fear | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

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.

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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.

May

Tips for Stilling the Fear in Your Belly

From focus groups, we’re hearing anxiety is an epidemic among women.

We’re not surprised.

anxiety

Because we battle it too.

I am anxious as I type this. Its physicalness resembles a smoldering bed of glowing coals in my stomach….like the effects of making a mid-morning snack of embers. For the past couple of weeks, I awaken from a sleep as deep as death into full-blown fear.

It subsides and flares throughout the day, without obvious prompting. This isn’t altogether new for me, but I am usually aware of the triggers (i.e., hormones, media, parenting issues). This bout has seemed global and random.

And I’m in good company. A 2010 report entitled America’s State of Mind disclosed the following:

Anxiety disorders are the most common psychiatric illnesses affecting children and adults. An estimated 40 million American adults suffer from anxiety disorders.

Not surprisingly, women constitute the largest demographic prescribed anti-anxiety medication, almost twice that of men.

While I haven’t determined how to completely extinguish the dogged heat in my guts, I have discovered some strategies helpful for managing the fire.

anxiety drawing

Tire it.

As much as we may hate to hear it, exercise is a natural antidote to anxiety. Our daughters were both fighting through anxiety four years ago. We registered them for the city’s recreational track team, and it eliminated the issue. Physical exertion uses up the excess energy that bounces around inside of us as anxiety.

Question it.

What is the real source? Because I am a praying girl, I spent the morning asking the following questions:

What lie am I believing that has me afraid?
What aspect of God’s character am I not trusting?

This equipped me to apply the right Truth to my fear. When I determined that this current season of anxiety is rooted in a fear of failure, I was better educated about how to combat it.

If you’re not of the praying sort, it would still benefit you to dig into the underbelly of your anxiety to address it most effectively.

Act in spite of it.

The more we cater to the thing we’re afraid of, the bigger the fear grows. Do what terrifies you. Press into it. Believe Truth when it feels false, and do what needs to be done – even if your stomach is on fire.

Give it room to breathe.

Rest and space in our schedules grant us the margin to fight smarter. Busy exhaustion contributes to anxiety. When anxiety is high, expect less of yourself. Extend more grace in your own direction and confront the thing instead of running from it.

Starve it.

All forms of media (including social media) increase my anxiety, so I have found it helpful to limit or eliminate what unnecessarily feeds my fear. What compounds fear in your life?

Downsize it.

It’s impossible for me to stand before the ocean and not feel smaller. Being in creation and fully aware of it provides right perspective about how small my fears and I are. It refocuses my attention on the God who’s already been to my tomorrow, and He’s vastly capable of handling what’s there.

Share it.

Allow a friend to know you’re battling anxiety. She can pray for you, encourage you, check on you, and you can return the favor when it’s her turn. Avoidance is a byproduct of anxiety, so we can proactively disable the isolation we’ll default to by inviting someone in.

And if you are experiencing debilitating anxiety, share it with your doctor. While I’ve never taken anti-anxiety medication, I have driven myself to the ER mid panic attack. It’s a vicious thief that can snatch your ability to function normally.

[Image: The Home of Fixers on Flickr and Kyle Steed]

July

On Being White and Southern

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“I’m not going to talk,” I’d contend.

Early in Chris’ career, he often entertained and hosted educational programs for physicians in the swankiest of restaurants. Anytime I accompanied him, I vowed silence.

I grew up in a charming, tiny town on a tobacco farm. There was no swank and not many physicians either.

These dinners, wholly of my own creation, made me feel inadequate and inferior. I feared I would appear foolish and simple.

“No. I’m really not talking this time,” I’d insist.

Because, without fail, each time I would discover I could navigate all the pieces of silverware and enjoy engaging conversation with his guests. I’d tentatively gain ground on my fear and allow a bit of me to come out to play.

I have also experienced a parallel timidity about visiting other countries. Each of the times I’ve boarded flights to the UK, Germany, Kenya, and Israel, I’ve been afraid of the differences in culture and perceptions and language.

Fear certainly hindered me from becoming involved in jail ministry before now. I was frightened by the place and the people; the trappings of incarceration were foreign to me.

This cowardice towards difference stretched so far as a new home we purchased a decade ago. By all accounts, it should have been our dream home. It was twice the size of our previous house, possessed upgrades we could only afford because the house had been on the market a loooooong time, and was well-built with a smart floor plan.

