Tag: community

Back to Our Future, aka: We’re Moving!
Community · marriage

Back to Our Future, aka: We’re Moving!

Jacquelyn Sill3 Comments


It was 1988, I had been a Christian for less than 2 years, David was one month out of Bible college, and we were three weeks into our marriage, when we left California and drove across the country to Danville, Illinois, where my husband had taken a job as a Youth Pastor. During the transition, people called us “fearless.” Honestly, we weren’t fearless. Clueless, perhaps–but fearless? Not even close.

We learned pretty early on that our lifestyle was different than our peers, as their date nights and toddler’s schedules didn’t revolve around other people’s teenagers. Investing in someone else’s teenager is much like a welcoming a virus into your home, as the joys and trials overtake your thoughts, conversations, and family activities.

In the two decades that followed, we were both blessed and exasperated by the hundreds of young people we encountered living and ministering in the midwest and Southern California. We witnessed teenage friendships evolve into dating relationships that sometimes resulted in marriages, and then we experienced the joy of watching most of those marriages thrive and the grief when some of the marriages ended in divorce. My husband stood beside a young man when the frightened seventeen-year-old told his parents that his girlfriend was pregnant, and thanks to social media, we’ve watched that unplanned child be loved as she grew into a beautiful young woman. To say the least, our lives were positively altered by the teenagers who allowed us to be a part of their lives.

Over the course of the last decade, David’s ministry role within the church shifted. He was subtly ushered into jobs that were highly administrative and less relational. It would take several blog posts to explain how the transition began, how we each responded to and resisted these new roles and the way the undesired change affected his self-esteem, self-confidence, and ultimately our marriage. Mentioning the shift is irrelevant anyway, except in that it eventually frustrated us both to the point of asking questions in regards to what we wanted out of life, and the ways in which we each desired to serve the Lord and the community.

We began asking each other the romanticized question, “If money were no object, what would you do?” My answer was easy and obvious (#amwriting). David’s took months of contemplation to be realized.

After much prayer, consideration, and conversation, David is leaving his career as a Pastor to become a High School teacher.

Days after David made this decision, I woke up with random thoughts of Ruth Bell Graham, wife of Billy Graham. My heart sank as I compared myself to the upstanding woman. I thought, perhaps, if David had married a woman like Ruth, his life might have turned out so differently. Those in church leadership might value all he has to offer.  I blamed myself, the selfishness of my infidelity, for David’s life taking such a dramatic change. I felt as if I robbed him of a great life.

Once I was able to conjugate my shame into words, I shared my brokenness with my husband.

“If you had married someone like Ruth Graham, you wouldn’t be leaving the ministry,” I whispered through restrained tears.

“Who says I’m leaving the ministry?” he responded, “I’ll never stop doing ministry…and besides, if this is what comes of everything that happened, then GOOD! I couldn’t be more pleased,” and in his gentleness, he pulled me out of myself and into his belief.

And, he’s right. I can see how he will love these students and how they will bless his life. This man was created to be involved in the lives of students; he is a natural shepherd, a breathing example of God’s love as it is available through Christ. So, we leave the life we have always known for the life we once knew.

But, where?

95ccea7ce7a76aa1011145a2d49a9c43Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “the third time is a charm”, but do you know it’s folk history? The saying evolved from a British law, which said any person who survived three hanging attempts would be set free. The law came about in 1885 when a West Country sailor was convicted of murder and sentenced to death by hanging. After three failed attempts, the sailor was imprisoned and later released. He died a free man in the 1940’s.

Likewise, after two attempts at living in the Antelope Valley we are returning for the third time to live in the high desert of California. Beginning August 8th, David will be teaching at a public High School, and we will be investing in the community that has twice before been our home.  We are eager for whatever God has planned as we return to living in the wide open spaces, amid the wild poppies and Joshua Trees. Our hope is that the third time will be a charm, and this will be our final relocation. We have felt for a while that ‘the best is yet to come’, and we see that in going back we are moving forward. 

What Your Waiter Isn’t Telling You
Community

What Your Waiter Isn’t Telling You

Jacquelyn Sill1 Comment

St_Johns_Lutheran_Church_Rabbit_Hill_Alberta_Canada_02AImagine a large family getting ready to attend church on a Sunday morning. This isn’t your family, and it’s not mine either. This is the most unusual tribe you’ve ever met. There are a dozen sisters and just as many brothers, and they share a tiny home. To fully appreciate the chaos in the home you’ll need to know there is only one restroom to facilitate grooming, and there are not enough clean socks for all the feet. Now just to make things even more interesting, there is a language barrier.

This family would obviously struggle in their efforts to get to church in a timely manner. However, upon their arrival to a quaint steeple, hillside church, each teenager would grab the hand of a younger sibling and walk them safely to the fold. The morning crying and the chaos would be history, and the family would be presented as a unified structure of grace.

This is the life of your restaurant waiter.

A food server’s shift is immersed with duality. The conversations, attitudes and behaviors of the staff while they are working with guests in the front of the restaurant are quite different than what takes place back in the kitchen.

To an outsider, the seemingly disrespectful way in which the restaurant staff sometimes speaks to one another when they are in their safe place (a.k.a. the kitchen) might be alarming and even offensive. But truth be told, it is no more startling than the comfortable communication between siblings. The intense and rigorous work a restaurant staff undergoes forms a familial bond.

