I struggle sometimes with the old testament, specifically as it relates to women. I mean, the Hebrew law treats women as property….because they were. I think Bathseba gets a bad wrap as a vixen. I was taught in Sunday school that she was probably trying to get David’s attention. Recently, I learned that Bathseba was probably doing her ritual cleansing and my mind was blown. Then an opportunity to write fiction for my friend Jamie’s blog. So here is me, trying to work through it all.

From A Broken Line

I need to explain some things to
you. About the way things happened, about the choices I made and the ones that
were made for me. I need to explain about the boxes I’ve been put in and the
pieces of my story that don’t fit on a felt board. It isn’t as simple as all
that.

You can read the rest here.

I was more nervous than I thought I would be when I walked into the shop. I have been thinking about this tattoo for twelve years and talking about it for the last two. Leave it to 18-year-old Abby to decide to wait till 30 to get her first tattoo.

I sat down on the table and Danielle got four lines in when I sat up. “Hang on, I think I am going to puke.” I’ve puked for every major transition in my life, both babies, my wedding, and now my thirtieth birthday. It was fitting in a way.

But I didn’t just puke. I had been having some stomach issues the entire weekend. When I puke, I lose total control. Like, total bodily control. You can probably guess whats coming. On my thirtieth birthday, in front of my husband, two very close friends and a tattoo artist (I guess now my tattoo artist), I hit a milestone no one ever wants to hit. I crapped my pants in public.  I pooped while I puked while I puked in a garbage can.

I suppose that could have meant I was out. I could have walked away with four lines on my foot and a promise to come back later. I don’t know that anyone would have blamed me. I mean, I crapped my pants in public. Instead I went into the bathroom and took off my leggings. I rinsed out my underwear and put them back on. No one cared. Everyone knew and no one cared. It wasn’t even that they pretended I didn’t, it was just that no one cared.

I feel like this is the lesson I have been learning forever. I feel like it is one that perhaps I finally learned on that table. No one cares about my messes as much as I do. People love me in the mess, but I have to let them. I have to deal with the mess, I have to move past it, but people still want to be there.

People can handle me, all of me. I just need to let them.

About a week ago, I responded to someone on Facebook: Sometimes Holy Ground make you shit your pants. Step on it anyway. God is so hilarious sometimes. In the next thirty years I hope he uses less of my words against me.

I don’t know how to explain everything that happened in my heart, as this image was carved onto my foot. But I feel like a lot of the lies that I’ve been grappling with finally died.

It hurt more than I thought it would. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would. But I did it, and if pushed could do it again (Although I have no plans of ever doing that again.) I sometimes tell myself I can’t do things because they are hard things. It is a lie I have been hanging on to despite the truth of my life, of my career, of my parenting, my book and now of the tattoo on my foot.

Abby does hard things. When things get hard she stays, she finishes.

I like to have a lot of people around me when I am doing the hard things, the things that hurt, the things I feel called to. I always thought this was because I am not as strong as the lone wolf. That lie died with the photos my friend Jennifer sent me. Two close friends, my sister, my husband, a story sessions representative and her husband. All of these people I love, all of them I want with me. It doesn’t make me weak, it is simply the way that I am built. I am a pack animal, I run in a pack. I tried to apologize to the tattoo artist. Danielle smiled back at me, “I’m the same way.”

My pack doesn’t make me weak, it gives me strength. I don’t need to apologize for the way I am built.

One mess, two hours and fifteen minutes, a lot of hand holding, and some deep breathing later it was finished. I carry it on my left foot. An owl, sitting in a dogwood tree, the dogwood blooming both pink and white. The dogwood of my youth is grafted together. It blooms both colors and we would have our picture taken under it for prom, easter, mother’s day. But the dogwood is also a symbol of the ressurection. The story goes that the cross was made from that wood. The symbol of a faith that is wholly mine and also inherited. And owls see into the darkness. There was an owl waiting for me when I got back from walking around my neighborhood when I was in labor with Juliet. It gave me great comfort, made me sure I could be a mom.

