Unburying Myself
Unburying Myself
and Stretching the Borders of Life
I'm staring out of a massive window into the woods while writing at a table that isn't mine. At least once a year, my family and I retreat into the mountains, and this time around, we're sitting at 10,331 feet in the sky in Fairplay, Colorado.1
We went for a hike this morning — following trail markers around bends, up hills, and through aspen groves. True to form, losing track of our route would have been difficult. Each diamond-shaped marker nailed to seemingly every other tree blared blue synchronously with pine greens and bark browns. "Follow us!" they proclaim, "This is the only way." As it was, I thought — there certainly are other ways.
Have you ever felt the longing to step into the unknown — to venture where you're sure it isn't all that unfamiliar? It can feel terrifying to consider stretching yourself beyond the boundaries of where others tell you you're supposed to be or where it's acceptable or even permitted for you to go.
For most of my life, all I've ever done is stick to the trail. I've obeyed its coming and going all because it's felt safer where the path has already been beaten down. And, my friend, I've needed to feel safe. I've needed to know where I'm going in order to preserve my soul. It was an act of survival — to be able to know I belonged. It gave me comfort. Or, at least, the illusion of it. Mainly because this way, I had some control. I knew what was required of me at all times, and I could promptly produce and perform.
I know now that what I used to think could protect me no longer serves me.
I've felt it the most these past few months. It's been harder to breathe as I've begun to write this book. I've wrestled fewer words onto the page than I would have liked. Only because I have had to wrestle more with myself. I'm pinning down the parts of me that have long been forgotten — banished to the nooks and crannies of my heart.
For a long time, I've believed that I had to sacrifice these parts at the detriment of my whole. It had become the only invitation I'd known to enjoy a connection with others.
And yet, the bridge to belonging wasn't meant to be built on the back of our self-denial. We don't have to bury ourselves to be loved, cherished, or even — faithful.
While Christ called us to a way that's narrow,
he also bid us welcome into life abundant.2
That means we can be all of us while still being all of his.
We can learn from another who buried what he was given.3
He received a treasury of talents — of money — from another man he knew as his master. It was implied that this servant would take these talents, use them and make a larger profit. Instead, he withheld the money. He hid it out of sight and in the ground.
When challenged, the man said he was afraid to disappoint. He couldn't take the risk. So, he chose to do nothing with what he was entrusted with. And, in turn, missed the point.
We've also been given an offering.
They're our resources. Our connections. Our personalities. They're our experiences and our testimonies. They're the way we see the world and engage with it. They're our joy and delight. Our innocence and wisdom. Our stories, our mistakes, and our sense or even lack of humor. They're the bits of us that set us apart and make us who we are.
All these parts make up our whole. They're weighty. They're costly.
It's this whole of us that, when lived generously — enriches the Kingdom.
I don't want to write a book or show up to my marriage or parent my kids or be in a relationship with others or work as a therapist with only a part of myself. I want to give all of me — unashamedly.
I want to learn to live whole, not just be it.
Rachel Naomi Remen4 says it best when she writes,
Wholeness is never lost, it is only forgotten.
I won't be able to remember it following the crowd. Or, the trail.
Our guide isn't found where others
have gone, but in where Christ went before.
And where the Spirit leads us now.
In an aptly titled chapter of Isaiah5, the prophet sings,
People with their minds set on you,
you keep completely whole.
In another translation, the word whole is replaced with the word peace. In Hebrew, this is shalom6. And, shalom encompasses both this wholeness and peace. This serves as a helpful reminder that outside of distorted connection, broken parts, and the comfort of conformity is a life far better than we could ever imagine — a refuge of safety and a place where Christ revives what was once buried.
This is where we flourish; where we grow.
This is where we become who Christ made us be.
In Israel, shalom isn't just an idea — it's also a blessing. It's spoken over others as both a greeting and a farewell in their comings and goings. It shepherds their hearts home.
When you leave the well-worn path for wholeness, you won’t find affliction.
You will find peace.
How might it feel to stretch yourself to fit again into the
remnants of all the parts you've abandoned and buried?
It's time to come home.
To live whole. As Christ enables us to do.7
and then, as always — a few other things:
a Breath Prayer
Breath Prayers are a means by which to quiet the soul and anchor your heart. It’s an invitation to meditate on truth. For this exercise, if you’re comfortable — close your eyes. Take one hand and place it over your heart. Feel the weight of it. Then, breathe.
Inhale
I am safe
Exhale
with God
Repeat. Savor the promise of his presence without the need for your performance.
For your Ears
Balm for the soul. And, just goodness to soak in.
a Daily Practice
What does it mean to taste and see that the Lord is good? For me, it’s looked like taking notice of those ordinary things that we might see but never stop to enjoy. It could be the sunrise or the sunset, the flowers growing in the ditch outside your home, or your sleeping children. It could be the way the light shines through your window. It could be the way you look during your regular walk — breathing and moving. These moments are invitations to experience God’s love and his presence.
Choose one thing that you want to relish. Take notice of it.
Capture it with your camera.8 Start a new album on your phone.
Practice accepting God’s endless invitation to notice him with you.
a Quick Clarifying Note — when Paul speaks to dying to self, he speaks of our sin and flesh. He speaks of our motivation — who or what are we serving? Is it the Lord, or is it ourselves? How we bring ourselves to serve him and yield ourselves to him — that’s where the freedom is. We don’t have to look or sound or act like anybody else. Nor should we.
I just finished reading her book, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories that Heal and I loved it.
In the Message version, Eugene Peterson titles Isaiah 26, “Stretch the Borders of Life.”
And, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want to stretch outside the boundaries that others have set and that I have willingly stayed inside. There’s so much more to life than that.
I bought a Kodak EKTAR H35 Half Frame 35 mm Camera this Summer, and I intend to capture as many wildflowers as possible. More to come on what they’ve come to mean to me.
Perhaps the most beautiful and poignant explanation of the Parable of Talents I have ever read/heard. So grateful for your words. Praying the wholeness and the peace of Christ over you.