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Be Vulnerable

STIFF UPPER LIPS NEED CHAPSTICK

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.1

Brené Brown

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

2 Corinthians 12:9

Cancer wasn’t going to quit so neither could I. If only one of us could survive, I had to put on my big-girl undies, wax my stiff upper lip, and do what I do best—stay strong. Cancer had met its match.

In my small, stubborn mind, staying strong enabled me to protect our kids from seeing their mum weak, in pain, and quite possibly dying. Wasn’t that my job as mama bear, to protect her cubs? I could also shield Al from the fear keeping me awake at night and the sight of his wife too weak to walk to the loo. He was carrying enough already and didn’t need me hitching a ride. Subconsciously it protected me too. The stronger I acted, the stronger I felt. And surely the stronger I felt, the less damage cancer could do, right?

The trouble was, as I battened down the hatches I became cold. I lost my softness, my lightness, and even my ridiculous sense of humor. I couldn’t keep scary emotions boxed away without numbing the life-giving ones, and I slowly closed down, turning in, shying away. Perhaps I was inadvertently preparing those I love for the worst; if I was coldhearted, maybe it wouldn’t be so devastating for them if I didn’t make it.

The trouble is, when you batten down the hatches it’s too dark to see the rubies in the rubble.

Our Strength Can Be Our Biggest Weakness

It turns out my strength was my biggest weakness, nearly destroying our marriage in its wake.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely a time and place for taking a deep breath and harnessing your inner strength, and it might be the only thing holding your life together, getting you out of bed to fix lunch for your kids or showing up to your doctor’s office. But by pitching my tent in Camp Strong, I eventually took up permanent residence and forgot my way home.

“Fake it till you make it” might work when we walk into a room of unknown faces or start a job feeling like an imposter, but it’s an empty falsehood to live by permanently. A month or so into treatment, I had managed to convince both Al and myself that I was doing just fine. Believing my Oscar-worthy performance, he gave me the space he assumed I craved. But I was far from okay. I desperately needed a hug from arms I could collapse into without fear of judgment. I needed to share the emotional weight I was lugging around, and I needed to be understood, accepted, and loved, even if I was undone and broken. I just didn’t know how and couldn’t bring myself to try.

Poor Al couldn’t win. He took care of the kids and held our lives together (while also running CityChurch) as I focused on scan appointments, chemo regimens, and which herbal tea didn’t make me want to vomit. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—he was, deeply. But I kept telling him I was fine and pushed him away, so he sweetly left me alone. When my warped brain told me this meant he didn’t care, I kept to myself even more, telling him again and again I was okay, and so the beat went on. Slowly we began to drift dangerously apart.

It turns out I was more afraid of losing Al than of sharing my emotions. Not knowing what else to do, I exploded in an emotional avalanche. All my hidden fears, hurts, and assumptions that he didn’t care sheared off my mountain of strength, nearly burying the poor man. He never saw it coming. But as the more empathetic and emotionally intelligent one in our marriage, rather than fighting his way up to the surface he dug down to me and helped me breathe.

Ironically, when we share our pain it actually hurts less. Research tells us when our vulnerability is met with empathy we feel less pain, emotional or physical,2 enabling us to open ourselves to the love and belonging we’re gasping for. The trouble was, my strength had slammed the door on vulnerability like a fuming teenager shuts out her parents. It might have felt good for a moment, but it didn’t solve anything and eventually made things worse. Brené Brown says, “Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.”3 I’d been anything but authentic. I hadn’t shown up day by day, little by little, and had lost out on so much as a result.

Please don’t make the same mistake I did. Letting yourself be seen as you navigate your way through this will help you breathe deeper than I ever could dressed in my suffocating, skin-tight superhero outfit.

Learn to Walk in Vulnerability

Mary and Martha’s brother was sick and dying. They had sent word to Jesus that his friend was gravely ill, but he never showed up and now Lazarus was dead. No wonder Martha was mad (John 11).

So many mourners had walked the two short miles from Jerusalem to Bethany that the sisters’ living room was packed, and only Jesus was noticeable by his absence. As the hours ticked by the women’s grief must have been fraught with frustration and even resentment. They knew Jesus could have saved their brother; why didn’t he come?

How often have I sent word to Jesus only to be met with a resounding silence?

I just love Martha. She gets a raw deal for being busy while her sister Mary sat at Jesus’s feet, but here she teaches us what it looks like to walk Brené Brown’s “collection of choices” into vulnerability and reap its rewards.

