A Rebel and a Pleaser Wage War

 

     Mike Tatz inked one tattoo on my left wrist and one on my left chest shortly after my 50^th birthday. It was my half-century gift to myself. Why two? I loved the gorgeous artwork Mike created but it would have covered my entire wrist.

     The rebel wanted the complete tattoo, but she compromised and let the pleaser hide it under her shirt. The pleaser chose a smaller, visible version for her wrist. Both won that way. Story of my life: compromise. Hide the rebel long enough to let the pleaser shine.

     But I have always loved the rebel in me. She is fierce and she is tired of hiding.

     I grew up in a black and white world. The rebel wore black. The pleaser wore white. I liked both, but the church said rebellion was wrong and following all the rules was the only way to live. I believed them.

                                                                                                                                    Photo by John Hain

     The first time I cursed, the word flicked off my tongue like a spark.

     “You shouldn’t say that,” said my elementary school friend.

     “I know.”

     Minister’s kids always know. Early on, we learn the written and unwritten rules of how to get through life, even though the forbidden always appealed to me. When you live your life under the microscope as a church leader’s kid, life plays out on a stage. You want to hold secrets in your pocket where no one can see. You want something to call your own without anyone knowing and judging it. Sometimes you just want to curse out loud.

     Then you grow up, turn 50 and get permanently inked without anyone knowing and let the chips fall where they may. I see my wrist tattoo, a fountain pen nib, and am reminded of the gift God has given me. I see my larger tattoo with the nib and ink splats, and I smile at the impact of words and art.

     I have often wondered: What if God created the rebel in me too? What if questioning the establishment comes from him? What if the very trait I have fought against all my life is exactly who I should have been all along, right out in the open?

     Early on, I wanted to rebel against silly rules even if it cost me. That elementary school friend never played with me again.

     In sixth grade, I played the trombone because the band director told us that boys play brass and girls play woodwinds. That brass trombone was bigger than me and as a girl, I earned first chair for several years, nonetheless.

     I played Stevie Nicks in my car on the way to youth group even after a friend put me on the prayer list for my “sin” of listening to secular music.

     I accepted the invitation to preach at student led revival at my Baptist college, even though many of the preacher boys condemned it and wouldn’t attend because women “weren’t allowed” in the pulpit to preach in their world.

     It has been a lifelong battle. My church told me to be a good Christian woman. My gut consistently told me that there was more to a relationship with Jesus than all the rules I tried to follow.

     I believe the nudge I feel to smash the box that Christians put God in comes directly from him. I believe his beautiful heart loves my rebel heart. He calls to me through tattoos and music and art and all the things that light me up. Legalism never lit a fire in me, and I think that makes him happy.

      Meet me at the altar and let’s take off our masks and empty our pockets. Let's dive deep into what he has called us to do because life is too hard not to welcome each other as the rebels we were made to be. 

Life’s a journey. Pay attention.

Beyond Platitudes

    I’ve got a pile of platitudes and inspirational quotes I want to chunk in the trash. Let go and let God. Just pray more. Have enough faith and you will make it through the rough waters.

     Not working.

     Not for this season of my life.

     Hi. My name is Krista. I was married for 13,011 days. Now I am not. My life did not turn out like I planned. You can judge me for that, but please know I have already spent too much time judging myself for the end of what I thought was forever.

     God gave me permission to leave. In fact, he told me that I had walked around this mountain long enough. Now, turn north.

     The first time I heard him it felt like a revelation. Then it didn’t. All the spiritual platitudes crept in like vines to wrap up my resolve. They nearly strangled me. Even though I knew what God told me was truth, I started listening to the voices from my youth that told me I must have done something wrong to be here, alone after so many years.

     

     

    I did all the right things I had learned would help. I chose joy. I screenshot lovely sayings that helped me through my day. I read words of encouragement from friends and family. I retreated to the Sunday School lessons and five-point sermons that had gotten me through my youth and early adulthood.

  The gestures got me through a moment or a day, but I could not hold on long enough for them to get me to the other side of my grief. Inspiration could not lift the lid to reveal what was stewing deep within my heart. I do not care how many times I chose joy or positive thoughts, the turmoil in my heart was still there.