I got this tattoo as a symbol of who I am and who I hope to be: someone who lives life like an owl in a dogwood, grounded in the ressurection, seeing into the darkness.

Very special thanks to Jennifer Upton for the beautiful pictures, Danielle of Only You Tattoo who is clearly the best tattoo artist in the world, and the rest of my pack, Tony Upton, Megan and Mindy, my sister Jill and my husband Christian for doing this with me.

It is the guaranteed conversation killer, the “get out of this moment free” card.

“This is awkward.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, it is awkward!”

“AWK-WARD!”

Well, I am over it. I am over using awkward as a way to disengage. There are a lot of things that are a little bit awkward, but they need talked about!

So today, we are going there. We are talking about periods, menstruation, bleeding. We are going there because we need to.

I don’t know a lot about period-shame. I come from a father who has three girls. According to my memories, my sister Emily started her period when my mom was out-of-town. he had to handle that. So he did. I’m sure everyone would have prefered my mom be home, but it was handled.

I was not one of those girls longing for that moment.  I had seen my sisters lying on the bathroom floor clutching a hot water bottle to their abdomens. I wanted none of that.

But it happens, doesn’t it? At your grandma’s house on the way out the door, when neither sisters nor your mother has a pad and you have to drop by the pharmacy on the way to church. Your dad doesn’t make a big deal, nor does your grandfather, because it isn’t. Because the men in your family are strong and gracious and periods don’t have to be a big deal.

This not a big deal, this isn’t everyone’s story.

It wasn’t until college that I realized what a gift this is, what a gift it is to have a dad willing to walk the feminine hygiene aisle and pick up the different brands for his different girls because that is what needs done. I was in a linguistics class when I said the word “vagina” and everyone froze. Apparently that is a show stopper, I thought it was just a body part.

I didn’t know to be embarrassed or ashamed about periods and vaginas. I didn’t know because I wasn’t taught. It was probably modeled most often by my mom, but it was my father’s reinforcement that sealed the deal. We didn’t have to be embarrassed around anyone.

My story isn’t even close to the story of the precious girls I learned about in Gulu. For these girls starting their period means more than just terrible cramps and being paranoid about white uniform pants. (Okay, in my case a pale yellow spanish-dancing costume I had to wash out in the sink. Everyone knows I had no athletic-unifrom kind of problems.) It means they can’t go to school anymore. It means dropping out because they can’t afford underwear and pads and the shame of menstruation is so deep culturally they can’t go to school for a quarter of the year and they fall too far behind.

And people don’t fundraise for this, there aren’t any major campaigns because the branding is weird. No one wants to talk about girls being on their period. That is awkward. No one wants to lead the keep-a-girl-from-bleeding-on-her-pants walk. Periods aren’t sexy. But they happen every month, and for some this has permanent consequences.

SheLoves Magazine is raising money to keep a whole schools worth of girls in school! 40 dollars a month pays for underwear and pads for the whole year. If you would like to make a donation you can read more about this effort here, here, and here. Or you can donate directly here.

I know not all of us can donate. Talk about it, tweet about it, tell a friend. Talking about these things sheds light, and shame doesn’t live in the light.

When I was turning 17 and a Junior in High school, my mom made me a deal. If I went to school the whole week, I could go to the high school dance. It was on my birthday. My fibromyalgia was not yet diagnosed and my depression was completely out of control. I had dropped half of my classes and was only taking band and math.

When I signed in at the front desk I was already shaking. I managed to walk all the way to the band room doors, pass in hand, before I could no longer control my emotions. I lost it. I walked all the way back to the counselors office, head down tears dripping onto the speckled tile. Showing up to school was harder than I thought it was going to be. Ten minutes in the counselors office and I was ready to try again. This time I made it all the way to the room, walked through the doors, and handed my note to the band director. But I couldn’t make it up the tiered floor to the back of the room. I walked right out, completely defeated.

