Hide It Under a Bushel---NO! (AKA: Letting my light shine for the first time)

 

Hide it under a bushel? No! I'm going to let it shine
Hide it under a bushel? No! I'm going to let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Growing up in my church and attending Children’s Church led by Aunt Eunice and Uncle Bill, I loved singing this song and waving my imaginary flame.  I was very proud of how I was going to shine, just as Jesus talked about in Matthew 5.

Of course it made perfect sense that if I were a light, I did not want to hide under a bushel container, under a bowl, under a bush, or under anything that would blow out my “flame.”

I have discovered in recent years that while this is true, most of us do hide our lights.  
We often blow out our true selves, the true “shine” of our spirits by hiding the truth.
We hide our lights, the very qualities that make us unique.

I have done this for years.
Why?
Because I knew I was different—(and I really am!),
Because I was afraid others might not like the truth,
Because I was afraid of judgment and a lack of acceptance,
Because I feared how it would affect my relationships,
Because I was ashamed of my true emotions,
And partially because I was taught to.

While young and growing up in church, I was often taught to ignore myself.  
I was repeatedly taught just how sneaky Satan was and how often we could not trust our sinful selves (“such a worm as I”).  
I was taught not to “lean on [my] own understanding,” but instead, trust what I was taught.
Anger was a sin.  
Forgiveness was godly.
Putting myself last was the goal, and putting my interests first was always selfish.
Failure to do any of these should result in a trip to the altar if I wanted to go to heaven.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The result was a young woman who often . . .
Ignored her gut,
forgave and forgave, even when she should have had a few boundaries,
kept silent when she should have communicated,
and ignored herself in hopes of loving others better.

The truth of her unique self was hidden under a bushel,
hidden under a sense of right and wrong,
and hidden under a load of rules and cliches and scriptures taken out of context.
Her “light” was hidden beneath a pile of black-and-white rules that do not work in a world full of rainbow colors.

The REAL truth was that I
Loved big, (but was also hurt big),
And the truth is I grew hurt and grew angry.
I grew increasingly angry at the mistreatment, the lies, the hypocrisy, the constant pouring out of myself without expecting anything in return.
My “good nature wore out like a fan belt”  (Thanks, Marge Piercy, for this imagery!),
my true self protested this lack of return, and
my energy waned for lack of nurture.

All that remained was a sense of anger, hurt,
And a sense of not being truly seen or heard or felt by others—
But especially a sense of anger at myself—an awareness deep within that I was not truly seeing or hearing myself.

How could I hear myself when I told my gut to be quiet,
When my desires to say “no” were overridden by feelings of guilt,
When my voice was so often stifled by memories of scripture verses, telling me to be quiet,
When I quit considering anything I wanted because others wanted something different.

How could I see myself when I told myself that others mattered more?
That I was to sacrifice for my love of others?
When I ignored myself as I worked and worked and worked while others sat back and watched the show?
I discovered over and over again that I was often valued because I sacrificed behind the scenes and did my duty as a good Christian girl and because I made life easier for others.
I can’t blame others because I didn’t see my true self either.  

I didn’t value myself enough to walk away when a man screamed at me while I was surrounded by silent friends.
I didn’t value myself enough to tell off the pastor who told me I wasn’t worthy to talk to adults in the church because my husband filed for divorce.
I didn’t value myself enough to tell others “no” when they asked the impossible of me.

My light was shut down by the abuse and neglect—-of others and especially of myself.

I couldn’t see the power of what I was doing.
I couldn’t see that most women could not move themselves and their 2 kids without any help—every belonging they owned that would fit in the back seat of a used Honda Accord was lifted by her hands and her hands only.
I couldn’t see the power of starting over again with two little kids when my family was 25 hours away.
I couldn’t see the courage of buying a house when I had no guaranteed job.
I couldn’t see the strength it took to work a full-time job and 2 part-time jobs while battling such extreme depression I could barely move my legs.
I couldn’t see the power it took to still be a part of a church and be in ministry after the church had taken so much of my self-esteem away.
I couldn’t see that it was pretty amazing that I worked 3 jobs while also being involved in the church, volunteering as an officer of the PTO, and attending everything my kids were involved in.

I didn’t acknowledge the strength it took to watch my boys scream and cry for me as my time with them ended and they went to their dad,
I didn’t acknowledge the willpower to refuse to dip into poisonous talk when I was threatened with false CPS accusations, threats to take my boys away for good, and lies and accusations on a weekly basis for almost 10 years.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now that the bushel has been removed,

I can see the power it took to open my heart to another man after my heart was so wounded in a previous relationship.
I can applaud the strength it took to pick myself up off the ground when my youngest at the age of 16 decided to leave my house and never come back for more than a 2-hour visit.
I can acknowledge the work that went into COVID summer 2020 as I built an entire professional development site for the college while preparing for my own classes and dealing with an unhappy college graduate at home and helping a husband with heart issues.
I can be in awe of a woman who lost her husband and somehow managed to teach her classes less than 2 weeks later.
I can hug and care for the woman who is still dealing with a sense of confusion and betrayal about how it all ended.
I can weep with the woman whose friends asked her not to return after 10 years of shared tent time.