Perhaps a reader objects, “Wait! The same is true for my staff at (insert company logo here). We are definitely like family!”

I don’t disagree with you, dear reader, but when you leave (insert company logo here) ninety percent of you end up at a restaurant with your closest pals to debrief the week’s events or to complain about your coworkers. In other words, even those of you who don’t work in a restaurant still go to restaurants. They are the most common meeting ground in every developed Nation. For this reason, we are going to concentrate on restaurant workers today.

The nod I want to give to restaurant workers comes from deep within. If this blog post had hands, it wouldn’t be a formal handshake to thank a food server for a job well done. This blog would be a lasting hug to a wealth of people who have reminded me of the importance of building community wherever you land.

Late last Saturday night, at the end of an emotionally and physically exhausting eleven hour day, my husband met me at the restaurant where I have the privilege to serve. I enjoyed a fruity craft beer, and my husband and I shared a Mexican apple pie with cinnamon ice cream and brandy butter on a sizzling fajita skillet; a delicacy that neither of us have any business eating late at night.

Comparison is the thief of joy, and at some point over the weekend, I had allowed the bandit into my head. As I sat with my husband relaying the struggles I was battling, he made a request:

“Name three things about today that you are thankful for.”

I turned my head towards a passageway to the kitchen, and at that precise moment two young women, fellow food servers who are close in age to my adult children, were coming through the doorway.

“Them,” I replied to my husband.

Image-1I shared with my husband that if I were to list the things I am thankful for, these women would be at the top of my list. Yes, I was thankful for the guests I had the chance to serve; thankful for the opportunity to reconnect with returning guests who remembered my name. Yes, I was deeply moved by a heartfelt conversation I had with a young female guest who is a recent widow. Of course, I was humbled and grateful for a couple of great tips. These moments are always welcome, but I am not surprised when I am blessed by obvious good.

This is why I am inspired by the community of people I get to work alongside amid moments that are, more often than not, quite demanding. I am inspired by the playful bickering that happens in the back of the house. The complaining, the inside jokes, the bending of the rules, the calling each other out, the “happy to do it” sarcasm, but all of it with the knowledge that they have my back. On even the longest night, each of us is never alone.

  • Do you have time to take two waters to table 52?
  • Can you box my food on 13?
  • Will you run my bar drinks to 16?
  • I’m caught up, can I help you with anything?
  • Can you follow me with the fajitas?
  • Can you greet 61?

The struggle to do what needs to be done to create an enjoyable experience for our customers is not done merely for tips. Sure, having a great paying job is important and I don’t take that reward lightly, but in all honesty, the entire restaurant staff works hard for each other. Those who wear name tags work hard for the people in the back of the restaurant who aren’t working for tips. If a food server reflects poorly on the restaurant, the customer may never return. If the customer doesn’t return, then there is less money coming in. If there is less money—there may be less hours available for the cooks. If there are less hours for cooks, one of the cooks may lose their job.

That matters to me if the cook is Chuy.

When a position becomes a person our heart is less apathetic toward the situation.

And it’s not just in the chaos that restaurant workers experience familial love. It’s in brokenness. When a team member’s weakness seeps to the surface the family responds. When the weakness is pride it becomes a bad enchilada for everyone; a selfish attitude harnesses a weakness in the tribe making it hard for everyone to do their job. Because of that, I’ve witnessed staff push back and struggle to overcome workers who have become prideful or greedy. The intensity of the job sometimes means the situation is not handled with soft spoken words.

Of course, at other times, soft spoken words sneak around the corner and find you near the walk-in refrigerator.

Two female servers stand rolling silverware. Both have been on their feet for ten plus hours; carrying trays, taking orders, delivering drinks, warming tortillas, restocking glassware, negotiating with cooks, submitting to managers—basically, just doing the job.

One server begins to break down. Tired and fearful, her comparisons have convinced her she is failing at something that she feels she should have mastered by now. The other server, her sister and friend, responds with grace and speaks truth to the situation. These two women were born on opposite sides of the Nation—one is a Jersey girl while the other is a California native. They would have never met were it not for a restaurant in the middle of the Arizona desert. Age and upbringing are irrelevant. Failures and regrets are insignificant. In this moment what matters is love and encouragement.

The younger of the two women, the Jersey girl, disappears for a moment. While she is gone the older woman continues rolling a knife, a spoon, and a fork into a black cloth napkin. Her mind drifts back one year.

Arriving in the town where she and her husband were separated from every other family member, including their children, was surreal. Taking a job in a restaurant because she saw it as “just a job” reminds her of how limited her worldview had become. Every job has significance in the way it shapes the people we become and the community we create. Restaurant workers spend nearly every weekend together—engaging, challenging and conquering rough situations.

The Jersey girl returns holding a wet rag. “I cleaned the high chairs,” she announces.

Image-1(1)Five simple words? No. A novel. These words are lovelier than a psalm or a Shakespearean sonnet.

The Jersey girl just did the Californian’s side work for her.

Hearing the brokenness of the Californian motivated the Jersey girl to respond to her sister with a physical gesture of love. There were no extra tips, and it didn’t help her to get out of the restaurant earlier. In other words, there was nothing “in it for her”.

Maintaining sanity in this particular high intensity, repetitive job is not merely done for the hope of 20% in tips. That money is here today and gone tomorrow. Overcoming self, inspiring another person and experiencing life with a wide variety of uniquely crafted people are not garnishes in life—they are the main course. These are things that money cannot buy.

