I Have Been Holding Back

part-confession and part-treatise on why I write

Photo by Taylor Smith on Unsplash

When Ben and I were dating, I almost called the whole thing off because he had no desire to become a pastor. Even back then, my soul cared deeply for the church, but my sight was rather limited. (The way I thought that longing would play itself out was rather simple: Marry a pastor. Work alongside him.) But I was dating a guy going into the music business, a detail that gave me pause.

In those days of questioning, my dad gave some really sage advice: “Marry the man, not the profession.” And, good glory, am I glad I listened. I love being married to Ben Westfall.

But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the longstanding (against many odds) love I hold for the church and have realized that while my mind lacked imagination for what it looked like for a woman to serve, that the very same fire has been simmering all along. I thought the burning meant I would marry a pastor, but that flame wasn’t something for me to fan in someone else but within me.

Call it a calling. Call it passion. I don’t know if there’s a specific word to wrap around these things. All I know is that this deep love of God and hope for his church will not let me go.

Living Half a Life

One thing has become apparent as I do the good but grinding work of book-writing is that I have not approached my online writing with the same level of courage. I have cared too much about numbers that bend and flex by the week to write out of the truest parts of who I am, the parts that (I think) best reflect the image of the Father. (Or, at least, point in his direction.)

I realize how easily I retain pieces of myself, not knowing how they will be received. Instead of letting my pen flow freely, I glance into the stands like a child looking for the approval of her mother. That need for affirmation helps no one, and my writing has suffered for it. My personhood has suffered for it when I live only half a life. (And if you have suffered for it, I apologize. Truly.)

Granted, sometimes I hold back because certain stories are sacred (between me and God) or shared (not fully mine) so I keep them close. There’s a difference between authenticity and transparency (we can be ourselves without revealing all of ourselves, and that is good). I can also be quiet because I do not want to pretend to be an expert in all things (or anything, really, for that matter). I have certain degrees and experiences that guide me, but there’s so much nuance in the world that to stick a pin in anything other than God and declare “THIS!!!” seems a recipe for arrogance.

But there are also things I believe, thoughts and ideas that have been developed in this life lived with God and the light and shadows that have formed me. While I want to be a place of welcome, I realize now I need the courage to let that flow from the fullness of who I am, which is deeply embedded in the person of God, the hope of his church, and my place in the fabric of all people. I cannot ask others to be human with me if I am not willing to be equally human.

So, this is my confession: I have been writing with only half a heart—not inauthentic, but also not fully true.

Things That Burn

In his book Letters from the Mountain, Ben Palpant writes about the concept of generativity—to live with a hand so open that it compels the humanity of others to give rise to the divine inside them. I love the way Palpant writes about how he has seen generativity play out in ordinary life:

“I glance across the pews and see my friends—beloved children of God—emanating hope, redemption, insight, and transcendence. They pray when I’m unable, listen when I’m distracted, sing in my stead. They inspire a God-hunger in me, compelling me to do something meaningful with my life.”

This image of generativity is not a flame that is wild and raging, but rather a campfire¹. Warm. Inviting. Yet also, contained. It burns without burning things down. I believe this is what it looks like to live a life formed by God, where our “God-hunger” becomes an offering. It is how, in a world of rupture, that we hold hope in a God of repair.

This concept continues to shift the way I live and write, as I learn to stoke the fire without burning the whole stinking thing down.

A Treatise, Of Sorts

For those of you who have been here for a while, I don’t know if you’ll notice a crazy change in my writing. Maybe. Maybe not. (Feel free to let me know.) But here are some things I hope are true of what you find here.

My default will always be story. In the words of Leonard Sweet, “every person is a story wrapped in skin,”² and I hold fast to the idea that narrative is the language written in our DNA as well as our best chance to see the world outside our two eyes. Story has the power to connect us in ways that other rhetoric or rationale fall short (sometimes that’s good, and other times, as Jonathan Gottschall points out in The Story Paradox³, that power can be wielded for evil). There’s both a necessity and a gravity to story, and it's where I tend to lean even if it doesn't provide neat and tidy answers (which, for the record, I do not think is a bad place to be).

I recognize I will be too Jesus-y for some and too woo-woo for others. I guess that’s what you get when you were raised within evangelicalism, but have a contemplative soul. But I love the person and the friendship of Jesus. God is a presence I have both known my whole life and daily discover fresh and new like tulips that have begun to peek out of the earth. I cannot help but write about such things.

Yes, my mind is often camped out in thoughts about God and how he is making himself known in the world, but I make no claims to be a theologian or social scientist in the certified, get-your-degree kind of way. While I carry an BS in English Ed and MA in Student Development (as well as a grab bag of jobs from publishing to residence life to teaching), I am first and foremost a woman and a writer with an ever-growing love for God and for people, and I no longer want to minimize that flame.

Kind-of Conclusion

This seems more like a beginning than an end—an open door rather than a sign I plant on my front lawn.

But I write all these things for clarity (both for the people who land here and for me) as well as a prayer for courage, because I have no desire to strain my neck looking into the stands for the moving target of affirmation. I just want to be faithful, to the Creator who invites us deeper into his love, to writing the truest words I can, and to a generative life that holds nothing back.

And I hope that, by welcoming myself, you too will pull up a chair.

Photo by Timon Wanner on Unsplash

1. The campfire analogy came from my friend Cynthia Wallace, an artist whose work embodies what it means to welcome with warmth.

2. This quote is in Leonard Sweet’s book From Tablet to Table: Where Community is Found and Identity is Formed (NavPress, 2019).

3. Full disclosure: I read only the first third of Jonathan Gottschall’s The Story Paradox, and while I think he makes a good case for the way stories have influenced people in both helpful and harmful ways (backed up with a bunch of research), the book does tend to have a cynical tone, and in light of all the reading I need to do in this season, I put it down.