Are you a big believer in coincidence or are you someone who is willing to acknowledge circumstances as God’s presence in your life?  Can you sit in wonder or does life always make logical sense to you?  Have you ever walked away from a moment that felt truly holy and do you think those only exist in scripture?

Let me tell you a story and you can decide where you land.  No judgement…just an exercise in getting to know one another.

I’m the only one who drinks coffee at my house, so I’m the one who makes it.  On a recent Saturday morning I finished my habitual glass of water and set about filling the carafe and pouring water into the machine.  I folded a filter to nestle in the basket, measured the exact amount of coffee, and dumped in the scoops.  I pushed the whole mess beneath the drop spout and flipped the switch. As I waited for my morning wake-me-up, I found my journal and pulled out a mug.

A few mugs in my collection mean something to me.  Though I love the sweet mug I instinctively grabbed, on this morning another mug tugged at my heart.  I could see it in the cupboard with it’s creamy sides and wide base.  I thought of the friend who gifted it to me and decided the second mug felt more appropriate for my day, so I swapped it out.

I savored the words on the side, “Fearfully and wonderfully made.”  I remembered the day it was given to me.  It had been a hard day and the mug brought me joy.

My coffee machined breathed and gurgled to signify that it had completed the brewing process.  I poured some of my favorite beverage into my mug and added in sweet creamer making everything a light blonde.  I plunked myself down in a chair and flipped open my devotional.  I read the prescribed scripture: 

My jaw dropped and I slowly sat back in my chair.  The moment felt holy.  I didn’t want to take it for granted.

Now I’m sure that this reading doesn’t strike you as particularly holy.  It could seem like just a normal reading to accompany Psalm 139.  I don’t blame you for thinking that.  Rightly so.  You’re missing one piece of information that might cause the necessary impact.

Less than 24 hours prior to this devotional reading I’d walked in to a legitimate establishment called “The Smokey Banana” and gotten my first tattoo.  Well, two tattoos actually.  One on each wrist.

The one on my left wrist reads “Broken”. Like “I’m a sinner who desperately needs forgiveness and a savior,” kind of broken.

My right wrist reads “Beloved”.  Meaning, “I’m created by God in his image, knit together in my mothers womb with enormous care and chosen for a special purpose on earth.” THAT kind of beloved.

It is entirely possible that everything that happened during my morning devotional up is merely a coincidence.  I don’t blame you if that’s where you land.  And honestly, I KNOW that you could read this and have big problems with the idea that a Christian woman scarred her body with a permanent tattoo.  I’m fine with that.  I’ll pray through it.

I can understand all of the possible reactions.  I used to feel the same way.

But I am stepping into something new and different and that is why I permanently inked up my body.

I got my tattoos because I needed to mark a period in my life.  The last 12 months have been hard.  I walked the line between believing I was broken and desperately wanting to hear that I was also beloved.  I struggled to let people in to the mess.  This period has helped me to draw in some long time friends and recognize new friends.  I am learning what makes a great community and how to discern who to trust.  Counseling has helped and so have wise people in my life.

And my time with God each morning has been the lifeline that carried me through.  Some days I could hear him loudly.  Though the ground beneath me felt unsure, I knew I could trust him.  There were also days where God felt far away, even as I believed that he was nearby.  Our relationship has changed as I’ve grown in this season. The kind of growth that makes me feel gratitude for what has passed.

Now as the yearly season turns to fall, I feel like I’m stepping into spring.  I see new growth in my life and fresh starts.  I am learning to accept that I am broken and that in my brokenness comes connection to those around me.  God continually reminds me that I am also beloved…not in spite of my brokenness.  It’s not a broken BUT beloved.  It’s broken AND beloved.  They exist as two COMPLIMENTARY truths.  As my relationship with God grows, I’m learning to lean into this truth more and more.

Which means I’m paying attention to the moments that could be coincidence but that feel more like God showing me he is near.  I don’t want to miss a holy moment.

