Everyday Observations | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

August

Constant.

The cicadas still turn up the volume on their collective vibration song. The sun still shimmers on the morning dew. There is still enough of a breeze to rustle the treetops even as August lies in wait. Watermelons and cherries are still at their best, and a new day is still a stage of promise.

Gratitude persists.

Beauty is uninterrupted.

Peace is meant to reside here. Joy is meant to endure.

Am I unshaken?

I’ve not seen darker days; what an invitation for the light! Know this, sweet one, everything can change while nothing at all does. We will not allow uncertainty to drain our expectation. Indefatigable belief is the order of the day.

War for your own heart and brandish a sword of grace against the darkness.

April

Me too.

I tried to call someone on my calculator this week.

The call could not be completed as dialed. In case you were wondering.

—————

I spend a lot of time considering what women need to survive and thrive. It’s a fluid endeavor because we’re a mysterious crowd and quite responsive to our context. As the climate around us changes, what we need to flourish in it also shifts.

Take social media, for instance. It has undeniably changed the landscape of association and interaction. How do we handle the bombardment of opinions and images of hundreds of people in a healthy way when our insides are so given to comparison and insecurity?

Consider the barrage of discord and violence we’ve invited into our hearts and brains when their nurturing nature is bent towards worry and fear. What does it take to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

Amid a national epidemic of high profile sexual harassment and abuse scandals, how do we retain our sense of value when it is often so tied to how others treat us? How do we assimilate the entrenched victimization of women, as revealed by the #MeToo movement, without accepting the jaded, angry heart pervasive abuse conjures?

In a body-obsessed culture, how do we make peace with our genetics without swinging into unhealthy territory on either end of the spectrum?

In the age of accessibility, where we can be reached by text, email, call, LinkedIn, Facebook, GroupMe, Instagram, Snapchat, and FaceTime (not our calculators yet), how do we protect a quiet that is vital to our peace? How do we maintain ownership over our time and thoughts when our devices have given them away to everyone?

Sometimes I pause to realize I’m disappointed with the whole world. All of it. All of its trinkets and corners. And, consequently, that makes me sullen and skeptical and guarded and pointy. Then, in the next breath, I recognize I am the common denominator in that 360° blast of disillusionment. I have to fight for my own heart and perspective. I am in a battle to retain the gentleness and hope, constancy and faith our society wars against. You are too.

What does it take to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

It requires counterintuitive honesty. More than just about anything, we want to hear, “You are not in this woman thing alone.” We want to know we aren’t the only ones dialing whole phone numbers on the calculator app on our phones.

We want to know that you yell at your kids, that you don’t wash your sheets as often as you think you should, that you are pasting a smile over a hurt you don’t know how to fix. Not because it’s any of our business……it’s not, but because it cheers us on in our own struggles, freeing both of us from fake rules about how to be women.

#MeToo is a primal collective cry against sexual violence (thank God!), but we want to hear it in other arenas as well.

You are panic-stricken over the safety of your children at school? Me too.

You take medication for anxiety and depression and can’t function without it? I have too.

You have a gaping, silent hurt that you ignore until an innocuous trigger causes it to boil over into your day; I have known that life.

You continue in a busyness that is shredding your soul even though you know you can’t go on like that indefinitely? Me too.

You bully yourself with a refrain of not enough…not pretty enough, not strong enough, not good enough. I’ve done that too.

Sometimes you rely on coffee more than you do God. Same.

You self-medicate with This Is Us and ice cream; we are connected souls.

You lie awake at night thinking every twinge indicates cancer? Me too.

You hate how your legs look in shorts? Ditto, friend. All of it…..

Me too.

It requires living beyond ourselves. In a world decorated with drivel, the antidote is purpose. Without intentionality, it’s easy to allow the world to paint our days with noise. A steady diet of which leaves us feeling hollowed out. Empty. An inner yuck similar to the physical aftermath of an over-indulgence of fried food. Ick. There is something in us that has to believe there is more to life than self-driving cars, instant pots, Matcha, and Whole 30.

