In the meantime…

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When I looked at the date of the last proper post to this blog and found that it was in February, I asked “What took me so long?”

What am I looking for?

What am I waiting for?

I think I was waiting for the big moments, the things I wanted to declare off the rooftops to show that the path is becoming clear and God is working great things in my life…

Until I remember that those great moments usually show up when I have missed the little things. When I look over the pasts weeks and see that there have been wonderful little things that have happened. Wonderful slices that happiness that filled me up little by little…

That wonderful hug Moe gave me on Mother’s day.
That surprise that Bill gave me on Valentine’s day.
The feeling of warmth and fellowship I feel every time I walk into either the Garbacz’s or the Jerkin’s homes.
How easy it feels to surrender all when I am at the Hill.
Meg and Justin’s texts during the week.
Laying in the back of my car in prayer.
Getting to the point where I can admit that I cannot trust God right now (that is a very good thing as I can’t trust Him until I admit that I can’t)
Being able to get all the pain and anger out, bit by bit…

I know that there is going to be a great work that will come through me…. And I know and God knows where I came from…

The challenge right now is enjoying the meantime, the journey. I want to get there so badly that I can taste it. But I am starting to understand that I can’t get there without the lessons, good and bad, along the way.

So here’s to in the meantime. And I promise that I will share the little things weekly. And a girl is only as good as her word, isn’t she?

38 [reload]

by chrishaun | Leave a comment

this is a repost of my annual birthday post. I forgot that I hadn’t put it up here…. better late than never…

 

This time around the planet was the year that Sique died, Chrishaun returned to teaching, back into writing and into the [real]Church.

It was the story of the prodigal child, who left the [cult]Church to find herself… and she did in the far corners of the earth. She found out what the real world was like. The world that the [cult]Church told her was ‘worldly’ and would ‘spoil useful habits’ and built a life, family, and career that pleased her in so many ways.

But she also found out that she was in love… not with the red haired, brown eyed boy who saved her life even though she couldn’t save his (she would go on to try to build others in his image, but that is another story)… but with God. She remembered what it felt like to have full trust in him, to love her God boldly, and to live fearlessly for his name sake.

Unlike the lad in the bible story who ran out of money and wanted to eat the pig’s food, this prodigal child did not go back because she was in the dumps… she went back because she had survived slander, betrayal and isolation; the poison that made her stronger, wiser, and was loved more than she had been in many, many years.  And she wanted to share that feeling with someone….

…someone that had truly known how far she has come and the pain she had to go through to get there. So she prayed.

And she heard the call.

And she ran as far away as she could. And broke her nose in the process.

So upset and with a Hello Kitty bandage on her nose, she went to search for Him again and found that the path was lit with the bright lights and the loud music that was Celebration. There she reconnected with Him and found that He still loved her too. He mightily showed that He heard her prays for vindication and answered. She rededicated herself to Him and He held a feast for her…

in a place called Immanuel.

In this place she found others like her, others that wanted a truthful and transparent way of living. And she was fed and found for the first time followers of Christ just like her. And she was happy.

During this time she was guided to others whose kindness, long suffering, and patience put her to shame, but gave her a model with which to shape herself.

She found geeks that was full in their geekdom and in Christ, something the [cult]Church told her was impossible.

The feast time was glorious, and when the time came to part ways, she witnessed a group that humbly walked in the direction that the Spirit was leading them. It could have easily dissolved into defiance and bitterness. There could have been foot-stamping and shaking fists. What there was instead were tears…

(for every change is difficult)

And statements of uncertainty…  

(for very few like the unknown, especially when there is everything to lose)

And solid faith and conviction. There was a fog thick with questions and precious few answers, but arm in arm they moved ahead and wished her well as she went her own way.

To the Hill.

Not the one in Georgetown (snicker), but a small community church that felt like Immanuel and had video…

(she … likes video…)

A community within her community, she waits for the next step…

And through all of this she saw new life in her old Tribe, and through her connection to the [real]Church, found more and more reasons to be thankful that they gave her the honor of calling her friend.

