so many of the songs that have left the biggest impact on my life are ones that express a deep yearning for connection. After all, isn't connection with others what our hearts and souls so unceasingly seek after? Whether we search for love with another human being, intimacy with a God who has created us and knows the depths of our need, or friends who will accept us in all of our beautiful brokenness - we are a people made to seek connection. Biologically, we may be able to survive with only basic needs met. Relationally, we need others to understand us like we need the air we breathe.  

 

I have sat with clients and friends in unspeakable darkness this week. I've been a therapist for two years now, and I cannot remember what my heart felt like before I could feel the depths of this need to simply be in the presence of someone and witness their pain. Each day, I feel like I am infinitely more blessed by my job, and I hope I still feel this way when I've been practicing for forty years. No matter how many times I enter into that hazy darkness, I become aware of stepping into this sacred space of someone's inner world. There is the need to tread lightly - not out of fear, but born of deep respect. As humans who have experienced hurt and disappointment, we manage our vulnerabilities through a veil (sometimes fairly translucent, and sometimes intentionally opaque) that shelters us from others who cannot meet our needs for connection. As a therapist or as a friend, it is such an incredible privilege that leaves me feeling a bit raw and in awe each time someone lets me have a glimpse behind the veil of vulnerability. In every one of these quietly ground-breaking encounters, I find myself wondering afterwards how I have been irrevocably changed and hoping that this other person was able to fill experience true connection and unwavering mercy.  

 

This week, I am reminded of how deeply grateful I am for the gift of compassion and the risks others have taken to share their hearts with me. I am also thankful for the certainty of knowing that I have some amazing friends and family members in my life who have stayed with me during times of heartbreak and confusion and immeasurable sadness. My friends, I hope you know that no matter how great the darkness can be, I will stay with you.

Today's Thoughts on Fatherhood

Today, my Facebook feed is inundated with a whole slew of posts celebrating dads. In a way, it is so inspiring to me to see how deeply the love between a child and his/her father can run throughout an entire lifetime, and some of your pictures have made me cry. There, I said it. My sappy side is coming out again. It is so clear to see the joy some of you have with your dads, and how much you treasure memories of a childhood grounded in adoring love, life lessons, a sense of commitment, and physical and emotional presence. As I get older, it's also amazing to see how many friends of mine are now dads themselves. Great dads out there, you have reminded me that there are amazing, loving, compassionate fathers who see that parenting role as a core part of their identity. I thank you for that, truly.

Today, I won't be posting pictures or writing a commemorative speech honoring my earthly dad because Father's Day has been a bittersweet holiday for as long as I can remember. This is not a place where I'll air my "dirty laundry" so that's all I will say about that. But today, despite the heaviness in my heart, I am celebrating. I am celebrating every one of you amazing men out there who are protective and self-sacrificing, those of you who are loving and patient, and those of you who are intentional about your fathering. I am celebrating a heavenly Father who loves me even beyond what I can imagine. A client said something to me this week, and her words have been bouncing around in my brain all weekend: "See yourself as God sees you, not like you think about yourself or what others say about you. Live your life like you believe what your Father sees in you." Because I know I have a Father who loves me in such an overpowering and overwhelming way, I choose to see myself as both lion-hearted and tender-hearted. Those are the best parts of me. I am not broken, and even though I have been bruised, I believe in love. I believe in joy, and I believe in goodness. I believe in a world where there are men who uphold their commitments and admit their imperfections. I believe in honoring those men and a heavenly Father who loves me in all my complexity and faults.

Today, I am sending up a prayer in communion with those of you who, like me, need reminders every once in a while that there is a good, loving, merciful Father out there, and there are men here on this earth doing His work, too. Peace be with you, friends.

Nature's Skyscrapers

Let me preface this post by saying: I absolutely love being a therapist. There are a lot of ways in which I’m not sure the direction my life will take, but my identity as a couple and family therapist is a certainty. I feel incredibly blessed to accompany people in places of pain and fear, and it has been the most beautiful gift to see people experience healing and find hope amidst the darkness. By jumping headfirst into the realm of human experience, I have grown more in two years of doing therapy than I could have ever imagined was possible. That being said, this past week has been hard. I’ve held people’s pain, and my heart has hurt with theirs. I wouldn’t change this part of my job even if I could, but after this long, beautiful, challenging week, I needed to fill my soul back up. Sometimes I turn to cupcakes (can you say…self-care dinner?), but usually I turn to nature for healing grace.

So yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon hiking around Caprock Canyon. It was healing and soothing and invigorating in all the ways I needed it to be. More than that, I found myself reflecting on why I feel such a connection with nature. For that, I have my family to sincerely thank. Some of my earliest memories include hiking with my family in Colorado, and I remember being fascinated as a child by fuzzy caterpillars, flower petals, puddles of water, and blades of grass. As I grew older, my mom encouraged me to stay grounded in appreciation for the earth we are called to embrace. Nature is my refuge when I am feeling weak, when I am lost, when I am broken.  