But, should you stop in for a meal, don’t forget to tip 😉

Jacob and the Pokémon Card
Community · spiritual growth

Jacob and the Pokémon Card

Jacquelyn Sill3 Comments

pokemon-2Imagine you’re an active six-year-old boy named Jacob.

Like any youngster, you have some favorite possessions, and sometimes you’ll bring those items with you to places that don’t necessarily make sense to adults. For instance, one day while you were getting ready to spend the afternoon doing fun things with your Mom you decided to bring along some Pokémon cards. As if you were on a grown-up date, the two of you would be going to the movies and then dining at a nice restaurant. Most adults wouldn’t see the purpose in bringing along a few Pokémon cards, but in your six-year-old mind it was perfectly logical. You had three brand new cards and you wanted to look at them and think about all the Pokémon battles they would win in the future when you spent time with your friends. You grabbed your new cards and followed your Mom to the car.

Once you arrived at the theater, you set your prized cards in the armrest drink holder and adjusted them so they, too, could see the dinosaurs as they roared from the screen. With small popcorn in hand, you sat back and allowed the movie to take you on a spectacular adventure.

As soon as the last dinosaur roared and the credits rolled up the screen, you were pouncing out of your chair imitating the giant reptiles. Your excitement was so fierce and passionate that you left with a dinosaur swagger, not realizing you had forgotten to pick up your Pokémon cards and bring them with you.

It would be some time before you realized you had lost your prized Pokémon cards. Hours would pass before you noticed, and it would be too late to go back and get them. Some might say the cards must not have been as meaningful to you as you claimed, or you wouldn’t have been so careless. Heartless comments like those are made by people trying to justify and distance themselves from pain. It’s actually a sign of self-loathing and fear when someone refuses to have compassion for the disappointment in another person’s life.

But, you are six. You aren’t going to think about these things when you realize the Pokémon cards are gone. What you are going to think about is how it makes you feel. And what you are going to feel is just a whole bundle of SAD.

 

pokemon-1When I first met Jacob he was bouncing around a restaurant patio table playing in the mist falling from overhead water-misters.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was working as a food server. The weather was exceptionally hot, but in spite of the cool dew dropping from the metal rods, there were no other customers dining on the patio. His activity under the drizzling water wasn’t being disruptive in any way, and I was impressed by his Mother’s willingness to endure the heat so he could remain playful after so much theatrical stimulation.

Jacob’s playful personality wasn’t what made him unique, but his eating habits sure did. While dining with his Mother, she ordered for him, and she introduced him to cuisine far tastier than chicken fingers. She ordered each of them a Pina-Colda (albeit, his was a virgin) a seafood appetizer, and then told me they would be sharing the Carnitas Dinner Entree’. I was genuinely awed by the confidence of Jacob’s mother, and by the way he responded to her. He trusted her, complied and seemed to really enjoy the gourmet fare.

Then Jacob stopped bouncing.

I came out to the patio with a standing tray-jack and some to-go containers so I could box their leftovers when I noticed the change in Jacob. The boy who had been so lively was now sitting very still with his head down. I couldn’t see if he was crying for sure, because his little face was hidden behind his baseball cap, but I did see a small hand reach up under the cap, so I guessed he was drying a tear.

“Sometimes we have things for a short amount of time. It just happens that way,” Jacob’s Mother spoke to him.

Jacob didn’t reply to her, and I didn’t say anything. Working as a food server there are many times I have stumbled upon a conversation that I wouldn’t typically be invited to witness.

“Would it help you to think that maybe someone else found them, and that person is feeling very lucky?” Jacob’s Mother tried again.

“No,” Jacob whispered honestly.

“Yeah, hopefully that one will come,” Jacob’s Mother was so calm. She was faintly disappointed for him, but not overly emotional.

Finally, I couldn’t help but say something. I proceeded to tell her how impressed I was with her parenting. I shared examples of the things I had noticed her do with her son. It was then she told me about his disappointment. He had just realized that he had left three of his new Pokémon cards in the movie theater. She told me he was struggling with feeling disappointed.

And my heart welled up with so much hope I couldn’t help but smile.

pokemon-7You see, several months earlier, my son and his wife were visiting from California. They came to the restaurant and enjoyed some drinks and appetizers while I was working. When they were finished, I told them they didn’t have to pay–it was my pleasure to pay their tab. As a joke, my adult son handed me a Pokémon card saying, “Here’s your tip.”

For over four months I have carried that Pokémon card in the notebook I use while I am working. There was no reason to hold onto the card. Time and again, I have emptied the contents and the cash out of the notebook, but each time I would put the Pokémon card back into the money slot. Other food servers even teased me and asked if they could have it.

“Nope,” I replied. “It’s mine.”

But, now, standing on the patio, I wondered if the card was mine, after all. Perhaps, I had just been holding it for Jacob.

I knelt down to Jacob’s eye level and I told him I had something to share with him, and I hoped it might even help him not feel so sad. I told him I had a Pokémon card which had been given to me by my son. I pulled it out of my notebook and I told him, “I want you to have it.”

The look on Jacob’s face when I handed him the Pokémon card was priceless. To be a stranger who could come along and solve a simple crisis was worth more than any amount of money I might have made that afternoon in tips.