But…

Something else happened.

She saw him again. Which was impossible, because she saw him die. She saw her red head boy, the one who loved her even though she was broken all those years ago. She saw the one that taught her that there was a love that was separate from sex, marriage, and games. It was the love born of kindness, truth, mercy, and forgiveness.

The man she actually saw was a stranger, but the memories were real and she realized how much she missed him and how she had over the years tried to find that same love again. She had angered and got angry at more than one man because they were not him.

But it made sense… to her, he was a god[small g]. A benchmark that could not be reached because the girl she was all those years ago has become a woman and the things that she needed then

(to be loved, to be whole, to know the happiness of kinship)

she already had. Seeing him told her that it was time to return to her True Love and that it was time for her to say good bye to him forever.

She saw that and she fought and she cried but she finally…. finally did.

And as hard as that was, what came next was worse and better.

Sitting with her friends, she turned and saw her.

And everything in her wanted to weep.

She was scolded and told to keep it together, and she couldn’t form the words that explained what she saw and what that meant.

That while she and her friends were talking about signs and omens, an omen sat right beside her.

Her Grande. The eternal sign of strength and boldness. The place where she drew her strength when all went cold and dark was there to say her goodbyes and to tell her that the days of using her crutches were over. That the days of drawing her strength from dead gods[small g’s] were over. The days of hiding behind masks and leaning on crutches were over.

Actually, the one mask and the one crutch.

“Sique”

“Sique is this… Sique is that… Sique just may well, you know how she is…” Yeah, Sique is a lot of things… and she was engineered that way.

To take the punches, to show a brave and cocky face, to be the eternal fairy godmother and the walking utility belt. Tough, bold, strong, bat shit crazy, and smart, she was everything I needed to face the world day after day.

And when Sique saw Grande, she does what Sique does.

She went for a smoke, but she never came back.

Chrishaun sat down at that chair and when I looked over and saw that woman who I swore a moment ago was my grandmother, I did what I do in situations like that.

Cry.

Or tried to. Tracye looked over and started immediately:

“don’t do it…don’t you do it…. I know that melancholy look….”

Good God, if only.

That wasn’t melancholy, that was fear…

Because the big, Bad SCAARY world is, well big, bad, scary. And that cock sure, brassy and sassy gal has given way to goofy, awkward, and quiet woman. I tried to fight, to keep the Sique persona going and found it heavy and uninteresting.

Yeah, I said it…

So… I said that to say this….

My name is Chrishaun and I don’t have a clue…and I’m okay with that.

God with us, Part 2: Needing what I found…

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So… Immanuel…. Yes….

If there was a polar opposite to Celebration, this is it.

Small, casual, home-based.

No glitz… no glam. No sermon series, no twitter feeds [yet]. 

Elegant in its simplicity and modesty.

Immanuel is, in essence, a room of imperfect people talking about their struggle as they with Christ. Compared with megachurches, this would be considered a small group.

Small. Small and profound. Small and absolutely frightening. Small and challenging. Small and healing.

I went and participated. I found myself pulling over on the way home and bawling on the side of the road.

I had found my place. I had found my home.

For the first time ever-hear me, ev-ah- I was worshipping with people who were exactly like me.

There is no way to just sit back and be passive. The group is too small. You know everyone there. You talk during the meal, you meditate during the scripture, and you open your soul so wide during discussion that folk can see the meal moving through your intestines.

There is no way to pretend to be to righteous there. Piety rings false there. Truth is honored and weakness is respected. Tears are common and soothing.

What… took me so long finding this? The only thing I can guess was that I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t ready yet for the emotions to come to the surface, let alone come out of my mouth.

But there was also the fear of losing this beautiful blessing that I have in Immanuel. But the fear of loss has surrounded me ever since I have seriously thought about settling down and building a solid, rooted life here in Austin.

I have the fear that if you really knew who I was, you would not really want to be around me. I fear that the darkness and the evil I have seen and have experienced in my life is too much for people to take. I fear that my need to have truth and to live truthfully will scare those who shield themselves with the lies that they use to carefully build their world. I fear that being a comfort to those who have seen their own flavor of evil will pull me back into my personal abyss.