 

 

Walking through the canyon yesterday, I was thinking about how I am much more impressed with natural occurrences than I am with man-made feats like skyscrapers or amusement parks. Why? The way I see it, what man builds can be easily torn down by earthquakes or terrorist attacks or fires or any number of destructive forces. What God builds in nature can also be damaged. Sometimes this involves natural processes like erosion; sometimes it involves careless human error leading to wildfires or overconsumption resulting from greed or lack of planning. Seeing all the ways in which erosion had helped develop these canyons really made me stop and think. Now, this won’t be a brilliant, scientifically accurate description of erosion, but hear me out. With wind and rain and all sorts of weather over a huge expanse of time, erosion had torn down these rocks and scarred them. But it’s almost like I could see how God’s hand had carved out these beautiful parts of the earth that didn’t exist before and weren’t visible under the original surface. There’s beauty in the breakdown. And at the bottom of the riverbed, these rocks had swept across and grated against each other, creating this beautiful mixture of browns and blues and whites. Friction can create something mysteriously lovely. I can appreciate that in the human spirit, both for my clients and for myself.  

 

 

What about 50 years from now? If I return to this same spot, will it look the same? All the crevices and jagged edges I have touched today, what stories would they have to tell in half a century? Would I recognize these same spaces, or would they have changed beyond recognition? It makes me think about the ways in which I have changed as a result of my life experiences. There are parts of me now that I’m not sure I would have recognized in myself ten years ago – some parts are improvements, I think, and some are surely works in progress. I suppose we’re all parts of God’s creation, constantly changing as a result of forces beneath the surface.

Lessons from the Desert

Surprise, surprise. Even though I gave up blogging nearly two years ago, I should have known that something would draw me back. Writing has always been a constant in my life, but reflective writing is something I all too often find excuses not to make time for. Don't be fooled. I'm under no illusion this blogging will follow a regular pattern, but I do hope to make more time for it. I've decided to give myself the gift of a summer filled with healing and learning to more fully love myself and this beautiful earth filled with beautiful people. Writing seems to be a most excellent companion for that kind of journey.

I've spent the past 8 months living in the desert. Literally. For those of y'all who don't know, west Texas is a desert. When I decided to pursue my PhD, I made a commitment to staying in Texas because I wanted to stay in the same state as my family, but man...sometimes it feels like I'm more than just a few highways away from the north Texas life I used to know with plenty of rain, humidity, traffic, and skyscrapers. Life loves to throw us curve balls, and expectations have a way of getting in the way of reality. I have to smile when I think of how many times I have probably made God shake his head and laugh a big belly laugh during this past year. Ask anyone who knows me well...I am stubborn. I like to have a game plan, and I like to think that planning ahead can resolve most problems. This year brought me a lot of experiences I couldn't have planned on happening, but in the end, they have made me more fully human, more humble, more alive, and more trusting of God's plan for me.

So let's talk about this desert business. I have spent the past few months whining about how much I miss thunderstorms and that there's a disappointingly tiny amount of greenery and wildflowers. While I was on a rocky hike today around the Lubbock Lake Landmark, it hit me. Bam. I've always had an appreciation for dessert, but I'm humbly learning to appreciate the desert (see what I did there?). It took me 8 months, but I've finally learned to see the humble beauty in west Texas. You see, the desert isn't pretentious. The desert doesn't put on airs, trying to be beautiful, sandy beaches or whispy clouds crowning mountain peaks. The desert is what she is, and if you look hard enough, you find reminders of how God has created beauty in the most unexpected of places. There are jackrabbits with their powerful hind legs and graceful leaps, patches of wildflowers hiding amidst the cracked earth and yellowing grass, and yellow bellied birds with sweet songs to sing. Sunset is the time when the west Texas desert reveals all her true beauty in a way that's impossible to ignore, but the rest of the time, you have to be patiently mindful. If you aren't mindful, your eye will glance over the brown and yellow landscape and your nose will wrinkle with disdain. Be patient, and you'll realize that life is happening out there. Even tumble weeds can be kind of exciting because it means that the wind currents are blowing, which always reminds me that the Holy Spirit is at work in ways we can't see.

This got me thinking about how, in many ways, the start to 2014 felt a lot like a desert to me. At times, it was really hard to see how God was working in my life, and I sometimes felt like I was wandering around without much of a game plan. I've had a lot of humble reminders that it's not my plan that matters as much as His plan and how I put it into action. After 8 months in the Lubbock wilderness (that might be a big exaggeration, but we'll go with it), I feel connected to the desert in a way that inspires me to look beyond the grandiose ways that the earth is beautiful or that I can see how God is at work. Instead, my friends, I am striving for a heart that sees beyond the obvious to see the beautiful in the broken, the doubting, and the works in progress.