Forgiveness, Part I

Have you ever had the opportunity to grant someone your forgiveness? How did it feel? How long did it take to get there? What was the price you paid? What did you charge the other person? I'm wondering about these things because I am being stretched and grown in the process of forgiveness. So, let's set the tone, shall we?

As a Christian, I have been taught and I believe, that forgiveness is essential. There are endless quotes and quips about forgiveness but I wonder how much we really know about the art and act of forgiveness. As I walk along my own life's path, I am learning that there are weeds that I have watered which are choking out my ability to really forgive and be free from the bondage of unforgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive seventy times seven and I may have quoted that in a sermon or two - but what most people (including myself) struggle with is HOW to forgive. Many bible studies have been peppered with questions like - "If you forgive, does that mean you forget?" What I want to know is when will we look at the anatomy of forgiveness? When will we see that the sharp and witty comments that we so easily spew out often speak of a seed of unforgiveness? When that seed meets the egg of our deepest hurt and most vulnerable self, the cells split and the thing grows and now, there's more to this thing than just forgetting what was done to you.

There is a very specific seed that has been planted and nourished in the warm confines of my heart's womb.  The thing that I seek to abort is the lovechild of my divorce and my finances. Thoughtful optimists give me the platitudes and affirmations to put on my mirror and recite to myself every morning but there is a piece of my day to day reality that is missing. What you say to me is, "Oooh, girl. You need to let that go." But then when I can't go out with you because this thing has my money tied up, you shake your head and "help" me concoct ya plan for revenge. I don't need revenge. I need cat-like reflexes to help me move past the anger and resentment and move forward to the healing. I need to not have to open my checkbook to pay for yesterday instead of being able to save for my tomorrow. And that's where the biting sarcasm comes into play.  Oh, I'll write the check and do the right thing, but I reserve the right to be angry, catty, sarcastic, bitter and whatever else I decide along the way. Now, I am sure that Jesus did not have this in mind as he calls us to forgive 70 times 7 but perhaps the 70 times 7 is about weeding out the entitlements. Maybe what the 70 times 7 is really about is the need to catch myself slipping into justifiable and quasi-righteous anger that manifests in my cruel words...which are received with laughter because that's how we treat these things. We laugh and pretend they don't hurt or that the speaker is really just being funny and not expressing something that is a very real part of his or her daily existence. How many times have I stopped to "do the right thing" and said, "See Jesus, I'm doing what you asked me to but this fool is not doing his part and it's not fair." What kind of prayer is that? Well, some days, it's the most honest one I have on the road to deliverance from my own evil.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make that paradigm shift from using passive aggressive sarcasm into speaking the truth and praying for God to actually bless the one who harmed me instead of the simple prayer, "Get em, Jesus!"It is very difficult but it is also do-able. Anything is possible if you get out of your own way.

By the grace of God, I am able to maintain a budget that allows me to afford today and yesterday. I can maintain my lovely middle class existence with relative ease. I can still tithe to my church and occasionally treat my colleagues to lunch. However, as my garden continues to grow and bloom, I must be ever vigilant against the weeds that crop up when I am not paying attention. How many is 70 x 7? 490. So, as I see it, I have at least 490 weeds to pull up out of my garden.  Weeds of anger, resentment, bitterness, exhaustion, entitlement, sadness, longing, self-deprecation, violence (physical, spiritual, verbal - shoot, that's at least 250 right there!). As I don my gardening gloves and kneel down to tend to the garden, I am reminded that anyone can do right by someone who has done right by them. It takes a real leap of faith to do right by the one who has somehow earned your harbored unforgiveness. It takes faith to believe that God really does know what to do and is waiting to see if we are trusting enough. We are not called to hold grudges. We are called to hold our hands out to others and to hold our heads up and look to the hills for our strength. It will take me a minute to pray ever so sincerely for God to bless those who have despitefully used me but I must also humbly remember that this was modeled for me in the words, "While you were yet sinners, Christ died for you." I'm not being asked to die. I'm only being asked to forgive...and it won't kill me...but it will take me a minute because forgiveness is that work that always calls for overtime!  But the reward is priceless!

No Shame Day

Today, I'm doing something similar, but different...tread lightly, it's under constant revision...