We have an innate desire to be a part of something larger than ourselves, a work that will outlive us. There is a substance-hungry drive in us that must plug in to a giant good. This satiates something timeless in us while feeding hope and optimism (I know of an organization working to help formerly incarcerated women write new stories upon release, if you’re interested ;-).

It requires a recalcitrant faith. We are in constant sensory overload. All of the messaging and imagery screams, “Seeing is believing.” But the words in the messages and the stories in the images aren’t necessarily true. Today necessitates a critical eye for truth and a shrewdness for detecting the false. The need for definitive Truth has never been greater, and from it we boldly assert, “What I believe informs what I see. Believing is seeing.”

Circumstances say, “Look at her mug shot, the list of her charges, the number of times she’s been arrested. It’s an age-old cycle impossible to break.” Seeing is believing.

Grace says, “I was lost but now I’m not. I see my own story in her eyes. Me too, sister.” Believing is seeing.

This is not a sissy faith. It is a tender revolution of belief.

Want to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

Ditto, friend. Me too.

January

It’s Late January; Don’t Sweat the Untimely Passing of Those New Year’s Resolutions

Alterations Needed

This year the holidays had me thick in remembrance. I kept thinking……last Christmas I had no idea what 2017 would hold. As we celebrated the New Year, I thought………last year I never saw surgery or radiation in the forecast. Three hundred and sixty-five days is a lot of wake-ups. I think we generally approach any new year with the expectation that life will truck on pretty much the same as it always has. And then maybe it doesn’t.

A year of medical interventions yields a reverence for the expanse of time that will gather under the tent of 2018. Not fear. Not even excitement, perhaps unfortunately. But respect. A peaceful deference to Time. The realization that each day is pregnant with uncertainty like fat, heavy raindrops too massive for the air to hold.

In some regards, I could classify 2017 as a bad year, but I don’t. Scary…..yes. Unexpected…..certainly. But I’ve had worse. I’ve had years the locusts have eaten. Hard years I endured with little to show for the scramble and the heartache. There have been times I have not cashed in the dividends of the difficult; I, instead, declined the opportunity to be refined by the struggle. Those were the bad years, the wasted years. This time, however, I sit on the cusp of 2018 with legs swinging girlishly as a better human than I was a year ago.

This assertion boasts nothing of effort or resolve; I think it was merely a fact of cooperation.

We talk a lot, at this juncture each year, about change. I have the usual suspects on my list: read the whole Bible again, drink more water, lose weight, memorize Scripture, eat out less, give more, laugh more, exercise regularly, spend less time on social media, read more, write more (okay, maybe that one doesn’t land on many folks’ lists), but the length of that list alone is enough to paralyze me with discouragement. But who doesn’t want “A New Year, A New You”?

Easy on those expectations, friend.

Perhaps our innate desire to change for the better finds its origin in God’s desire to transform us. He is always working to make us people with character like His: joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, self-controlled. Compassionate, merciful, gracious, just, slow to anger, abounding in love.

He’s always about this work.

And this work looks like Him using hard things, devastating circumstances, impossible odds, crippling hurt, and loss to tenderize our hearts and our sensitivities. It also looks like Him using the wonder of small children, the beauty of a walk in the woods, the joy of a thousand blessings, the gratitude of restoration, and the steel of hope. He is ever about this work, and the shaping that results is eternal.

While God isn’t the author of much of the pain we encounter (sin and evil hail from a different home), He is ever the resourceful craftsman, using all that’s at His disposal to make a masterpiece from mud.

relax

This lets us off the hook a great deal in the New Year’s Resolution department. There is already a plan in place to change us for the better, and it is driven by a loving Father who is wiser, more powerful, and more gracious than we. So, we don’t have to try harder this year to make miraculous, billboard-worthy change; we only have to cooperate with the improvements God initiates. I don’t mean to suggest it will be easy; most likely it will not. But it is simple.