I left Jacob and his Mother on the misty patio and went inside to prepare their bill. When I returned, Jacob was bouncing again, and this time he had things he needed to tell me. He told me that because the Pokémon card was an older card, he would be able to win many battles, but he also told me he didn’t think he should keep it forever.

Because the Pokémon card was a gift to me from my son, he decided I should keep it. “One day your son will have a little boy, and you might want to give it to him,” he told me in all sincerity.

Jacob and his Mother had come up with a two week plan. He was going to take the card for two weeks and then he would return to the restaurant with his parents and give it back to me. This would allow him to win many battles with the card, and I would still be able to keep it for my future grandchildren.

FullSizeRender(5)I don’t know if I will ever see Jacob or the Pokémon card again, but I know I will never forget our interaction. I also know there was something in our meeting for me.

It doesn’t matter what we lose, or how tragic our situation, something is coming to change the dynamics of the story. When we feel most disappointed, as hard as it may be, we have to press on knowing there is a random Pokémon card waiting to be unearthed.

If we could see the contents of everyone’s notebook, perhaps we would let our defenses down and open ourselves up to another. If we knew who was holding the replacement Pokémon card, we would seek that person out and make ourselves vulnerable. But that is not the way it works. Without any knowledge of the contents of my notebook, Jacob’s Mother invited me into Jacob’s disappointment. It was only by her sharing that I became a key player in their story. I had the card to change the story, but I didn’t know what was needed until I heard the story. Hearing the story changed the story.

We are called to live in community with one another. Living in community is not merely sharing pleasant things. We are called to share our disappointments as well as the victories. When we do this we are inviting others to partake in the journey, and their involvement will change the story. Our faith increases and we are transformed into people who win many battles.

 

 

Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned at the Community Pool
Community · spiritual growth

Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned at the Community Pool

Jacquelyn Sill1 Comment

Growing up in Southern California in the 70’s, the kids in our neighborhood invaded the community pool as often as possible. It cost twenty-five cents for entrance to “The Plunge”, and it was, easily, the best quarter I’ve ever spent. With that quarter came a mesh bag for your towel and flip-flops (although, back then we called them “thongs”), a safety-pin/locker key for you to attach to your swim suit, and access to the cool, chlorinated water for a couple hours!

I can still remember the pulsing fear growing in my seven-year-old chest as I climbed the ladder to jump off the high dive for the first time. I don’t know how tall it was, but in my memory the air felt a little thinner up there.

It was early evening, and my whole family was at the pool for a summer swim. Down below I could hear my parents, brothers, and neighbors cheering me on as I stood scared at the top of the metal tower. I dared not look at them as my small feet moved numbly across the coarse non-skid epoxy on the blue fiberglass diving board. With each step I could feel my weight nudging the board downward. I held tightly to the metal rails, certain the board would bounce up, catapult me into the sky and then down onto the concrete.

An early evening chill had come over the outdoor aquatic facility, and down below there was a line of shivering children with blue lips who had little patience or grace for my fears. Some of the older boys yelled to the Lifeguard, insisting someone make the little girl climb back down. In spite of my shame, I tried to ignore them. I had worked for this high dive opportunity. The moment hadn’t been given to me without qualification.

Before I was allowed to even stand in line for the high dive, I had to swim one lifeguard monitored lap across the deep end. “Gosh darn it! I had earned the right to stand on this tower and jump to my demise, and no one was going to take that right away from me.”  I released my grip on the handrails and walked slowly to the edge of diving board, holding my head high.

To onlookers that high held head appeared powerful, but at age seven it was fear that held my head high. Fear combined with some advice from my father. Just before I climbed the ladder, my Dad pulled me over and whispered some final instructions, “When you get to the top, don’t look down. Just look straight ahead at the horizon and jump. The water will catch you.”

I learned a couple lessons that day.IMG_8500

Trusting the words of my father and following his instruction helped me overcome my fears and jump into the chlorinated water. We can drown in our own fears. Looking down and looking backwards when we are already filled with fears just leaves a soul shivering in the night air. We have a heavenly Father who wants to tell us which way to look when we are consumed with fears and afraid to jump, but in order to hear his instruction we have to lean in and listen for His whisper.

We cannot concern ourselves with the people shivering on the sidelines. For the most part, the majority of people want to see good unfold. They rally around and cheer for the frightened to release the rails and trust, but not all people are that way. Some people have agendas of self. Shivering and insecure in their own situations they may use their power of influence to convince us to pull back from doing things that God knows we can accomplish. Oftentimes man cannot see what God already knows. The majority of the people are treading water in the pool as well, and they are cheering for our success, but sadly, our natural inclination is to feed our fears with the words (or silence) from blue-lipped naysayers.

It’s been over forty years since I stood on that high dive and looked out at the horizon, but my recent return to a community pool reminded me that there are still lessons to be learned. A few of them have been resonating with me a great deal lately.

Friendships can happen anywhere! It was a Sunday afternoon and the deck at the community pool was packed with adults applying and reapplying sunscreen to little shoulders, the pool was a frenzy of splashing children and floating devices, and I was lounging in a chair watching it all and enjoying the laughter and the sun. Nearby two little boys were throwing a football back and forth to one another in the shallow end. I was half watching them, half reading my book when I heard one of the boys yell across to his playmate, and my attention was heightened.

“Hey, what’s your name?” the smaller boy yelled.

“Amari,” the other answered.

“Oh, I’m Kyle,” the smaller boy said, “my name is Kyle.”