First, Go Straight to Jesus

I wish I could tell you I go straight to Jesus without a moment’s hesitation when something hard happens, but more often than not I run to Google, moan to a friend, or rummage in the pantry for the last chocolate chip cookie. Finally, when I’ve run out of options (and cookies), I remember Jesus. But Martha doesn’t hesitate. Her action-oriented nature sends her running into the village, straight to Jesus. She doesn’t care about social traditions telling her it isn’t the done thing. She isn’t distracted by anyone or anything, not even sugary carbs.

In full view of everyone she gives him a piece of her mind: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21). Her brother is dead and Jesus could have saved him.

How I’ve felt her grief and anger. “If you had been here, my sister wouldn’t have died.”

Martha knew Jesus loved her unconditionally just as he loved her brother and sister (John 11:5), and knowing this love gave her the courage and permission she needed to share her grief and frustration with him without fear of rejection.

It’s never easy to leave the familiarity of my current pain and the safety of my honed-and-toned coping mechanisms to head for Jesus, but I must. It’s his full life I’m desperate to breathe in, and I won’t find it anywhere else—even in the last cookie or hiding in dry, snarky, passive-aggressive comments.

The only way to breathe again is to go straight to the One who is the breath of life and who breathed his life into us.

Martha knew this. She was one smart woman.

Then Turn On the Light

When we walk in vulnerability, we feel as safe as a balloon at a hedgehog party in the dark. It’s terribly tempting to get the heck out of there before the fragile belief that we’re loved goes pop. Our friend Martha didn’t run, she just turned on the light. Truth about God always shines light into our darkness.

“Lord . . . if you had been here my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask” (John 11:21–22, emphasis added).

And again, before Lazarus walks out of the tomb wrapped in bandages like a Scooby-Doo mummy, she affirms, “Yes, Lord . . . I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is to come into the world” (John 11:27).

That’s God’s truth lighting the way, leading her to safety.

Can we say the same from the midst of the fog around us? “Even now, even in the midst of all my grief, I know who you are and all you can do. I trust you. You are my Savior.”

What if we could?

With conflicting emotions vying for space and attention, Martha shares her darkest pain and then turns on the light of the truth. It’s as if she throws it all out into the wind before landing a stake in the ground to steady herself. She knows chasing the vulnerability of our lament with truth about God grounds us, steadies the shifting sand beneath our feet, lights the way ahead, and prevents us from heading down the rabbit hole of self-pity.

As a faithful Jewish woman, she prayed like the psalmists before her: first with her heart, then her head. It must have felt familiar and comforting in the midst of her grief, and I’ve found this heart-to-head format transforming in my own prayers. I pour out my woes, anger, and questions to God without holding anything back, then I return to the truth of his sovereignty and love. When we pray like this, we step into the dim light of vulnerability and illuminate it with truth.

Telling your husband you’re worried about your marriage and want to get help is easier when it’s lit by the truth that you’re deeply loved by God and your identity is in him. Turning up to a baby shower days after you’ve miscarried is easier lit by the truth that Jesus walks in right beside you. Telling a friend you’ve lost your dream job is less daunting when you’re tethered to the truth that life might seem against you but God never is.

Choose Honesty over Eloquence

I can still hear my mum’s words: “You’re tired, it’s late, it’s past your bedtime, and you’re beginning to show off.”

As her over-bouncy third child I constantly went to ridiculous lengths to be seen and heard amongst the family chaos, even retelling jokes everyone had only just laughed at minutes before. Over forty years later that younger me is still alive and well and constantly fears she’ll go unheard or be misunderstood. Even now as I sit at my desk I’m worried I’ll fail to articulate what I so desperately want to tell you and you’ll misunderstand and miss out on God’s abundance.

What if being vulnerable didn’t have to be pretty or eloquent, just honest? What if we could bumble along with imperfect words, secure in who we are in Jesus? I used to think I had to have all my emotions figured out before I could begin to share them or even let people see their ugliness. If I was scared, I thought I had to know why. If I was worried, I assumed I needed a handle on what fueled the anxiety. And if my stomach lurched and my blood boiled but I had no idea what it meant, then I definitely had to keep quiet. Slowly I’m learning to just start as best I can, not waiting for perfectly crafted sentences, the whys or the wherefores, or the ideal time and place (I’m not sure they exist anyway). Simple honesty seems to be the way: “I’m scared.” “I need a hug.” “Why did you do that?” “I feel uncomfortable.” “That makes me want to punch someone.” “I can’t believe this is happening.” “You weren’t there. I needed you.”

I’m learning to share from the uncomfortable place of my unanswered questions and the messy reality of my unresolved emotions. I won’t win a gold medal in debate or poetry, and I’ll never be a therapist, but the prize we’re after lives in our relationship with God and others, not in a trophy cupboard.

It’s not eloquent, it’s not fun, but it’s life-giving.

I think Martha would be proud—her words weren’t polished but they were honest and true to who she was, what she was feeling, and what she believed.