Nonetheless, I lay on the couch our first night there and sobbed. I wanted my smallish house back. There were eight exterior doors on the new house, which alarmed me from a safety perspective, and I was afraid it would never feel like home.

Different scares me initially.

In fact, I think that’s so for most people.

That’s what’s infecting our Facebook and Twitter feeds right now.

Fear.

Racism. Classism. Feminism. Legalism. Cynicism. Chauvinism. Anti-Semitism. Homophobism (I may have just concocted that word). All the black sheep -isms.

These are systems or ideologies rooted in fear. Based on unfounded generalizations about a group of people who are different.

It’s not new.

In the Old Testament in Exodus 1, the Egyptians were afraid of the Israelites, so they enslaved them.

In the New Testament in John 4, Jews feared defilement by the Samaritans and had no association with them.

And this phenomenon has continued to pock the history of mankind via countless wars and atrocities. And it always will.

It’s not new at all.

Difference scares us.

During our vacation to New York, we stayed in Stuyvesant Heights, a largely African-American community in Brooklyn. We landed only days after Dylann Roof killed nine African-Americans just two hours from our home.

I felt conspicuously white.

When we checked into our brownstone on a beautifully tree-lined street, we found it decorated with strong political statements:

It made me uncomfortable. Afraid even. Can I be that honest? Afraid that my whiteness would be offensive. Because people of my shade have committed acts of horror against African-Americans.

Not a hundred and fifty years ago.

Four days ago.

And I knew my region would be as apparent as my race the first time I spoke. I expected their disdain based on the color of my skin and the sound of my voice.

We dropped our bags and walked to lunch just around the corner. By the conclusion of our meal, I had shaken the fear that different can summon.

I can honestly say I felt less aware of being Southern and white in an African-American neighborhood in Brooklyn than I do in South Carolina. It was a non-issue in our interactions. I’m guessing the residents realized we were white 🙂 , but my race had never felt more irrelevant.

It was freeing.

After lunch, we caught a taxi to the Brooklyn Tabernacle, a predominantly African-American church led by a white pastor, and felt so warmly welcomed by the ladies seated around us.

It was the next morning in our flat, while the girls were still sledgehammered by exhaustion, that I sensed the Lord whisper Truth very clearly:

Perfect love casts out fear, Cookie.

Huh?

My mind drifted to a t-shirt I ordered in mid-May, long before hatred had its day on June 17. It would be delivered while we were away. Maybe Chris could ask William to grab it off the front porch and stick it in the house…

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And then it was as though God put a puzzle together right before my eyes….

The passion ignited by my visit to Kenya years earlier + Recently hanging out and speaking to folks at our local homeless shelter + Getting involved with jail ministry + Being smitten with a quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn.

All people different from me.

When love is the driving force in you,

there is no place for fear of difference.

Only love.

Because love is never satisfied

until it takes over every room of life space.

It’s a mutually-exclusive saturation.

I feel like I’m supposed to say I don’t see color. Or whatever difference exists between you and me. That that’s the correct response.

Maybe it is.

To me, it may be richer progress to acknowledge that we’re different.

To admit that you and I are different people, be that based on race, region, religion, gender, or sexual orientation.

To admit that we have different histories.

That we have experienced the world differently because of our differences.

And appreciate that. Even greater….LOVE THAT.

Can we have the freedom to see each other as exquisitely different? That feels truer to me than pretending I don’t see color. Or gender roles. Or class inequities.

Because I only know Southern white girl; that’s all I’ve got. I don’t know what it’s like to be Middle Eastern or a felon, Asian or gay or a man or black, but to the extent that I am better equipped to love people and understand the heart of God, I want to.

I want to divorce unwarranted generalizations of people based on the actions of individuals.

But I don’t want to ignore the things that make you you.

Because how can I truly love you, with a genuine knowledge, if I ignore what your experience brings to the table where mine lacks?

We can take down the Confederate flag, which I staunchly support we do.

But we can’t legislate love.

We can fight for it though. We can be advocates and purveyors of it.

I’m about that. All about that.

I’ll take my example from a man who loved people very different from himself. A man whose every action was motivated by love. Whose death was the greatest expression of love of all time.

He is uncompromising with regards to our hearts. They are to be soft, affected, and undivided. Pure.

Wholly submitted to the Truth……..love trumps fear.

You may also be interested in checking out these popular posts on depression, pursuing a woman’s heart, or a really, really neat personal encounter with God.

Blog subscribers….look for an email headed your way this week with the skinny on our fall Bible study.

[Feature Image: Kat B]