No, spammers, it’s not a post on religion

Growing up, my mom had this friend, Laura, and whenever she’d talk about having a serious conversation she’d say “we had a coming to Jesus talk.”  But she wouldn’t just say that in the way so many people do— in the way that you know what they mean when they say it— she’d say it as if it was the most dramatic, histrionic conversation ever. As if Jesus himself sat in as mediator and kept things from getting out of hand. And she had a lot of them. Because everything in her life was dramatic and IMPORTANT and warranted a conversation, soon to be followed by a long, emotional story told over the following days.

What I always remember about those stories, though, is that she’d say her life was actually changed. Those talks wherein she and some other person would “come to Jesus” would actually make her life different.  And you know what? She’d never talk about the same problem twice. Never the same person, never the same conversation.  As animated as her telling of the stories was, I had to give her credit. It seemed to be working.

I guess I’ve either been lucky or naive because I don’t feel like I’ve had a lot of those conversations in my life. Aside from the little break-up here and there over the last fifteen years, I tend to be someone that just cuts ties after a certain amount of attempts. Some call it giving up, but to me it feels like getting real. And that seems to go for people, choices, situations, almost anything.

Except myself. There’s no cutting ties when it comes to myself.

And about two nights ago, it sort of hit me that I’m not being real with myself. I needed to look in the mirror and have the one and only Come To Jesus talk of my life. With me. That does sound dramatic, doesn’t it? But something told me to pay attention, and maybe if I did it I’d understand what that kind of talk actually meant. (Maybe I wouldn’t have Laura’s point of view, but that’s okay some of us are simply due more dramatic conversations in our lives than others.) I can only describe the way I felt at that moment as knowing. I knew what I was feeling and noticing wasn’t coincidence. I knew it meant something.  And here, three days later, I still feel like it does.  I just needed to get real enough with myself to admit it. I need to stop kidding myself.

I’m tempted to make a list of things right now that I feel like I’ve been kidding myself about, but I feel like that would be annoying.  Then again, when has the chance of annoying a couple people ever stopped me before?

But first, look at some photos I took of pretty flowers just before summer so abruptly ended!  Couldn’t’ hurt.

Oh, and one sad one.  Because it’s just so pitiful.

Okay then.

After that I feel a little better already.  Like maybe I’m not kidding myself so much as I’m trying to hold on to something, to some control or some idea that any kind of change is going to happen independent of me. I couldn’t have predicted I was going to go here, but look, here I am.

I need to let go of…

…the idea that any THING will make anything else better.

…the idea that I shouldn’t trust my gut feeling solely based on history. Guts deserve multiple chances. Maybe this gut is the real gut and everything before was just an impostor.

…the tendency to bypass what I have so quickly. I have so much more than I deserve.

…comparison.

…keeping up.

…assumption.

…fear of judgment.

And I need to admit that I’m the only one who can stop the cycle.