I can also cheer on each small accomplishment as she moves forward one step at a time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Warning to the World:

There is no way this light is going back under a bushel.
There is no way I will ever let someone tell me I am not worthy,
There is no way I will get into a situation where I do all the work while others sit by,
There is no way I will not consider myself in the equation of a situation,
And while I will still continue to be kind (and maybe too kind at times), my truth will be spoken and acknowledged and heard.

The amazing thing is that as I have lifted the bushel the past year or so, friends have stood right there,
Cheered me on,
Hugged me,
Listened to me curse,
Celebrated the shine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

My new promise to myself (since I am finally just now listening to myself and seeing myself and acknowledging myself) is:

• My light will be seen. (And P.S. I believe God is thrilled with this, even though this light may not match my childhood teachings).

• My light will be acknowledged.

• And I intend to let it shine. Let it shine.  Let it shine.

 

"Semper ubi sub ubi," merry-go-rounds, and life

Semper ubi sub ubi.

My years of Latin have left me with several tidbits of knowledge, including the phrase above, translated as “Always where under where” which got switched by high schoolers (to great delight) to “Always wear underwear.”  Mrs. Ruhle also taught me all about Roman mythology, culture, history, and architecture.

Last, but not least, in my Latin classes, I learned a multitude of roots and prefixes that helped me develop my English vocabulary.  I regularly use these roots and prefixes to this day.

One such word is anniversary, coming from “annus,” meaning “year,” and “vers,” meaning “to turn.”

An anniversary of any type really refers to the turning of the years.

2023—turn—2022—turn—2012—turn—2009—turn

This Thursday marks the 14th anniversary of the day I risked breaking my heart wide open once again and trusting a man to join my life and to join me in parenting my children.  Both Anthony and I were scarred from previous relationships, and we both were aware how broken and twisted our paths had been to find each other.

Anthony and I married in a small church in the hills of the Blue Ridge Parkway, joined by family and dear friends.  The day was chilly but bright and sunny.  Our honeymoon was in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and we spent time with our boys before driving home to Texas.

What big dreams we had.  What hope we had for a happily ever after.

Little did we know on that day that we would never make it to the year of 14, the year of ivory/gold.
Little did we know that he would leave me behind with so many questions and so few answers,
That he would leave me behind to sort through his belongings,
That he would leave me behind to figure out life again at age 53,
That life would turn topsy-turvy and leave me dumbfounded, struggling to make sense of it all,
That these moments in 2009 of dancing, love, and embracing would come to an end.

As Pete Seeger wrote, borrowing from Ecclesiastes 3,
“To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven.”

It is my season of turning—
It is now my season of death, of weeping, of mourning, of breaking down, and of loss.

How much my life has “turned” in the past year.
Facebook Memories is so good at reminding me how much life has changed within 365 days.
Or within 5 years—1825 days,
Or within 14 years—5110 days,
How my life changes from a season of gathering up stones to casting them away,
From a season of gain to a season of loss, from one of planting to one of reaping.

Life continues to change, continues to move, continues to turn.
It is easy to feel disoriented with such turning.
North, south, east, west, up, down—-all the directional constants become mixed.
Everything once known as a constant is now in question.

* * * * * * * *

No one rides a merry-go-round in a park without that sense of disorientation.

That old metal park ride brought me so many moments of pure joy and pure terror.
It involved begging someone to push and to run faster and faster and faster.
It involved me wrapping my legs around the metal handrail,
Wrapping my hands and arms around the handrail,
And screaming and yelling and laughing,
hair flying in the wind, the sun beating on my head.
It Involved me praying,
And bargaining with God,
And hoping that I would not go flying,
And hanging on for dear life,
And then moaning with disappointment when the metal disk slowed.

If we are honest, life is much like this.
We spend our time hoping for more,
And laughing,
And screaming,
And crying,
And then hanging on for dear life,
And then praying for it to be done,
And then hoping that we will survive,
And then praying for it to start up again.

Turn, turn, turn.

All I know on this day of this year, in this single season of my life,
as I ride this merry-go-round,
All I know is that I am not alone.
Others are on the ride with me.

* * * * * * *
Life is the most amazing ride there is.
It is also the most terrifying ride.
It makes me hold on and yet pulls at me to let go.
It causes me to laugh—-and cry—-and scream—and pray.

I am so grateful for those who have gotten on this wild ride of life with me,
Holding onto my hands,
Encouraging me,
Bringing me food,
Providing big hugs,
Texting me,
Hanging onto me when the winds and the turning almost tossed me off,
Providing directional signs for north, south, east, and west when I became disoriented,
And loving me throughout the past few months.

And I make this promise to anyone reading this as well:
as you ride this merry-go-round of life,
As life turns and turns,
When you get disoriented,
Or scared, or frightened, or discouraged,
My hand will be there right beside you, holding onto you, keeping you on the ride.
Just yell my name.  
I am here.