I don’t want to step on your toes here, but I don’t want you to miss holy moments either.  I believe God is as alive and active today as he was during both of the Old and New Testament times.  To see and hear him requires that we slow down and listen.  It means that we stop chalking things up to coincidence and acknowledge his presence in our life.  It’s worth it, you know.  Leaning in to these moments and acknowledging him.

Because beloved isn’t a position that is held by only one.  We all get to be beloved.  And that’s the very best news of all.

What do you do when you realize that you are broken and you can’t fix yourself?  What do you do when life feels frenetic and the world doesn’t make sense? When prayer and exercise, acupuncture and vitamins don’t work…

Find a counselor, that’s what.

For my whole life I’ve avoided counseling.  Don’t ask me why.  Something about shame and believing I was REALLY broken if I needed someone else to help me figure things out; that only truly crazy people sought help.

As there is a history of mental illness on my paternal side, I may also have been afraid of what might come of seeing a professional.  If someone else got a look inside my thoughts they might see that I was actually crazy and lock me up for good.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on what part you focus on) I finally reached a point in my life where I had no choice but to seek counseling.  And I discovered that I’d been really wrong about the shame and the getting locked up part.  Or at least my counselor hasn’t suggested that I be locked up YET.

Now there is a LARGE part of me that would like it noted that what sent me to counseling was not entirely my fault.  This is the part of me that embodies my overdeveloped sense of justice.  But I’m not going to tell you the whole story.  I only want to note that a big part of what happened in the last twelve months was that I believed that if I could just be better, that I could succeed.  And that just isn’t true.  There was so much more happening that I didn’t control. 

Back to that counseling bit…I asked for referrals, made a bunch of phone calls, answered a handful of questions… all which led me to a small office in Boulder on a very hot Thursday afternoon for my very first counseling session.

To start, I appreciated that my new counselor immediately told me where she would sit.  It was clear that my space would be on the couch. Which side of the couch to choose felt like an important decision, one that she was allowing me to make.  If I sat too far away from her was I communicating that I was closed off?  I suppose I could have picked the chair right next to her, but that felt strange; over-familiar.

So I picked a spot directly across from her.  I gently placed my phone and my keys on the couch spot to my left.  I folded my hands in my lap and gazed at this new person in my life.

She began by asking me what was going on; what had brought me to see her.  Instinctively I knew the story began in August of 2018.  Starting a new job coincided with the onset of my unraveling.

I detailed all of the events of the last twelve months.  My friend’s diagnosis, it’s relationship to another friend’s death three years prior, as well as my new job.  We spoke of faith, family history and the ways in which beliefs and behaviors are formed early in life.  I laughed at myself and the irony that my siblings and I all work in church settings.  That has got to be a therapists delight.

She asked insightful questions.  She tried to keep everyone’s names straight as she reflected back to me what she was hearing.  She showed compassion when I spoke of the things that were painful, surprise at events that were slightly shocking and at the end of it all she asked me to do a few things in the days ahead.

She taught me about self compassion.  Truth is, she taught me about self compassion right around the very same time that I recognized that sharing my weaknesses brought me closer to some of the coolest people.  Instead of creating distance, my humanity brought me nearer to those around me.  As I shed layers of the mask that I have it all together, people near me were able to connect in ways we hadn’t connected before.

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My counselor has helped examine the things that need to be examined in a safe space.  She’s given me permission to feel hurt and sad and shocked.  I’ve learned to see my bad habits as coping mechanisms while uncovering what causes me to need them in the first place.

But my counselor is not a miracle worker.  She’s just a person. I’m still broken and will be for the rest of my life.   But I’m also experiencing more moments of feeling seen, heard and loved in the midst of it.  Both by God and by really great people around me.

I’m grateful.

And if you’re one of those people who has put off counseling, maybe this is the encouragement you need to make an appointment.  Because it’s okay to ask for help unravelling things that don’t make sense, or to ask for a different perspective on bad coping habits that have plagued you for years.

Don’t do it to fit in, and don’t do it for someone else.  Do it because the world needs the best version of you.