But with all of that being said and no matter what else is said, there is a truth that I cannot deny.

I. Belong. Here.

And that pleases me.

God with us, Part 1: Finding what I needed…

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I have to say with no small amount of joy that I love going to Celebration Church. There is a wonderful worship team, I can have Starbucks coffee in sanctuary [because caffeine always enhances the ‘God Buzz’] and the sermons are thought provoking and offered with humor, charm, and the deepest sincerity.

The pastors are accessible.  Everyone that I met has been kind; some in their own way, others completely. The small groups are warm and inviting. This is a place where Beyonce will play as the intro to the sermon series, Keri Jobe will lead the worship on Wed. night and John Maxwell [you know… bestselling author, the 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership  bloke?… yeah, that one] even stood in for our Senior Pastor.

And…

if you are there at the right time…

one of the pastors will play ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ on the piano and get everyone in earshot to sing along. 

Not naming names, but it was awesome!

It is slick, bold, brassy, Christ filled, loving, and sassy.

And just too big for me.

The funny thing is I thought that that was just what I needed. I wanted the megachurch experience that made me feel tiny, filled and surrounded with the glory of Christ and allowed much room for fellowship with the Holy Spirit. And it does. I would walk in and take some time to soak in that I have been invited yet again into the house of God and I really love being there.  I would hug and catch up a bit, then Hillsong would blare, letting us know it was time for worship.

During worship, I close my eyes and listen and sing along to the words and, if I am moved, I will raise my hands in praise [not too high, I haven’t gotten to the “shoot your hands straight above your head, waving and pumping for the Lord” level yet] and allow the peace of God flow. I go up and pray when there is special need, otherwise I pray at my chair and in that moment I feel that I can let everything go. No one sees me because there are so many and I don’t feel like a fool because everyone there is there for the same thing.  

I feel safe, I feel insulated, and sadly, I feel unchallenged.

I want…[need?] something deeper.  Something that will allow me to expose my core as a sinner, allow me to confess my sins in an environment that is healing, but not packaged to appeal to the masses. A place where I can openly confess that I fuck up on the regular, that this path is hard as shit, and there is no place I would rather be.

And I found it. Quite accidently, hiding in plain sight all the time…

A place called Immanuel.

Processing the Path: Baptism

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I am sitting with Wiley [*waves], eating cheese and talking about the  December 12th. The day I get baptized.

“I thought that it would be a longer process,” she says as she puts another bite of the Barely Buzzed into her mouth and reaches for a bite of the Moses Stellar.

“So did I,” I agreed as I eye her peppermint bark. I feel a small pang of guilt, but I reach for the bark anyway. I break off a piece and take a bite. The guilt pang hits me again. It wasn’t about the bark. I look over at Wiley.

“Yeah… I thought I would move slower.” That was the truth. The pang lessoned a little but it was still there.

I thought that the path back to the Church would be a slow, methodical, study-based trek to righteousness. What it turned out being was a long-awaited reunion. We met again and found that we loved each other as much as we did in the beginning and now want to live the rest of our lives together.

Aren’t you going too fast?

Yes… and no. 

No, in that my relationship with God started when I was 9 years old and has lasted for some 26 years. While I have not been to church in a decade, I have a solid foundation in the Bible and I have worked to live by it and teach my children to do the same. I have tried to live a life of service, which the only thing that ever truly made me happy, and I have shared what has worked in my life, based on the Scriptures.

But then there’s that pang of guilt, the ‘yes’ answer.

This goes back to the adage that you never forget your programming.

I was taught that to truly be baptized, you had to earn the privilege. You had to study (in my case, over a year and a half covering two complete books). You had to prove that you were faithful by being at every meeting and being in the Theocratic Ministry School and giving a ‘talk’ once a month.  Show your righteousness by being out in field service (you know, when we knock on your door on Sat. morning? …. Yeah…) at least 10 hours a month.