IMG_8498Without missing a beat, the boys continued tossing the football back and forth in the pool. The exchange surprised me because had Kyle not asked Amari his name, I would have assumed they had been friends for a long time. The ease at which they were willing to interact with one another reminded me that adults stop doing that.

They didn’t hesitate or question the validity of the relationship based on racial, economic or spiritual values. They didn’t concern themselves with whether the relationship would last beyond what it was in that brief moment. They just embraced the friendship for the amount of time it had been allotted.

Their interaction with one another was based on the shared interest of throwing a football. There was no agenda. They weren’t going to try to persuade the other to a belief or a lifestyle. They were just meeting and engaging where they were.

A relationship fostered in a pool can grow to have just as much validity as a relationship fostered in a foyer on a Sunday morning. It’s a matter of being open. Spiritual friendships form when people engage in conversations of the heart. It can happen wherever we allow it to happen. It’s not a requirement that we have a long drawn out history; it’s simply the decision for two people to be present and open.

There will always be “that one girl”. A million years ago I was a preteen, and I had a female cousin who was a teenager. She wore her age like she wore her bikini: perfectly. She was tall, blonde, tan and friendly to everyone. I believe Carrie smiled while she slept, it was just her nature. I wanted to be just like her. She was a great role model. The problem was that I wanted to be just like her immediately. I hated that I was younger than her and I couldn’t wait until I was older and I could fill out the top half of a two-piece swimsuit.

Years passed, and I am well beyond the days of teenage angst over an underdeveloped body. As I look around the pool it strikes me that while I no longer compare my body to other women, I can still find “that one girl” at the pool and long to be where she is–immediately.

I have begun to swim laps as a part of my daily exercise regime, and I find myself looking over at the young women who are swimming in the lanes next to me. With long perfect moves and controlled breathing they glide across the water barely making a wake. My own laps resemble a synchronized swimmer having a seizure. When I concentrate on kicking I forget how to breathe. If I count my strokes between breaths I nearly run into the wall. It’s a convoluted and chlorinated mess wearing goggles.

I have come so far in no longer comparing my outward appearance to another woman, yet there is still the temptation to compete in an avenue where I will surely be the loser. It’s as if the enemy knows that if I compare myself to someone who is further along—I may give up completely. The way my cousin wore a bikini didn’t make a difference in the way I would eventually wear a bikini, unless it made me feel like I never quite measured up. The way one swimmer glides across the water doesn’t make a difference in the way I will eventually swim–unless I let it stop me altogether.

You can always swim two more laps!  The first day I started swimming laps I was only able to swim eight laps. I wish I could say I swam all eight without resting, but that wasn’t the case. Within a few weeks I pushed it up to twelve laps, and I even did fourteen on one occasion.

I remember the day I jumped to sixteen. I was ready to quit for the day. I had not only done my now standard twelve, but I had even done the bonus two more and made it to fourteen when my son said to me, “Mom, just do two more. End at sixteen.” I told him I didn’t think I could do two more. To which he replied, “You can always swim two more laps.”

IMG_8499I swam sixteen laps and it was a transformational moment, because from then on, I would always try to do at least fourteen–because I knew I was capable of doing sixteen. My faith had grown based on my experience.

Recently, I was swimming alone when I had done sixteen and was ready to stop. The cardio-breathing was exhausting me, and I when I was finished swimming I would be going to the restaurant to work a nine to ten hour shift. I still had a long day ahead. I had every reason to stop at sixteen laps. Even though I was alone, I heard my son’s words, “You can always swim two more laps.”

I could tell you that I swam two more laps and stopped at eighteen, but that’s not what happened. What happened was I swam two more and then I thought, “I can swim two more.”

That was the day I swam twenty laps.

  • It doesn’t matter how scary the situation, or even if you caused the crisis—there is always a way out, just listen to the Father and He will tell you where to look.
  • If He tells you to let go of the rails and jump, trust Him. The water will catch you!
  • Let others cheer you on, and disregard the blue-lipped naysayers.
  • Be present and open with the people splashing around right in front of you. Nothing in this world matters as much as the relationships we foster, and your pool is big enough for more friends.
  • Don’t compare yourself with someone else. Let them swim in their lane while you kick around in your own!
  • Remember: quitting is never an option. You can always swim two more laps!
Finding God at Pieology
spiritual growth

Finding God at Pieology

Jacquelyn Sill12 Comments

“He wants us to look for Him,” he spoke gently, but with authority.

As my husband and I sat on the love seat in our therapist’s office, we listened while our marriage counselor spoke to us about finding God in the most difficult times.  I have been the one who has been having a hard time “shaking the sadness” and being purposeful and joyful, so his eyes were on me as he continued. He reassured me that God has not abandoned my husband and I in this time of transition. My nervous system feels a little out of whack right now, and because I am facing something I have never faced before it makes it more difficult for me to find God in the equation.

When we are experiencing something that is brand new it is easy to feel like we are in it alone. We are on a new road where we have never traveled, and we don’t have a familiar template to recognize God. Because we know the nature of God, we know He has not abandoned us, but it can feel like He is hiding.

While it is not certain, it is very likely that my husband and I will be leaving California and relocating. We have relocated several times in our marriage and the signs are pointing to it happening again. The difference is that this time I do not get to take my children with me. I do not get to take my family with me.