Knowing we are loved doesn’t stop us from feeling “all the feels,” but it does remove the shame and unworthiness that block us from walking in vulnerability, however clunkily, and it provides a safe place for our emotions to land. I’m learning that suppressed emotions control us, while expressed emotions heal and free us; and love cushions our vulnerability, ensuring we won’t break as we venture in, giving it a go as best we can.

And You Will Find Freedom

I remember the first few times Ali showed up at church. She would slip in and out before anyone noticed, and despite desperately wanting community, she refused every invitation. She just couldn’t do it. Like a bird with a broken wing she would limp away from anyone who came close, including God.

A few months before I met Ali, while she was on a training program with work, she’d been grabbed from behind, forced into a car, and physically assaulted. Still a self-confessed emotional basket case, she moved to Charlotte and found CityChurch.

Eventually, at an evening service where Al had led us in an exercise in hearing God’s voice, she took her first tentative step toward him by allowing herself to be prayed for.

Mascara dripped to the carpet from her tear-stained face as she sobbed and shook, reliving the assault, crying out to God in her pain. Slowly, she allowed herself to be scooped into the arms of a few caring souls she’d begun to trust. Ali was already in counseling twice a week, but we encouraged her to keep coming to church and keep pressing into the healing God was doing in her. Despite her circumstances, she did just that—she longed to feel better, stop hurting, and find freedom from the grip of pain and shame. Knowing something had to give eventually, she kept showing up and opening up.

Desperate to feel safe and loved, Ali walked through deep vulnerability toward God and healing and discovered how much he loves her. Finally she began to understand what his love looks and feels like. She started to believe his still small voice when it whispered, “I love you and I’m going to show you how much,” and she started to imagine a life not ruled by the assault. She fell in love and got engaged.

Then came the flashback.

In a vivid visual replay of the memory her brain had suppressed, she relived the full terrifying story of what actually happened that night. Once again tears dripped to the floor as she saw herself not only physically assaulted but raped. Once again her world shattered and the girl with the broken wing limped away.

For days she just sat on her couch, staring at the floor, unable to process, suffocating under the weight of this new revelation. When she finally told me, I took her in my arms, held her, and waited for her sobbing to die down. The thought of telling her fiancé crushed her. What would he think? Would he still want her? Could he still love her? I knew hiding what happened and how she felt wouldn’t protect them or their marriage, so I urged her to tell him, confident he’d react with love and compassion.

Of course he was heartbroken, but not for himself—for her. As he wrapped Ali in his arms and assured her it didn’t change anything, the truth she’d vulnerably expressed in anxious trepidation set her free from the weight of her fear.

Over the next weeks she spent hours sitting in her closet, running to Jesus, drawing and journaling, pouring out her anger and pain to God, curled up on the foundation of love he’d already laid down.

There the shame of rape began to truly heal as she discovered God’s grace—his crazy, wild love for her untainted by what she endured, but evident in what he endured for her. She stopped worrying she was unworthy because two thousand years ago Jesus proved she was worthy.

Today Ali is happily married and a joy to be around. Although memories of the rape occasionally still haunt her, she says sharing her true self with God, her husband, and others heals her a little more each day and even helps others experience their own freedom.

“If you had been here, my sister wouldn’t have died.”

Every now and then I still feel resentment bubble up as I wonder why Jesus didn’t save Mum or Jo. But I’m learning to take my cue from Martha and head down the street to meet Jesus head-on, lay it out in all its bitter ugliness and hurt questioning, and try my darnedest to follow that with what I know to be true about him.

It’s not pretty, but it is honest, and as I confront him, this is what he says: “Oh, but I was there. I held her hand as the IV pumped chemo. I whispered peace as she tossed anxiously at night. I answered her questions as she searched for me in her darkness. And I welcomed her home as you watched her leave. I am the resurrection and the life; she believed in me and lives, even though she died.”

Finding his firm foundation, I can breathe again.

Even when Jesus doesn’t heal our loved ones, set us free from depression, or mend our broken marriages, let’s bravely choose to walk vulnerably with God and our community to find freedom and life right where we are.

I am a Thriver.

I believe life doesn’t have to be pain-free to be full.

I reject the lies of the world about who and whose I am.

I embrace the truth that I am loved, seen, and enough, and that God loves me, isn’t mad, and will never leave.

I’ve got this because God’s got me, and together we can do more than I could ever do alone.

I choose brave, knowing it doesn’t need to be big, just intentional.

I trust God, even when I don’t want to and can’t sense his presence, because I’ve checked his credentials and can let go of everything I’ve been clinging to.

I lean into community because thriving is a team sport and no one wins alone.

I step into vulnerable spaces with God and others, aware that my strength can be my biggest weakness.