Then, and only then, you could be qualified for baptism. So an hour class with Scriptural consideration leaves me feeling empty. It makes me feel as if I should know more about my new chosen path. That I should have gone to the services for a few more months.

But it also makes me feel as if anything is possible.

Processing the Path, part 1: blah, blah , past, blah….

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I thought that for the weeks following the fiasco at Mardel’s,  I would talk about all the little signs and notes that have told me that I am on the right path.

I thought I would talk about the moment I heard the call, when I had Isaiah 30:20-21 tattooed on my arm and finding that three months later, the first sermon proper I went to was about that scripture, which marked the path and a lesson.

The subsequent sermons that have been summed up thusly… turn around… pray… forgive… and wait for your external assignment. In the meantime, pray… study… be humble… lose the ego… and serve, Serve, SERVE. This is your internal assignment.

I thought that I was going to talk about this. But those words wouldn’t come out.

I want to talk and perhaps process what is scaring me about this entire process. I think that taking a bit of time and meditating on where I have been might deepen my appreciation and clarify where I am going.

So let me open like this: I have always believed in God (but so does Satan, so that’s not saying much…LOL [James 2:19]). I always believed in the power of the ransom sacrifice, deliverance through this sacrifice, and that he heard those called to him through Christ. And for years I thought that he heard me.

No… that’s not right. Well, that’s right but it’s not the complete truth. I was in love with God. I loved the fact that there was a mind that had the humor and sense of beauty to create the dark night sky full of stars, snapdragons, and the mountains and green you see on road trips. I loved the fact that he had created my mind that I used to write, which was and still is one of the things I love to do. I loved that there are flavors that could be tasted, changed to taste a totally different way and that there were so many of them. I love that he gave humans the mind to create Nutella and bacon.

But then I lost that in the haze of disappointment at the things that I saw that I thought that God should have corrected. I was seen and treated like a second class citizen based solely on my sex. I saw the emotional abuse of women by the very men that were chosen to lead us. I saw women do anything, including fight and neglect their children, to ensure that would get attract that man in religious power, only to find out that that man’s eye’s, hands, and other things were on their young daughters.

And sadly I saw myself do the same thing. I felt the desperation and believed the leaders when they told me that the only reason that my children were so well behave because of God because I had nothing to do with it.

I started to believe that if these men were the men that God would choose to lead and represent him, then what they saw and what they said was what God saw and said.  God would not take these away, teach them a lesson and I watched as they hurt people. So I thought that this was what Church was about, and in some ways what God was about.

So I left the Church to find myself… with or without him. I would learn that I couldn’t…

The Bible Chronicles, Part 1… or “NIV is a translation – N.I.B., not so much.”

by chrishaun | 2 Comments

To prepare for my first visit to Church, I had decided that it would be a great idea to have a bible. In my former religious life [that’s a blog for another time], it was probably better if you forgot to wear pants rather than leave your bible at the house. And being sufficiently brainwashed, I obediently tried to purchase a bible. That and I like wearing pants.

My first mistake was walking into a Christian Bookstore uninitiated. The benign and churchy posters and ads, with pictures of families looking all loving and content and huge book covers with very smiley authors on them did not warn me about what  I would later find out it was.

A big box store for the Lord.

It was sooo big. Hear me- I had never, eeeeever, been in the presence of so much religious merchandise in my life. My eyes scanned the room and I tell you friends, the Lord was everywhere and churchiness abounded. There were mugs, house wares, music, movies (did y’all know that Kirk Cameron found the Lord? I know Captain Stubing did, but Mike Seaver?!!? ) toys, clothing, and other … other … shit. My mouth dropped open from all the sheer number of the stuff.

“Welcome! Can I help you?” a voice comes out of nowhere. I yelp and turn around to find a girl with a very sweet spirit and not much else going for her facing me with a smile that bigger than the circumstances called for. I take a step back, which as I will find out the next day, will be a habit that I will develop quickly.