If we were relocating for any reason it would be difficult, but knowing the catalyst for this particular change is due to my selfishness makes it more painful.  To know that my husband will have to leave his granddaughter because of decisions I made makes me question my ability to bring good into his life. Friends and family argue that I am not the one who made my husband lose his job. That choice was made by others in response to how my sin made them feel. We have examined it over and over and looked at it up against scripture, and what my friends and family have told me is Biblically sound. My husband should not have lost his job for what I did.

That being said, for me the bottom line is this: within a couple of months I am most likely going to leave those I love.  The reality of what is coming knocks the breath out of me.  As I was sharing this with our therapist he asked my husband and I to think of a time when we were children and we had made a mess of something. He wanted us to think of a time when we had made choices that had caused some kind of grief for our parents.

One of the memories that came to mind for myself involved ordering a pizza. I shared a story about the first time I ever ordered pizza for the family. I was about ten years old and someone had elected me to order pizza for the family. (Seriously?) I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn’t have the forethought to ask what anyone else wanted on the pizza. I called and ordered a large pizza with one topping. What topping?

Hmmm…how about…mushrooms.

Needless to say when the pizza was delivered no one in the family was thrilled with my choice of topping. The response was unpleasant to say the least. I had failed and there was not a lot of grace from those who were hungry. It was one of the those moments that has stayed with me for years. “The Night Jackie Ruined Dinner for the Family“. Looking back on it now it holds little value–it’s a meal and meaningless in all ways except for how it shaped me. We talked through the silly timeless event and proceeded with an understanding of how these events when left unattended can do their own kind of damage to us for years. Reevaluating a small and seemingly insignificant event can be a productive step towards closing unhealthy doors and passageways in the current day.

Before we left the therapist office he had some final instructions. He urged us to seek God out in times when it may feel like He is hidden. He reminded us of scripture that spoke into the desire of God to be sought out by his beloved.

Once we were on the road my husband turned to me and said, “All that conversation about pizza made me want Pieology.”

We drove to the local trending pizza parlor for some lunch. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, my heart began to beat faster and I felt nauseous. When I relayed the uneasy feeling to my husband he immediately retracted his desire for pizza, and told me he was willing to eat at home. I could not shake the strange feeling, but I really wanted to try to enjoy the moment. We’ve had so much isolation for the last five months, and at least if we were out of the house it would feel a little more healthy.

Pieology

We ordered our pizzas (and yes, along with the other toppings, my personal pie had mushrooms).  We stepped out onto a side patio to eat lunch in the sunshine. When the pizzas arrived we bowed our heads to pray. In his prayer my husband asked God to help us to see Him. He asked God to open our eyes to the places where He might be hidden. I wanted to feel what my husband was praying, but in the moment there was a part of me that was a little cynical, and while he prayed I opened my eyes and I spied a couple of jalapenos on my pizza.  Silently I wondered if I could somehow see the shape of a fish in them. Was God going to be hiding in my pizza?

I had just taken the first bite of my cheesy-deliousness when something caught my eye. Through two windows of the restaurant I noticed the silhouette of  young friend standing out on the sidewalk leading into the establishment. Because of the shadows and the distance from where we were sitting, I could barely see him, but I recognized his profile none the less. He is a pastor on staff, and I had seen a post this morning on Instagram reminding me that today was his birthday. I looked to see who he was with–it was another recognizable silhouette. And then I saw another. And another.

When we love people, we don’t have to see the whole person to feel better–even just their silhouette can bring encouragement.

I jumped up and grabbed my husband’s arm, “Come with me…I think some of our people are here!” We rushed to the front of the patio and shouted a hello to several friends who were gathering for a birthday lunch. Their sweet faces turned to us and cheered. Being greeted warmly is never so sweet as it is after humiliation and failure. Hugs and smiles hold more weight than ever, while distance and shunning are like knives to the heart. A few moments later, we found ourselves “crashing” the party of about thirty church staff people we admire.

JP's birthday lunch

It seems that today, that is where God had been hiding.

It was such a small thing. It was lunch at a pizza joint, but it reminded me of God’s compassion for us even when we are unworthy. We may be feeling cynical and doubtful, but He is not. He isn’t even tempted to behave that way towards us–for He cannot be tempted by evil. It will be easier for us to find Him if we stay away from those attributes, but He isn’t going to wait for us to “get our act together” to reveal Himself. That’s not His nature.

My world didn’t change today, and I am still most likely going to be leaving people I love. Because living so far from all of my children will be new and unfamiliar it is going to take all that is within me to seek God when I am unable to “shake the sadness.”  I will have to remind myself to remember in the midst of the worst moments, I am not alone. God will be with me, and my prayer will be that on the days I cannot see Him he will just let me glimpse His silhouette.

 

 

Post Script: If you are seeking a Christian therapist, my husband and I  highly recommend Dr. Raymond Jones–for couples and/or individual therapy. Click this link for contact information

Raymond Jones PhD, LMFT, CSAT-S – Certified Sex Addiction Therapist – See more at: http://aspencenter.org/#sthash.8aniODIa.dpuf
Raymond Jones PhD, LMFT, CSAT-S – Certified Sex Addiction Therapist – See more at: http://aspencenter.org/#sthash.8aniODIa.dpuf
Raymond Jones PhD, LMFT, CSAT-S – Certified Sex Addiction Therapist – See more at: http://aspencenter.org/#sthash.8aniODIa.dpuf

 

Stop Being Happy on Facebook
affair recovery

Stop Being Happy on Facebook

Jacquelyn Sill8 Comments

“I pray God uses you to break new ground and make an eternal difference. However, when He does, you must brace yourself for more criticism and pain than you might imagine.” -Craig Groeschel, Dare to Drop the Pose

Facebook is a strange world, and I have met many people who describe themselves as having a love/hate relationship with the online community driven app. It’s partially perplexing, because it’s rules are unestablished. What is acceptable to one “friend” may cross a line for another “friend”. One truth most users will agree on is this: Facebook is not real.

