Forgotten Who You Are?
A caveat: You are welcome here! No matter your faith background or opinions on hot button issues, we need your presence. I want you to show up as yourself, and I need to show up as my true self—a writer, a mom, someone in therapy, a lover of a daily chai latte, a Christian. You do not need to believe as I do, but since the latest research states that over 70 percent of the population are spiritual and believe in a higher power, then I think we can find plenty of common ground to heal upon. I hope my words help all of us to take our masks off and be whole. Now to my writing…
It’s been months since the woman left a gift bag, marked with my name, and overflowing with tufts of white tissue paper in the church’s office. When lifted from its holy resting place–the same area mini communion cups are filled on a busy Sunday morning–the bag drooped under the weight of two large bags of Nestle chocolate chips hidden inside. This woman was a stranger, except for the week before when she approached me in the church lobby after I gave that week’s sermon. She was new, trying to learn about faith, and cried when she said my words helped her feel God.
I am not a great orator, but I try my best to be honest about being a pastor who almost lost her marriage; who fights the constant dragon of depression perched just outside my turret waiting to burn me down. I try to show a God who is more loving, kind and generous than any of us (including those raised, seated upon rainbow-colored carpets in Sunday School) were ever allowed to believe.
Alongside the semi-sweet morsels in the gift bag was a note. She thanked me for my words and wrote that she found my one self-published book on Amazon and devoured it in one sitting. A nice note, to be sure, but why the gift of chocolate chips? Yes, I bake chocolate chip cookies, but that is a weekly tradition that is not touted on Instagram. For years, every Friday night, I’ve felt joy radiate from the chocolate-coated smiles of my children.
I imagined this woman on a recent Sunday morning. Remembering my book, and as she stood spraying hairspray in front of her bathroom mirror, she desired to do something nice for a pastor. Already running late to church, she rummaged through her cabinets for something. Past the layers of canned kidney beans and diced tomatoes, and around the corner from a box of Raisin bran, sat two heavy bags of something sweet. The bright yellow bags of Nestle chocolate chips got crammed into a gift bag, a quick note written, and carried off to arrive five minutes late to church and placed next to the communion plates. “Useful,” she thinks. “Chocolate. Every woman loves chocolate.”
I was thankful for her note and thoughtfulness.
Puzzled.
Definitely cashed up on chocolate morsels for months.
Yesterday I was at church and saw that woman again. Since the bag was left in the office, I wanted to confirm that the gift was from her. “You left a bag of chocolate chips for me, right?” She smiled and nodded her head. “Thank you!”
“You know why I gave you chocolate chips, don’t you?” She and her husband looked at me, eyes filled with the joy of Christmas morning, and smiled.
“That was so nice of you...,” and here I could have lied to ease any discomfort, but I guess pastors aren’t supposed to fib. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why you gave me the chocolate chips. But, they’re nice!”
“Oh! It’s because in your book, you wrote about living in Armenia and begging visitors from the US to bring loads of chocolate chips over in their suitcases so you could make cookies! I read your book in one day, and so I wanted to give you chocolate chips to remind you of your book.”
That’s the problem. I don’t remember that book.
Those words were written by a different Olivia–one that was 12 years younger and still had the habit of writing weekly blogs and burying hurt. Back then, I thought I worried about living in a third world country and having enough mac-n-cheese or chocolate chips to keep my kids’ appetite for America satisfied. But the real, buried Olivia accumulated something else–pain.
Over the past 18 months, I sat across from a therapist every other week. I am digging into the layers of pain–each layer more hard, and crusty than the one before it. My 74 year old dad says, “Liv, I’m worried about you. Why all the counseling? Why dig up what’s in the past and relive it? Maybe consider just moving on.” He says this with love in his eyes, speaking the only truth of his generation.
My therapist says, “We often say that depression is unresolved trauma and grief that stays in your system. Our bodies never forget. If you have the time, strength and space right now to work through it, you could see yourself finally free.”
And on long walks alone through icy streets or in silent moments next to the fireplace, God says, “It’s time to remember the pain of the decade of imported chocolate chips and find me there. Find the Olivia that writes. I need your words. Others need your words.”
This woman at church sees the real me–the one I’ve forgotten.
She calls me back to writing with two bags of yellow chocolate chips.
Is someone calling out, reminding you of who you are? Have you forgotten him? Did others convince you there was no place for her in this dusty world?
I’ll put some cookies in the oven. Let’s find your pain, your God, your true soul.
***Look below the video for the “I Am Here” Journal Entry question for this week. Healing takes work, but we all need the real you.***
Make a list of everything you once knew to be true about yourself (before parents, teachers, the hurts of life convinced you otherwise). You may need to go back to your early years for this to be most obvious–what made you smile, thrive, or feel alive as young child? What came easily to you? Try not to edit things out based on what people or society say are undesirable traits. Forever, I have believed that being a highly sensitive person is a weakness. Thanks to my therapist, I am starting to see it as a superpower.
An Example:
Your List:
After writing your list, ask to see the innate goodness in how you were designed and made. Ask God to help those things come alive again–no matter how long they’ve been buried.