My counselor called my mom when I returned to her office. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go to band, it was too hard. But then she said the important part, “Mrs. France I understand and respect the deal you made with your daughter, but she has shown up. She is trying as hard as she can to be here. Please let her skip math today and just go home. Please count this day as a success. She is trying”

My mom did count that day as a success. I went to Homecoming that week. I am sure I have the awkward pictures somewhere. Walking into that band room might be the bravest thing I have ever done. Showing up is hard.

I finished the latest round of edits on my book last night. I already know I’m not done yet. I got some really good feedback this morning and am anxious to jump back in already. Editing and writing are very different processes for me. I write frantically, just purging everything. Editing is slow and detailed oriented. It doesn’t play to my strong suits. I’m not good at not being good at things.

There is a big part of me that wants to tuck my manuscript in a folder and never look at it again. I wrote it, that is an accomplishment in and of itself. I kept the first messy 1500 words in a file labeled “reflections” for five years. Maybe that is where all this belongs. Some days it doesn’t even feel like I am doing anything, not really. I am just re-reading the words I have re-read for the past month or so. I am searching for had, and got, and that. I am deleting or replacing half of those. But I keep getting called back to my computer. I keep getting asked to show up.

Showing up is hard. Can we just admit that? Sometimes it takes all the brave we can muster up.

Showing up, really showing up, with my whole self, so I mean it, that is hard. Being there and with and really showing up is hard. It is hard to feel the things that make me feel, to listen to people, to try to understand. It is hard to show up because what if…

What if you show up and people don’t like you? What if you show up and you don’t fit in? What if you thought it was going to be a rodeo, and it turns out it was a black tie affair and everyone is really nice about your cowboy boots but it feels like they are laughing at you behind your back? Showing up, can be really scary. If you do it enough, you are guaranteed to be off sometimes.

But showing up is worth it. The joy on the other side is worth the brave it takes to get their.

We need you to show up. I need you to show up. I need someone to show up to the rodeo in her little black dress. And I need someone else to show me how to rock the cowboy boots at the ball. I know it is scary, and I know it takes all the brave we have some days, but I think showing up is worth it. And if you need me to, I will hold your hand and call your mom and tell her how brave you are, just for the trying,

Photo Credit: Jennifer Upton[/caption]

I was not yet sixteen when I officially heard the call. I don’t remember what the message was. I was sitting next to a boy that I was hoping thought I was cute that particular Sunday. How could I possibly listen to anything the pastor was saying? But I heard the call, the altar call. The call for those who had heard THE CALL, and I walked from one of the back pews to the front of the church, tears streaming down my face, Here I am Lord being sung by the congregation. I wasn’t just going to be a missionary, I was called to be one.

I became a high school English teacher by accident really. Being qualified to teach English makes you employable pretty much anywhere in the world. So, I majored in English education, and despite that fell in love with the profession. But I assumed I would go.

People who do big things for God, they go. He calls; they go.

I already had my house picked out in the perfect Indianapolis neighborhood, when a man we did not know stood up at the front of our college church and said that some of us were called to Atlanta. I looked at Christian and he looked at me. A week later we were telling everyone that we were called there. God called, and we went.

That is what people who do big things for God do. He called; we went.

If it weren’t for a car accident (where miraculously everyone is safe) in Tennessee, I would have been refreshing my browser like a maniac to get tickets for the IF: Gathering last Monday. The day it was announced I told everyone who might get me a present, it was all I wanted for Christmas. Just get me to Austin. God was moving, I could tell. I could hear Him in this, and I wanted in.

This is what people who do big things for God do. He was calling; I was going.

The tickets sold out in forty-two minutes while I was waiting on a rental car in LaFollette Tennessee. But my story sisters were renting a house. I could still go to Austin, I could still be in on it. People who do big things for God don’t worry about the cost of a flight.

This is what people who do big things for God do. He calls; They go.

It would be easier to go. I have shown these women in story sessions my whole heart. They still love me. I trust them. I long for the day I can see some of them face to face. A lot of them will be in Austin for the IF gathering. These ladies are my tribe. If they are all going to be somewhere, that is where I want to be.