I can jump on my computer at 6 AM and see pictures of a young couple going to their High School Prom. In naivety, I could assume they are either very late or very early for the dance–since no one leaves for the Prom at sunrise.  In judgement, I could assume the happy couple are still at the Prom and have chosen to ignore all recommendations of what would be a sensible curfew for 16-year-olds. Or, in relative wisdom, I could look at the time stamp and see that the picture is 12 hours old. In this obvious scenario, Facebook users recognize it would be foolish for me to make one of the first two assumptions.

In keeping with the Prom theme, it would be equally foolish for me to assume that what I see in the picture tells the whole story. Upon further investigation, perhaps I would learn that this was a bad date all around. If the girl were to confide in me, perhaps she would share that she wished she had chosen more comfortable shoes, that her date spent the whole night pressuring her with sexual advances, or that her closest friends left early and went to a party where they got drunk. Perhaps she would admit that she had huge disappointments for how her Prom night had turned out.

We all know how this turned out....
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And yet, the pretty picture would still sit nicely on her timeline. Still collecting “Likes”.

Several months ago, when my affair was made public to the women’s group at our church, I began receiving Facebook messages from women who attend the same church as myself. Most of them wanting to encourage me to cling to God. Some of them wanted to reach out to me because they themselves had felt the sting of this particular sin.  Reading these emails made me realize there might be women who were looking for a way to understand their own journey. Once I began blogging, the enormity of the emails only increased, and they became more geographically widespread. Some of the women who have contacted me failed in their own vows, and some of them have husbands who have been unfaithful. Their stories are all different, but the common theme is a desire to connect and express the feelings they are having about their own journey.

Soon the blog stats showed that the posts were being read by people not just in the United States but around the globe. I was dumbfounded to imagine anyone in Tunisia would want to read what I wrote, let alone nine people in the Netherlands. (side note: where the heck is Tunisia?) However, I was able to recognize this: it had very little to with my writing, and more to do with what God might be doing.

This week I received my first piece of HATE mail, and the private message was downright mean. The writer indicated that my documentation of my journey was an assault to her. She went on to explain that while she was married to her previous husband, who had also been a pastor, she had an affair. She shared that she did not make her affair public. She doesn’t like the message I am sending for many reasons, but the saddest of all is because she doesn’t believe it is possible for a marriage to ever recover from infidelity.  Her message to me had many accusations, but the first concept was simply this: Stop being happy on Facebook.

The writer bluntly stated, “How can you possibly pretend to have this perfect life on FB and go on knowing things will actually never be the same.”  I was saddened when I read her words, because as she went on to share her story it was evident that her infidelity had led to the end of her marriage. I was also sad, because after she emailed me, she blocked me so I couldn’t respond to her. There were things I would want to give to her, not in an attempt to defend my life–but in an attempt to help her find hope in her own life.

I began to ponder what she had said. I asked myself if I was “pretending to have a perfect life on FB.” I thought about the pictures I have posted of myself–mostly pictures of my granddaughter or my husband and myself.

Isla in the Pool

  • Did I take my granddaughter swimming this week? Yes.
  • Did my granddaughter cry when I took her out of the pool and made her take a nap. Yes…but I didn’t photograph that.

D&J at Village Eatery

  • Did I dine with my husband at our favorite coffee shop on Monday morning? Yes.
  • Did we go to that coffee shop after an emotionally draining morning dealing regret and disappointment? Yes…but I didn’t mention it in a status update.

That made me think about the Prom scenario–the picture of the couple is taken and that reflects a part of the story, but not the story in its entirety. Even the painful things the teenager encountered may have silver linings. Perhaps she took off her shoes and danced barefoot for the first time. Perhaps the behavior of her date and her friends solidified truths that her parents or church youth leaders had been pouring into her. This night of crisis had exposed what she herself believed about peer pressure and purity, and perhaps–for her–this was an evening of victory.  Not documenting every single detail of the Prom date on Facebook does not mean the teenage girl was pretending to have gone to the Prom any more than I am pretending to have a perfect life.

I think of the rest of the accusation: “How can you possibly pretend to have this perfect life on FB and go on knowing things will actually never be the same”

Going on knowing things will never be the same is not a fear, it is a hope.

I don’t want the marriage I had, and my husband doesn’t want that marriage either. We have been working to embrace every aspect of this trial to allow it to transform us. Following any failure, there is a window of opportunity for transformation. Transformation is not a guarantee with failure–it is a choice. We either mask and hide when our failure is revealed, or we walk through it. Just because a person fails does not mean they will be transformed by the failure. Living in and experiencing the natural consequences–not covering them up is the road that must be traveled to find transformation. The natural consequences of sin are purely emotional and spiritual, and are not the same as man’s judgement of sin. But, most people don’t like to deal with emotions that are raw and painful. One of the most difficult aspects to embrace is the grief. With infidelity there is grief, and no person in their right mind likes grief.

