Revealing The Story

How Our Stories Fit Into THE Story

Author: Laura Frederick (Page 1 of 3)

2011

April 6, 2020 /

2011 was a tough year. I spent weeks in an ICU, we closed our business, short-sold our house, went months without income, moved our kids to a new school… the list goes on. So many stressors happened simultaneously. Everything we worked for was gone. It didn’t matter how careful or thoughtful we had been. I was embarrassed.

Our people never shamed us. They treated us with dignity even when meeting practical needs. Things would appear.. randomly, anonymously. Food. Gift cards. Someone paid our power bill. We tried to conceal our needs, but somehow they always knew. They taught me that community observes unspoken needs with respectful care, and responds accordingly.

Our nation was in a recession – the first for our generation of young adults. There were many travelers on our road. Each had their own unique griefs. Thank you for not judging mine.

The craziest thing about 2011 is that I mostly remember the good. Every smile, every laugh, every moment of peace was richer because it fought through miles of dirt to reach the sun. Who cares if we walked a lot because we couldn’t afford to do anything else. Those walks taught us how to breathe. And that’s how it goes. Almost systematically, each hard is somehow (miraculously?) overshadowed by good. Not stupid, hollow, fakely positive good. True good. It didn’t happen right away. It was instilled over time through things like space for grief, the healing balm of simple, hope that ‘hard’ wouldn’t last forever, and visibility of beauty-in-the-midst.

Our nation is facing another season of hard. We sense its presence but none of us knows its exact contents. It’s unfortunate that we’ve been polarized for so long. That social distancing can enhance social disparities. And that (at a time when we need each other the most) prevention tactics are so diverse. We were designed for community. We must find ways to bridge isolation. Bridge fear. Bridge differences. We are ALWAYS, ALWAYS stronger together.

You helped me survive 2011. Show me how to help you.

Laura

trust walk

August 16, 2017 /

Be still and know I am God. (Psalm 46:10)  Did you know that the Hebrew for ‘be still’ is ‘let go’?

What does it look like to let go?

For me, it’s so many things.  Let go of control as my oldest transitions from child to adult.  Let go of fear that my middle’s dreams won’t beat the odds stacked against them.  Let go of the future hopes that blur my vision of the current successes surrounding my youngest.  Let go of perfect descriptions for the imperfections that run in, through, and around everything.  Adoption.  Marriage.  Parenting.  Ministry.

I’ve never cared for the phrase ‘let go and let God’ because I’ve seen too many people flounder under the strain and guilt of it.

Dear ones, this verse is inviting us to dwell in a space that’s far from strain or guilt.  A place of promise.  Hope.

The composers of Psalm 46 (the sons of Korah) had a complicated family history.  However, they didn’t allow their past to dictate their future.  I like the Message’s version of this song’s opening line: God is a safe place to hide, ready to help when we need him.  We stand fearless at the cliff-edge of doom, courageous in storm and earthquake. 

God is a safe place to hide.  My grip (I can make everything and everyone better on my own) loosens when I’m tucked into that hiding place because in it I remember God’s goodness, power, and provision.  He is El Roi (the God who sees us), El Shama (the God who hears us), and Immanuel (God with us).

Letting go is active, not passive.  I’m still moving, but my movement is rooted in trust rather than control.  I’m watching, looking, listening, and learning.  I’m allowing the accounts of past provision to fuel the courage required to keep my grip loose.  One intentional step at a time I am embarking on a trust walk.

Will you join me?

Laura

reach for the ground

August 9, 2017 /

Have you ever taken note of our posture during life’s most intense experiences? Childbirth. Death. Breakthrough. Profound joy. In each, our senses flood and we instinctively drop low, as if reaching for the ground.

Back to our roots.

Then God formed mankind of dirt from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living being. – Genesis 2:7

Dirt.  The ground.  Our roots.  Reminders of our humanity.

There is beauty and weakness in humanity.  But we tend to hide the latter as if the cracks don’t exist.

The Hebrew word ‘afar’, in this case translated as ‘dirt’, is also used in Genesis 18:27 as a metaphor for humility.

Humanity and humility.  Fitting.

While our tendency may be to hide the cracks, acknowledging them is key towards finding lasting strength.  For, there is FREEDOM in admitting that we cannot, should not, rely solely on ourselves.  That we were never supposed to handle everything (or everyone) on our own.

Do you see the beauty?  During life’s most intense experiences we instinctively drop to a posture that allows us to remember and receive.

Out of the ground springs forth living water.

Anyone who believes in me may come and drink! For the Scriptures declare, ‘Rivers of living water will flow from his heart. – John 7:38

Sustenance from a source deeper and richer than ourselves.

Remember your humanity.

Reach for the ground in humility.

Receive sustenance from the One who knows you better than you know yourself.