But this time, God isn’t calling me to go. He is calling me to stay.

If I am honest with you, staying is a whole lot scarier. Instead of joining like-minded women whom I already love, I am offering to lead an IF local. I am opening up my house and inviting you (like literally you) to come sit on my coffee stained couch and watch the IF gathering stream live onto a sheet I am going to hang from the wall.

I know my politics and theology don’t always line up with yours. I know some of you are struggling with who Jesus is and how He fits into your life. I know I have big feelings about big ideas and I am a total disaster sometimes. But I want us to be sisters-in-Christ. The real kind. Not the “let me say that because I just said something totally rude but true so lets pretend it was in love” kind. I want us to do little things that are big things because God is big and God is love. I want us to sit together and weep together and learn to love each other so that we can really love our city, together, in spite and because of our differences.

Sometimes, God calls people to stay.

God called me to Atlanta. He has broken my heart for this city a million times over. Now He is calling me to stay. I don’t know what you think about women in the ministry, or how to raise your children. I don’t know how you interpret the Bible or what you think about the word feminist. I just know that God is love, and Atlanta needs some more of that. I know that God has called me to stay that weekend, and I hope you will join me.

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Registeration for IF local is currently open and pay what you can. They were serious about this thing being accessible to everybody. Sign up and then leave a comment on here or email me that you are coming. I will email everyone my adress in January. If we get too big for my house, I will let God solve that problem for us. This is His show anyway.

It is a strange thing being a High school teacher. No one tells you how often you are going to run into the memory of your 16 year old self. No one tells you that you maybe won’t like her. No one tells you that you will figure out what a huge pain in the ass you were. That is the thing about being on fire. Sometimes other people get burned.

They sit in my room on fire. They are wearing youthgroup t-shirts and missing whole weeks of school to go on mission trips to Mexico. They talk about their summer week in Uganda or Haiti. They cringe when I use the term “Jesus Myth” to explain how the hero journey relates to Jesus. They don’t like it. They don’t cringe when they say something mean to the kid without any friends, or when they say something terrible to someone on Facebook. But they cringe when I refer to Jesus as a literary hero in the same vein as Batman. They are on fire, and they want to burn down my whole lesson.

I could be mad at them. I could be, if I wasn’t them once. I cannot imagine the holy wrath I would have poured out onto a teacher who dare call my Jesus a myth. I cannot imagine the indignant tone I would have used to explain all the proof for a historical Jesus. I am sure I would have given that teacher The Case For Christ for Christmas. I am sure I would have thought I was doing the right thing. I have no idea about my reasons; they were certainly justified in my mind at the time.

I use the student restroom and see “Jesus Loves You” in permanent market on the toilet paper dispenser. Once upon a time I would have praised the Lord for the boldness of that act, done privately and secretly in a bathroom stall. I would have vandalized school property for the Glory of the Lord. Now, I pray for other bold acts to happen at my school. I have spent too many days waiting for one of those Jesus girls to invite the weird kid to be in their group. They never do. I suppose I could be mad at the Jesus girls who don’t invite the weird kid to the project group or the lunch table. But I was that Jesus girl. I never thought about the weird kid either. I was too busy being on fire for Jesus.

Being a teenager is hard. I want us to remeber that as we talk about the crazy evangelical nineties, the strange we did for and because of our fire for the Lord. Being a teenager is hard.

I did some stupid things. I made enemies of a biology teacher who had the nerve to try to teach me the state mandated evolution curriculum. I was unduly offended when my teacher very occasionally dropped a swear. I hated any sex education that wasn’t abstinence only education. I wasn’t quiet about those things. I wanted to be for things, I wanted to be against things, I wanted to be loved, I needed to feel special. I wanted to be worthy.

I wish someone would have told me what I am just learning now. I am special and loved; even when I don’t feel like it, I am worthy.   I am for God, and God is love and I don’t have to be against anything. For love is enough. I wish someone would have told me that I won’t regret the abstaining from in Jesus name. But I won’t have to define myself in the things I do and do not do or believe, that I will simply be beloved.