Grief visited our home two decades ago when our 19-month-old daughter died. The difference this time is we are also dealing with shame and blame. The other difference is that this time, while we are both experiencing grief–it is from opposite sides of a two sided fence. The challenge early on was to try to get on the same side of the fence, but we couldn’t. We needed a third side on our two sided fence. For a third side of a fence to present itself, we needed a miracle.

With each of us clinging to the long, strong arm of God, He pulled us each up and over our opposite sides of the fence so that we would be in a new pasture–we moved to His side of the fence. As long as we remain in this new pasture, things won’t be the same.

The truth of our past reminds me of this: when we faced grief with the death of our daughter, we still took our other three children to the park to feed the ducks, we still taught them how to ride their bicycles, and we still cheered for them at swim meets. We grieved deeply for what we had lost, but we still enjoyed the beauty in the life we had. Granted there was no Facebook to document the life we were pretending to have, so perhaps it never happened at all.

 

Text Messaging and Blow Dryers…Instruments of the Lord.
spiritual growth

Text Messaging and Blow Dryers…Instruments of the Lord.

Jacquelyn Sill6 Comments

“Evidence shows that women are less self-assured than men—and that to succeed, confidence matters as much as competence.” -The Atlantic

It was already decided. On Monday morning, between the hours of 10-11 AM, I would seek employment as a Food Server in the hip downtown area of a neighboring city. Working in that atmosphere would fit my personality and still allow me time to pour into my reading and writing. I had already scoped out the upscale restaurants where I hoped to garnish employment, and now I just needed to go in confidently and convince one of the establishments that hiring me was the best choice they would make this month.

Then the alarm went off. It wasn’t an audible alarm–it was an alarm inside of me that had been growing. My hope has been draining over the last few days and the alarming feeling inside was telling me that things were never going to get better, or feel different. My hopelessness was showing through to a few friends, and they were commenting on how important it was that I didn’t withdraw at this time. One friend was bold enough to say, “not allowing people to get close hurt you when it came to having people who would have called you out on the affair, or for you to talk about the feelings you were having.”

ouch.

As soon as I had chosen an outfit for the day, I grabbed my iPhone and worded a text message asking for prayer. I hoped that having others pray would sooth my nerves. My hands were shaking so badly, I had to resort to using the vocal commands to finish the text message. I asked for prayers of confidence. I knew I wanted to send it to a group of people, but I didn’t want to overload anybody’s phone and cause an explosion. I added names, and I deleted names. Satan was having a hey-day even in this simple task of texting. The inner voices started yelling, “She doesn’t want you to keep bothering her!…Don’t text her…she’s got enough on her plate!” and the winner of them all, “Seriously…you are asking for prayer to become a WAITRESS?”

Adding one of the names made me feel especially insecure. She is younger than I am, and busy with her toddler. She was my hairdresser for a couple of years, and I would have continued with her had my daughter not taken over the laborious task of covering my gray. I have admiration for her and her calm spirit, and she has been especially graceful in sending me text messages and in her willingness to pray for me over the last few months. But still…this request seemed so silly. Despite my fears, I added her to the group MMS.

text messaging and blow dryers

The group responded enthusiastically with prayerful responses. My heart was calming down, and I proceeded to apply my make-up with less shaky hand movements. My fears of the younger woman even subsided when she responded to the group text message with a verse:

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline” 1 Timothy 2:7

I grabbed my blow dryer and began the arduous task of drying my locks. Almost immediately something shot out of the barrel. Then there were SPARKS and SMOKE. The blow dryer exploded and died.

Now, the death of a blow dryer on any occasion is a sad state of affairs, but this was unbelievable. I looked at the plastic carcass of the appliance that had served me so well over the years. Perhaps I should have felt sad for the blow dryer, but honestly, in that moment, I could only think of myself. “Are you kidding me?” I said to the lady with wet hair who stood in the mirror.

The first thing I thought of was the group text message. This was embarrassing. I had asked for prayer, and now it was evident that I was never going to make it to any of the upscale restaurants before the lunchtime rush. I imagined that my unreliable blow dryer would be annoying news to these godly women. I felt like a drug addict telling my sponsor that I had just smoked crack. Still, I had to tell them what was happening. Reluctantly, I typed out a text message sharing the news of my blow dryer’s demise.

Almost immediately, the younger woman responded, “I have an extra dryer if you need it!”

Within 15 minutes I found myself sitting in the downstairs bathroom of my former hairdresser’s home (which coincidentally is just 2 miles from the hip downtown city filled with upscale restaurants). My faithful friend used her blow dryer and her skills to style my hair so that I might go forward with confidence to seek employment.

hair styles

My heart swells and tears fill my eyes at the phenomenal way God works in our lives. The death of my blower dryer was not a surprise to God. He knew my blow dryer was on it’s last leg, and it was His Spirit within me who was prompting me to include her when asking for prayer. I didn’t need to have exceptionally well styled hair to go job hunting, but what I did need to experience was grace and faith in action. This woman was not merely using her words to proclaim that she would be there for me while I climbed out of the mess I had made, she was willing to use her time and her talent. THAT is LOVE. The enemy wants me to doubt myself and live in isolation–but that is not God’s plan for any of us. We are created and called to live in community. Sometimes others make decisions that make finding that community more difficult, but God will use any means to draw us closer to one another if we allow Him access to our lives.