I quit.
On a Friday, two weeks ago, I went to a Women's Retreat at my
home church. Although I knew many people there, none of my
closer friends were at the event and I felt alone.
After walking around, serving others (giving me "reason" to be
there), I eventually sat with a girl and over time, our table filled
up with women.
The event was really hard on me and I came home and wept ugly
tears while aiming fiery darts at both God and myself with
questions of "why" and the too quick slap-stick response of inner
hatred.
| If only our Retreat was a cool as this. Pic credits, Free Images |
On Saturday I cried some more. I contemplated my life choices
and hopes and I mulled over what needed a new draft.
On Sunday I knew my truth, I knew something had to change.
Specifically, I knew I had to change some of my circumstance,
and I knew I needed to start the changes: effective immediately.
I had to quit.
Quit trying to been seen and accepted by those who may or may
not see or accept me.
Quite trying to "find reason to be there", and just be.
I realized that I did not need to volunteer for every position, say
yes to even more, and daily berate myself for never having the
time or energy to do it all.
On Monday, I quit.
For awhile I was living for man's approval.
If I could be nice enough for him...
and helpful enough for her.
What the retreat did for me, through tears and hard words, it
afforded me a real look at the inside of me- the part I cover
with smiles and full hands, and it revealed the bitterness I had
growing therein.
And it was hurting me so badly.
On Tuesday I awoke relieved.
Five phone calls all made on Monday. Surprisingly, there was no
hyperbole begging for me to stay but lots of encouragement for
"whatever this new season looks like".
The phone calls were over, and in so many words, I explained to those
I had previously committed to that I could no longer be committed.
And I breathed better for it.
For the reproach.
And the tears.
And the hard work.
God did not place this burden on me, I did, and I allowed others
to participate. I opened a door and forgot to shut it.
A season, not a lifetime, is what my commitment should have stated,
loud and clear, from the beginning.
Ruth Schwenk writes this in her essay for today:
Don't let people be bigger than they really are.
*Pow* Mind blown.
Well written, my friend. Well written indeed.
-gomommyblogger
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