I see the girls who could have been me, in my own room, rolling their eyes when I accidentally drop a swear. I want to tell them so many things, about life, and love, and God. But right now, they need to be on fire. It makes them feel safe. They need to be for things, against things.

I just pray that no one gets burned.

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This is part of Addie Zierman’s synchroblog for When We Were On Fire which I got to read early and cannot reccomend highly enough. You can buy it today here. Keep your eyes open on my blog, I am giving a copy away to celebrate my birthday at the end of the month.

I look at the color on the key board when I type. When I needed to be someone totally different, look at my words from a different point of view, I painted them tan. I needed to feel like they were new hands somehow. I needed to feel like the end of the self-edits was new.

One of my students noticed the nails. She scrunched her face and told me she would tell me tomorrow if she liked them. This is the same student who told me, that she wanted me to be the fashion club sponsor, but it was totally okay that I wasn’t fashionable… Teaching teens is often a little rough on your ego.

This time, she didn’t accidentally insult me. She told me the tan was fine for my skin, but it didn’t suit my personality. I needed something bolder. She said I am never understated. So she brought me in gun-metal. It is chipping off as we speak, and I don’t even care.

I need the gun-metal nails today, this week. My book is completely self-edited and I just sent out every chapter to a different somebody I respect and they are reading, and commenting, and editing.

Everyone told me that the book writing process was going to be hard, that it would take a lot out of me. But no one told me about the sharing, the critiquing, the editing. I told someone I think I would rather have sent off sixteen naked pictures of myself. Giving birth. (Don’t worry internet those don’t actually exist.) That is how vulnerable I feel.

So, I am sporting the gun-metal nail polish. I need to be reminded that I am a bad-ass. I need to see the proof of it on my fingers. Sometimes, you have to wear the costume, to feel like the super-hero you are.

I rolled my eyes as he approached. What else was there to do but let him approach? People putting gas in their car are pretty much stuck, they need the liquid pouring into their car, so they have no choice but to listen to your plea.

Photo Credit: Jennifer Upton

I was especially stuck that day. I was at the last gas station readily available to me before the long stretch of high way between my house and my school. After running out of gas on three separate occasions last semester, I had hoped to maintain this semester’s clean record. I was running a little late, but not as late as I would have been had I run out of gas.

Unsurprisingly, the man wanted money. He was hard up and on his way to an odd job. He swore it was true. I tried not to roll my eyes. I thought of the time we handed fifty dollars and our address to a man who swore he was going to pay us back, used a church we recognized as a reference. I thought of the time we offered the man claiming hunger an extra sandwich, and how he kept insisting on a dollar. This supposedly hungry man was not interested in a sandwich. I thought of the woman I stopped on the side of the road supposedly out of gas, how she refused to go to a gas station with me. She only wanted to go to an ATM. Of course he wanted money. Of course I rolled my eyes.

But it was impossible not to feel the check deep in my gut. Give that man your money. Give him the ten. I never have cash in my wallet, not at the end of the week when all tolls have been paid. How did God know I had ten dollars? How did he know I had a ten? I wasn’t even sure. Of course omniscient was a vocabulary word that week. Of course it was.

As I handed him the ten-dollar bill, the man caught my eye. Hebrews 13:2 he told me. Look it up. I finished pumping my gas and  got into my car. Mostly, I was still sure that ten dollars was headed straight to the man’s next trip. But curiosity got the better of me. It almost always does, and my Kindle was in my purse, just waiting for me to flip through it.

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.

Entertaining angels, I rolled my eyes again. Good trick drug addict, you got another sucker. But there was a piece of me, probably the part that still gets the Newsboys song referencing the same verse stuck in my head, that wanted to believe it. Maybe I did just entertain an angel.

I don’t know if I am fool, or a cynic, or a girl who hears bizarre things from the Holy Spirit. I am probably all of those. But this is what I do know. When I left the gas station, there was a man filling up his car in my rearview mirror. Perhaps, perhaps I am just a girl who entertained an angel without even knowing.