“Can I help you find something?”  Her smile falters at the sight of my back step, but she recovers with a genuinely warm smile. I was scared and startled, yes, but that wasn’t meant towards her. I was caught up in shock and awe of the Lord’s licensing machine and a sudden blast of upbeat customer service wasn’t the most soothing way to snap out of it.

“I’m looking for a bible. I’m going back to church for the first time in about a dozen years”

Her eyes widen and brighten. This must be her area of expertise; I bet she knows this store like the back of hand and she can get me through the Christ tchotchkes to the Holy Grail of my quest.  

I have found my churchy sherpa, I can breathe easier.

“Oh, that is so wonderful!“  Sherpa Sister Sweet Soul says, “What translation?”

I stop short. In my time in religion, for all intents and purposes, there was only one translation- the New World Translation. It was the one you received when you said that you wanted a Bible. You had no access to any other and were discouraged from consulting another. And I had never stopped to think that I may have wanted to research the different types of translations available.

And that was my second mistake.

So now I have at least 42 choices and grossly way out of my comfort zone. I ask the next logical question, not really wanting to know the answer.

“How many are there?” I brace myself.

“About 42 that I know of..”

“Then 42 truly is the answer life the universe and everything!” I said. Her smile faded from joy to simple politeness, “That would be Jesus”.

Well… that joke went flat. And I can feel my eyes starting to burn.

She showed me the Bible section and I started to hold back tears.

I want to stop right here and tell you about how much I love books.

I love books. The way that most people decide that they want to live the rest of their lives with you is the way I love books. I own nearly 3000 [yes, with 3 ‘0’s’] books and sitting around and amongst them gives me pure joy.

Happiness  joy. Chocolate joy. Joy from the stuff you thought I was going to say-joy!

But not this time. I saw all of those bibles- maybe a few hundred at most- I felt horror… I felt lost… and I cried.

I felt like fool, and wanted to leave, but needed a bible, so I just turned to Sherpa Sister Sweet Spirit and said “Why don’t I just get a basic sized N.I.B. translation?”

The sweet smile twisted to a scowl as an overly tweezed eyebrow arched into her hairline. Then a laugh busted out from behind us making us both jump.

The guy behind us takes a deep breath and tries to not to snicker too hard. This is neither helping my nerves or my cool.

Guy Behind us walks up, still snickering, places a meaty hand on my shoulder,

“NIV is the Bible translation, NIB, not so much….” And walks away.

Black Sabbath N.I.B.

Sister Sweet Spirit looks at me confused.  I shake my head and walk away…

Within four steps I am crying my eyes out and sobbing by the time I get to my car. I take a few moments to yell at God for having a laugh at my expense and boost a signal to those who love me.

And they didn’t fail me.

Tracye let me finish crying in her garage and Lisa, Ryan, Christian and Nathan sent warm wishes that were balm for the soul.

Jack, Lisa, Alonda, GiGi and Missy all provided me with Bibles and study guides, which helped me find a deeper comfort.

And as the weeks have gone by, I have found that as I miss my old tribe and the path I had walked here, that a bit of faith has found me a new one. It’s still new and a bit wobbly, but first steps often are….

I gotta tell somebody…

by chrishaun | 2 Comments

This is the first blog I have done in about two years. I wanted to do this because what is happening will mark the great change of my thirties.

The return to the Church.

Not that I wanted to return. I was pretty damned happy with my life. There were no tragedies. No great crisis. Nothing.

Just a call. One that I tried to ignore, but wouldn’t let up. So I answered the call…

And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

But I want to talk about the things that you never think about when you go to church, or the things that people feel would make them seem less Christian. Like being weirded out by the Stepford smiles of the pastor, trying to defend your choice to one daughter while teaching discernment to another or the number of translations of the Bible it takes to make a bad-ass have a emotional meltdown and cry in a Christian bookstore (roughly 42).

And the search for the right level of ‘churchiness’… and a Hello Kitty bible cover.

I’m worried about fucking this up frankly, but I remember that He called me and I know for damned sure that He knew what he was calling….

Or at least that is my hope.

So here we go.

The Path and the Call. Welcome.