As a mom, therapist, and speaker, I tend to focus on equipping people to reach for the sky.  That’s good!  Great even.

But, oh, what riches might be unearthed if we expended even a fraction of our energy equipping people to reach for the ground.

Laura

waves

May 17, 2017 /

I’m fine.

Not really.

Let’s give each other permission to tuck away our practiced smiles and admit when it’s been a tough day.

For, no matter how good we’ve become at riding life’s waves, they sometimes crest over our heads.

This is normal. We don’t have to be ‘happy’ all the time; especially when we’re talking to God.

Father, I’m worn-out. Trust is hard. I keep thinking I know what’s best.

If one of your kids asked you for bread would you give them a stone? If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more capable am I? – Matthew 7:9

Yes, but what if letting go means watching someone get crushed?

Make me your dwelling and no disaster will come to you. My angels will lift you up. You will trample the great lion and the serpent. – Psalm 91:9-13

Bad things happen all the time. And, I can sense the lions prowling. Don’t ask me to believe that they’ll simply disappear.

Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name, you are mine. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.-Isaiah 43:1-2

I can smell the smoke.

I will cover you. Under my wings you will find refuge; my faithfulness is your shield. – Psalm 91:4

You know the fragile aspects of this situation. Fear lurks around each shadowed corner.

My grace is sufficient for you. For my power is perfected in your weakness. – 2 Cor. 12:9

Waves will come and go.

Let’s not make their impact worse by judging ourselves for swallowing water.

Lean in to the One who can strengthen your legs when they grow weary from treading. Lean in to the One whose capacity for love exceeds your own. Lean in to the One who can provide peace in the midst of chaos.

Keep riding, dear ones. Keep riding.

 

Laura

eclipse

April 12, 2017 /

Life is sunny.

Until the rain comes.

Precious family members and sweet friends have recently been pummeled by hospitalizations and serious diagnoses. Each bit of news a bomb leaving craters all around; a community-wide ache like a long line of dreary days.

Perhaps you’ve experienced such days.

Total havoc. No words.

My heart has grown heavy as I’ve attempted to navigate this crater-marked landscape of suffering.

‘Jesus, where are you – in – this?’

Shadows are eclipsing the sun.

Shadows take countless forms: self-reliance, denial, anger, disengagement, loss of hope. Shadows are exceptional liars. They seek to divide and conquer.

Tim Keller, a New York City preacher, was asked to come to Ground Zero and address the topic of suffering on the five-year anniversary of 9-11. I’ve been listening to that sermon ad nauseam as my eyes adjust to the shadows.

Keller opens with a common quandary: if God is good yet cannot stop the suffering of mankind, then he must have limited power. Conversely, if his power is limitless yet he chooses not to stop our suffering then he must not be good.

Keller urges us to look back to the work of the cross when Christ took on our suffering, look forward to his ultimate victory over suffering, and look into the wonder of the gospel — the greatest love story ever told.

In a few days we’ll celebrate Easter. It’s a remembrance of Christ’s willingness to step down from perfect community to enter our broken community.

Have you ever wondered why he often withdrew to lonely places? Sure, it was a way to refuel through prayer. But as I attempt to navigate these craters I’ve come to wonder if a deeper need drove him towards that time with his Good Dad.

Think about it, the more we open our hearts to love the more we expose them to weariness. And there’s never been a more perfect love than his. If I am at times overwhelmed by the crater-marked landscape of suffering, then how much more was he? I only need to look as far as the shortest bible verse –‘Jesus wept’.

This Easter you might be surrounded by bunnies, chocolates and pretty things. You might be dragging from the busyness of holidays. Your heart might be draped in shadows. You might be fighting the notion that you’ve been betrayed.

Dear one, lift your chin to the Son. Squint your eyes to see past the shadows. Cry out to him. Beat your fists against his chest. Take ahold of his pierced hand. Pierced for you. He endured the ultimate suffering so that your suffering can someday be swallowed up in victory.

Unclench your fist. Let it fall into his hand. Go at the craters together. There, only there, will you encounter a miracle – affliction eclipsed by glory.

Laura

 

second mother

February 8, 2017 /

Whether through adoption, foster care, or marriage, there’s a unique vulnerability in becoming a child’s second mother.

We’re 21 months into this adoption journey, nine since my littlest dragon joined our family.  It’s been both an eon and a finger snap.

The hard truth is that ‘mom’ love wasn’t automatic. Nurture, sure. But, every single ounce of genuine mom-level love has been earned through blood, sweat, and tears; a slow expansion of the heart.

I celebrated the day when authentic mom love finally began to spring forth on its own. But then the floor opened to reveal a whole other layer of uncharted territory — the ‘nameless’ territory.