Please take a moment to visit and support my friend's website http://thesiweproject.org/. She has the courage of a million survivors, the brilliance of a million stars and the love of a million hearts...and she is one in a million! (And I love her!) Because of her courage and professionalism, there is a place for us to gather as a community of fighters and supporters. There is a place where we can be ourselves with no shame. Thank you to all who have helped me along the way and my heart goes out to all who have been touched by mental illness of any form.


No Shame Day

July 2, 2012

My name is Carla Jones and I have no shame.

I am a teacher, preacher, mother, sister, writer, personal chef, caregiver and woman who loves fiercely…and I have no shame about my diagnosis of and struggle with clinical depression.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression more years ago than I care to remember. (Or perhaps I’ve lied about my age for so long that I can no longer do the math accurately.)  When I was a teenager, I had what can graciously be called mood swings but it wasn’t until I found myself crying inconsolably and self-medicating for an undiagnosed illness that I realized that this was not just typical teenage moodiness.

Part of my story includes a memory of relentless and incurable anger coupled with a string of failed relationships. It wasn’t until a failed relationship led me to attempt to overdose on pain medication– which I quickly regretted and attempted to undo by calling 911 and inducing vomiting – that I realized that I was losing the battle. The mandated ‘pre-release from the hospital therapy’ was telling. The unprepared white woman looked at a writing sample and said, “Oh, you’re quite angry aren’t you?” In the moment that I wanted to return home and show her just how angry I was, I realized that if I did not get real help soon, I would destroy either myself or someone else…because I was not merely angry, I was deeply depressed yet still able to finish college and secure a great job and manage my multiple roles. 

I found the right therapist – a compassionate, yet tough black man whose office was in a lovely suburban setting that allowed me the simple pleasures of free parking and a stroll down “Main Street” as part of my therapy. He held my feet to the fire and never wasted my time or copay.  Rather, he asked me what was at the root of all of this anger. He helped me to face the demons of the past and set goals to keep them (the demons) out of my future... or at least at a distance. It would be years before I would seek him out again, only to find that he had moved on but he referred me to another man who would also work to keep me here.

I met Dr. L. when I was in my last year of seminary and the lights grew dim. I was unable to get off of the couch after taking my daughter to daycare. I was a mess but I was able to smile at least one hour of the day, so most of my friends were kept at bay. I was always angry or moved to tears in class or chapel, so my outward expressions did not draw any attention. Until the day I met J. She called me out on my stuff one day and I was shocked. I believe that’s what we mean when we say, “Game recognize Game!” She saw in me what she saw in the mirror. Again, I returned to a regimen of regular therapy sessions and the demon was again held off for a while.

The reason I speak publicly about my illness is that I managed to hide it so well for so long. My friends accepted me for who I was – even if that meant quirky highs and lows.
Even when I pretended that being an only child was the reason why I preferred solitude.
Even when I would weep over things that seemed so insignificant.
I was a single parent.
I held a job while in grad school.
I was the go-to girl who took care of everyone else, so no one suspected anything or if they did, no one dared to say anything, because black folk don’t talk about that stuff…especially those of us who are God fearing, bible thumping, Jesus loving Christians preparing to be someone’s pastor. 
I quietly took medication and continued therapy until we managed to manage the illness for just a little while longer.

Two years ago…the demon returned with brand new superpowers. The darkness crept in like a summer storm. It was unexpected and violent. I put my affairs in order and in a sort of out of body experience, attempted to write the ending to my story. (Thank God for rewrites and edits!)
I survived that storm.
I wrote about that storm.
I bravely blogged that storm and shocked my friends and loved ones.
I did not seek to shock. I sought to educate.
That’s why I write.
I write so that we can stop being shocked and so that we can see the signs and get the needed and available help.
I write and speak about it because if I don’t tell my story, it will appear in some poorly written and largely circumstantial unauthorized posthumous biography.
I tell my story because my story is not unique.
I tell my story so that some little black girl doesn’t spend her life thinking that she is weird or ‘bad’ or just sad.
I tell my story because some people still don’t get it.
I tell my story to keep from cussin' people out when they say, “Cheer up!”
I tell my story because silence almost killed me.
I tell my story for every student who has ever come to me and said, “Miss Jones, I need to talk to you…” 
I tell my story for the woman who wept on my robe after I preached about depression…on “Youth Day.”
I tell my story because it demands telling. 
I tell my story because it is still writing itself.
I tell my story because I have no shame!

My name is Carla Jones and I have NO SHAME! This is my story…