In 2018, I will dial my heart in sync with His; I will listen intently, and I will obey in faith. Transformation lives there. That’s its address. Not temporal change – where you lose twenty pounds in the first six months of the year, gain it all back the second half and start the next year in exactly the same place you started the year before (I know nothing of this, I assure you). This is not elastic change. Or change that only lasts a hot minute.

These alterations are eternal. And they fit just right.

November

She Doesn’t Deserve Your Help. Or So They Say.

All I want for Christmas is $250,000 and 10-15 acres (with a pond if I’ve been really good).

I’m low-key like that.

It’s the stuff dreams are made of. A wooded frontage split by a dirt lane that immediately curves and leaves passersby curious about what lies beyond the bend. Grass grows between the well-worn tire tracks, and the road winds like a shy child directing a game of Follow the Leader. It opens onto an expanse of land hemmed in on every side by pines and maples and oaks and elms – sentinels keeping watch and holding hands. Their chins are high with pride; they mark the perimeter of a safe place. A place where hope lives.

In the middle there is a white, rustic farmhouse; a stone walk arcs towards the entrance, lined with dense, variegated monkey grass. There is a deep porch stretching the length of the house. Four rockers, ivy spilling liberally from hanging baskets, and two gold lanterns with dancing fire flank either side of the door. A haint blue ceiling, of course.

Inside, the vibe is comfortable and classy. Warm earth tones hug. Exposed beams anchor. The fireplace invites. The common areas are spacious, open, built for conversation. And the table. What a table! A wooden beauty that’ll seat twelve or so, with a black iron chandelier installed above. The kitchen can handle many hands with its gracious workspace, its generous storage, and its walk-in pantry. A wall of windows looks toward a pond reflecting the late afternoon sun.

It’s a home. A bona fide home. But it’s not for me.

It’s for women who were little girls without stability and security. It’s for women who endured the most vulnerable years of their lives without a protector or a champion. It’s for women who never, ever had a chance. And without a place like this, they still don’t. It’s a home for formerly incarcerated women, a safe place to write a new story.

I have the honor of leading Tenacious Grace, a nonprofit women’s ministry, and serving on the Florence County Detention Center Ministry Team. My two and a half years on the FCDC Ministry Team have made me acutely aware of the need for free, transitional housing for incarcerated women upon their release. The need for counseling and job assistance and recovery programs and life skills and spiritual support.

It is the long-term mission of Tenacious Grace to bring this type of assistance to marginalized women in the Pee Dee area. We dream about a home called Five Sparrows.

Scripture is clear that we are “ambassadors for Christ” (2 Corinthians 5:20) – His managers, His stewards, His deputies. As such, we are to reflect His character and His heart. Matthew 25 speaks pointedly to our responsibility to use what He has entrusted to us (the Parable of the Talents, Matthew 25:14-30) to take care of the poor, the oppressed, and the marginalized (the Sheep & the Goats, Matthew 25:31-40). In short, Truth compels us to use the resources God has given us to be agents of justice. To be equalizers in circumstances of disparity. In Jesus’ Name.

As a ministry, we recently met our land goal, which means we have raised enough money to buy a 10-15 acre tract of land if the right opportunity presented itself. Next, we’ll begin chipping away at the house goal. You guessed it. $250,000.

Incarcerated women are a hard sell when vying for charitable giving. Many times, people – even if they don’t blatantly say so – believe these women “have gotten what they deserve.” That sentiment incites something primal in me; however, I’ve stopped arguing against it. Perhaps, if you’re honest, that’s what you think. These women don’t deserve help.

I now suggest that as the most compelling reason for helping them. Because here’s the thing….

Not one of us was saved, rescued, delivered by Jesus because we deserved it. So, we help because we, too, have been beneficiaries of a grace we did not deserve. That’s the beautiful thing about grace; it has to be undeserved. That’s what it is by definition – unmerited favor.

So, if you’d like to make our Christmas (New Year’s, Valentine’s, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, and Columbus Day) wishes come true, would you consider donating today?

You can always catch us at tenaciousgrace.cc/donate or you can mail a check to Tenacious Grace, PO Box 7611, Florence 29502. All donations are tax-deductible. You can learn more about our ministry at tenaciousgrace.cc or follow Tenacious Grace on Facebook and Instagram.