Extending mom love and receiving back nameless engagement… Who am I in this little dragon’s life? More than a caregiver or guardian. Different from an aunt or grandma. Not yet (ever?) a mom. [And does an expansion of the second mother relationship require some sort of diminishment of the first mother? That seems crazy!]

The place of first mom will always be sacred. I get it. I honor it.

However, life in this waiting space requires staring into a huge, gaping gateway to the unknown. Questions fly by like ghastly phantoms, haunting me with unanswerable wonderings.

In between these aches and wonderings I’ve been thinking about God’s relationship with us. [Please don’t mistake this for bragging about some sort of *super* holiness. In the helplessness of this waiting space I’ve leaned into the only source of comfort I know; He has responded with kindness.]

All throughout the Bible God declares his unconditional parent-level love for his kids – each one of us – as seen in Jeremiah 31:3…

I have loved you with an everlasting love. I have drawn you with an unfailing kindness.

And all throughout he depicts the pain of us not loving him in return.

God, the one who offers perfect love, has kids who’ve chosen other ‘firsts’. He understands my aches. He surrounds me with tenderness and love as I face the unknown.

My work as a therapist and observations of friends who’ve adopted has also provided some comfort. Unfortunately, the reality is that no one can perfectly predict the terrain that lies on the other side of a waiting space.

Therefore, I must face the unknown with greater assurance than what can be drawn from circumstances.

Six years ago, acute pancreatitis landed me in a trauma unit – a huge, gaping gateway to the unknown.

The point at which I could no longer change my circumstances smacked me like a giant brick wall. The aches and wonderings threatened to swallow me whole. There, in that waiting space, Christ met me as Jehovah Nissi (The Lord My Banner).

He taught me that my warrior nature is from him so of course I’m to use it. Then, he added a critical component: press forward but slow down. Allow my heart to stand still in the midst of the fight so that my eyes can open to the miraculous power and peace that comes from his presence on the battle field.

Six years ago, I watched him work and I fell to my knees in awe proclaiming look at my God. Look at what’s he’s done!

Life has landed me on my knees again.

Jehovah Nissi, open my eyes to see your work on the battle field. Still my heart to sense your presence.

 

Laura

and… REPEAT

February 1, 2017 /

In November we practice GRATITUDE.

December – JOY.

January – NEW rythyms.

By February we’re distracted and BUSY.

Then, *poof* another year flashes by.

Imagine if we turned these Nov/Dec/Jan practices into a cycle that begins it’s second rotation every February.

Some might argue that February is for love.  But I say, what is love without gratitude?

I wish I was naturally thankful; a person from whom gratitude springs forth like a spunky cheerleader.  I sure admire friends who seem to offer it naturally AND authentically.  Man, they can change the world!!

For me, gratitude requires intentionality and tons of practice.  I have to literally force myself to STOP and formulate a ‘thank you’.  Otherwise the day flies by with barely more than a passing thought about the good, good gifts in my midst.

Perhaps that’s why I’m voting we expand the month of thanks-giving to other parts of the year, because, selfishly, I need an entire year to truly get the hang of it.

Plus, authentic gratitude leads to joy. Which then opens our eyes to clearer judgement for new rhythms.  And, new rhythms allow us the bandwidth to be present.

Dear ones, we have the potential to replace our *poof* years with the gift of presence!!!

Imagine being the generations who lead the younger ones to engage each other with eyes wide open.

I’ve recently been disappointed by some ‘no’s’ but, as Janel Thomas modeled in last week’s post (No and Yes) I’m forcing my heart to remember, and say thank you for, a few of God’s ‘yes’s’.

Father, thank you for understanding my disappointments and gently reminding me of a few victories.  Thank you for teaching me about trust.

 

Comment with your own ‘thank you’ statement.  Let’s practice gratitude together.

-Laura

less than perfect gifts

December 7, 2016 /

Kids have an uncanny knack for expressing on the outside what adults are thinking on the inside.  Take, for example, the long lines that plague us every December; kids will express the misery that adults try their hardest to suppress.

Carry this concept into gift-giving.

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Until adults teach them how to hide it, kids will communicate their dislike for those less-than-perfect gifts. [Is this it?!] Even when children don’t say it, you can read the disappointment on their faces.

I’m guilty of this.  Only mine is worse. While a child might express disappointment over not receiving a coveted toy, my disappointment runs deeper and wider.  And mine is directed towards the ultimate gift-giver: God.

I’ve caught myself more than once looking bold-faced at a gift and thinking ‘is this it?!’ Sure, I’ve been careful not to show it on the outside, but the disappointment might as well be painted across my face and heart.

This is embarrassing to admit.  I wish I was the kind of person from whom joy and gratitude flow easily.  But I’m just not; my joy and gratitude typically only flow from intentional practice.

Therefore, even after admitting my roots of discontentment I’ve struggled to replace them with perspective and gratitude.

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Each attempt to choose joy seems to fall short.

This weekend we sang my favorite Christmas carol – O Holy Night.  I thought I knew every word… until these ones pierced my heart:

He knows our need

To our weakness, is no stranger

Man.

I’ve been asking the wrong question.  It’s time to practice some new ones…

“What do you want me to learn?”

“What are the needs I haven’t acknowledged?”

“Which weaknesses are holding me back?”

It’s time to remember the hands of the gift-giver.  His scars demonstrate his unending love; their works, a breathtaking mystery.  Growth.  Sustenance.  Restoration.  Intimacy.  Depth.

It’s time to press in to his tender refinement.  Father, I believe, help me in my unbelief.

Laura

empty chair

October 26, 2016 /

Most homes will have an empty chair this holiday season – a seat that should have been filled by a loved one who, through death or life’s painful complications, is no longer around.

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We see you.

You are not alone.

We will each courageously engage the holidays – listen to carols, attend events.  Smile.  Laugh.

But, in the still, cold quiet of winter nights the memories will haunt you.  The ‘what if’s’ will tempt you.  Your mistakes, their mistakes, will taunt you with regret.

You are not alone.

Even in that.

Can we make a pact?

Let us agree that our smiles can reflect the beauty of this season while our eyes understand its complications.  No judgement.  Honesty does not make you a scrooge.  We don’t have to pretend to be happy all the time.  Rather, your willingness to engage with the hard parts will make the happy parts that much sweeter.

Let us hold hope for each other.  Lost years CAN be redeemed.

Let us grant permission to engage with the holidays differently.  To find the aspects and events that fit.  No guilt.  It’s okay to decline an invitation or cancel something last-minute.  We understand.  Grief doesn’t follow a calendar.

Let us practice acknowledgement of a God who gets us.  Who understands the complications we face.  Who joins us in celebrating life’s sweet parts and grieving its painful parts.

After all, Jesus expressed ALL the emotions.  He experienced relationship loss, challenging family dynamics, betrayal, separation, death of loved ones.  He knew what it was like to weep, to rage, to rejoice.

He sees you.

We’re in this together.

 

Laura

I’d love to hear about your empty chair.  Comment here or reach me through  www.LauraFrederickMFT.com

just add water

September 14, 2016 /

My free fall summer of job change and adoption has pushed the concept of water through my heart like the draining of a million gallon tank.

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Just. Add. Water.

The tendency to crave insta-everything —instant happiness, instant depth, instant love… the notion that new relationships bring immediate satisfaction.

Wrong.  

Love takes time.  Love takes work.  Love takes intentionality.  Lasting love is slow to build.

Just. Add. Water.

God spent years stretching my heart in preparation for adoption.  Long before we met our new daughter he was equipping my family to include her.

However, change, even good change,  adds emotion and taxes energy. Consequently, each of us is functioning at capacity.  This means that emotion – joy, frustration, fear, sadness is muddled, messy, and easily brought forth.  I’ve hidden in my closet and shed tears of fear-filled weariness.  We’ve huddled and cried tears of happy-filled weariness.

It also means that I can’t expect myself to function at a typical energy capacity.  I’ve had to step away from commitments.  Responses are delayed.  I sometimes feel like a flake.  Friends and extended family go overlooked.   Thankfully they love me through it.

Grace.  Constant grace.  I’m normal.  And that’s okay.  At least that’s the healing water they keep offering me.

Just. Add. Water.

I’m vulnerable in this state of openness.  The ‘what if’s’ haunt me.  They wash over my heart in tsunami-size waves of fear.

We moved in May (have I mentioned that?).  Every wall is bare.  Except for one thing, hanging in the staircase I climb a hundred times each day.  I need it as a reminder of the verse God gave me when our hearts were broken in care for a little one.  Here’s my paraphrase of its message:

The stakes are high when I move deeper into battle.  I’m vulnerable and exposed.  Pain is imminent, death is possible. BUT, I know (and will continue to preach this truth to myself) that YOU are the shield around me.  When I cling to the edge of sanity I cling to you.  My overflow of messiness, failures, and victories, I give it all to you.  Because you can handle it.  Because you love me in it.  You will never leave me.  You will never ask me to pull it together or clean myself up.  You are enough.  In you, I am enough.

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Just. Add. Water.

Christ declared himself the Living Water.

Look, I have a strong marriage, close family, solid friendships, and a supportive community.  I know who I am and what I can contribute to this planet.  I’ve spent years practicing therapy, I’ve received therapy, and I have an expansive mental health toolkit.  I’m good at self-care and self-talk.

At the end of the day, the only water that has ever fully quenched my deepest soul-level needs is Christ.  Plain and simple.

The challenges won’t disappear.  After all, the bravest living invites pain and fear.

I am convinced that only in Him can a million gallons of water flow through me and not crush me.

 

Laura

 

 

 

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