This Christmas, we invite you to invest in hope.

March

Once Upon a Time in a Seasonless Land with Soggy Air, There Lived a Girl Who Thought Too Much.

story of a woman

Two matters of business before we proceed.

One, the subject in the featured image is not our protagonist. Her hair is far too smallish and unaffected to be native to the humid southland of our tale. Unsplash has no collection of stunning photographs of girls with frizzy, misbehaving, drenched, matted hair. Photog friends, I have found a niche.

Two, many of you clicked this link because you thought, “This could be about me.” I knew I could count on the Sisterhood of Southern Over-Analyzers. Thanks for playing along.

_______________

Once upon a time in a seasonless land with soggy air, there lived a girl who thought too much. Her mind was populated by a dense forest of trees that reached skyward and spread to the horizon from every angle. She stood at its center and tried to run in all directions at once, liquifying into thinness and leaking as tiny rivulets down the wandering paths between the pines. Only her bushy, messy bun retained its volume.

She drank too much coffee to help her overthink faster. She packed the boxcars of her time like a fiendish hoarder so her legs might outpace her concerns. And then she flapped in the wind behind her runaway train.

Because busyness was a celebrated self-medication.

Some called it hustle. Some called it magnanimous. She deemed it necessary. Because stillness gobbled her up. A good day swallowed all the margin where fear lived.

An indentured servant to “Yes.”

A hostage to the secret things buried beneath the forest floor.

Abused by doubt and uncertainty.

She plucked the silky curtain of her cheek with her teeth to divert the sensory attention her body lent the angry tigers wrestling in her belly. They bit and clawed and roared and twisted leaving her insides raw. A feverish hole where anxiety nested.

She presumed upon the future, forfeit the present, and obsessed about the past. She was beset by worry, bullied by lies, paralyzed by the opinions of others, and half-convinced she might be certifiably crazy. She was choked by guilt, hounded by shame, waterboarded by unhealed hurt, and drawn and quartered by her own unmet expectations.

And she was solitarily confined.

Regardless of how many people inhabited her existence; they knew nothing of the forest where she leaked like rivulets down the wandering paths between the pines.

So she ate chocolate.

And stayed locked away. Running and escaping without progress. She lived in exile in the circular province of her thinking.

_______________

I am an expatriate of the circular province of my thinking. I’ve completed a few tours of duty on that unkind land, and I’m here to share a secret.

There is passage through the pines.

It’s a scary course, and no part of you will want to cooperate. You’ll have to manhandle your very own self, which we do terribly.

But we don’t have to suffer the overwhelming oppression of our brains.

Are you ready?

Here it is.

Lean in closer.

Stand on the edge of the thicket with a brilliant torch and lead someone in. Invite someone in. Into the jungle of your mind and feelings and hurts and fears and insecurities. Not the landscaped perimeter. The wooly, overgrown center.

Because the forest isn’t a dangerous place to be; it’s just a dangerous place to be alone.

Twice I have asphyxiated on the stale air of my entombed hurt. And twice I experienced a cool, resuscitating breeze through the pines as I led someone in. My lungs struggled to accommodate this new wind, burning in a cleansing, difficult way.

But there was passage through the pines.

And it led to a spacious place whose topography was peace. Whose climate was restorative.

Invite someone in.

_______________

Storytelling is a harrowing journey to mending. There is a measure of instant healing that occurs when we push the hard words from our mouths; they relinquish their role as jailer. The work of healing just begins there, but in a realm where the labor takes so much time and effort, I was slack-jawed at the now liberation that follows hurt dressed in words.

During the month of March, we want to encourage you in your story set in a dense forest of trees that reach skyward and spread to the horizon from every angle. We will be sharing the voices of seven different women between the blog and the Tenacious Grace Facebook page, and you don’t want to miss a one.

These brave ladies have agreed to stand at the edge of the thicket with a brilliant torch to lead you in. To their stories. So that you might be strengthened in your own.

We’re inviting you in.