     Words are my primary love language, but fix-it-all sayings began to read like a language I couldn’t translate any more.

       I met the feelings head on recently as I sat on the same black futon that I sat on more than two years ago; when the reality of the rejection sunk in and I broke into a million pieces. As I sat there again, purging belongings I'm not sure I need in this part of my journey, I cried again. The buried parts started making their way to the surface, wanting reconciliation. They had waited a long time to be seen and dealt with, buried beneath the sayings and songs and words I used to keep moving forward. The platitudes retreated to the background, leaving my grief on the stage alone. 

                                    

 

     Turn north, God said again gently as I sat there. Hold fast to My words, they are the only ones that matter.

     I still don’t understand so many things. Sometimes I still feel like a quitter, but I didn’t have anything left to give. God saw that before I did. Now I’m crossing the bridge to the other side with His hand in mine. I’m ready to see where ‘north’ takes me.   

     Life's a journey. Pay attention. 

    

    

    

    

  

 

   

    

    

    

    

To the Chief Musician

    

     My dad, 82, is going back to work this Sunday on Father’s Day. Apparently, you never outlive your calling and Bill Colle was called many years ago to bring people to Jesus through song.

 

    It is a calling that has been a binding bridge for many to the throne room of grace and mercy. It is a calling that has gotten him fired from churches.

      Father’s Day is a fitting day to launch a new vision at his current church, First Baptist Church of Tellico Village in Tennessee. He is a father to many. There are three of us that call him dad by blood and countless others that call him a spiritual father. I remember our doorbell rang at night many times with people looking for his father’s heart. They always found a soft place to land.

 

     On Sunday, he will begin to lead a new congregation through praise and worship. It’s a traditional Baptist Church, so for many, this will be a new concept as they put down the hymnals and sing choruses. He may get some pushback. That doesn’t scare him because he knows he is called to do it. Why else would he choose to return to leadership in a church when he is enjoying retirement and the fruits of a 60-plus year career in ministry?

 

     He will begin by teaching about the Old Testament temple. He will lead them with joyful songs of thanksgiving as they think about the courtyard of the temple. Then he will lead them to where the teaching took place, The Holy Place. Eventually, the end goal will be entering into the Holy of Holies, where the focus will be resting with the Lord in awe and reverence.

      I was just into double digits as his daughter when the 70s Jesus movement swept through Houston, Texas. Friday nights, my parents’ version of date night was attending services at Redeemer Lutheran Church. There, they learned how to worship and lose themselves in abandon to their Lord. There, they could fearlessly praise Him without fear of standing out or repercussions.

 

     Once you’ve been there, in His presence, you are never the same. But it is a learned gift – moving beyond tradition to abandonment. Worship is relational not ritual.  

      It is also fitting that my daddy will begin on Father’s Day because he taught his family first how to worship. Then, as doors opened to churches that welcomed this style of worship, he taught many others about the Father’s heart and the need for us all to reach it through worship. His legacy, long after he retires again, will live on in two of his grandsons that also lead praise and worship at their churches.

 

     I pray for open hearts to the gift he will bring this Sunday. To all who have been in a pew and wondered if there is more to church, I’m here to tell you that there is. I’ve seen it manifested in my father, my chief musician here on earth. I’m grateful for having a father who taught me to worship and led me there with a father’s heart.

Yoga Makes me Cry

     Yoga makes me cry. Not the leaky tears of compassion, but dry heaving sobs without them.

      I have resisted the very classes I signed up to take because of the way it bares my deepest aches. Plus, I am not very good at it. I forget to breathe, and I try to muscle through the poses, only to cramp up and fall over.

      Instructors give me permission to fail. I am unable to do the same. I am frustrated that I cannot control any part of the process.

      My forward fold brings my head no closer to the floor. I am more likely to get my head on the floor in happy dancer pose when I fall over.

      Yoga makes me cry.

      The past two years have been a tumultuous spring storm. Tornadoes have touched down to destroy so much that I have known to be true. Golf ball sized hail has left dents and scars on my heart. I have had to dig deep through the rubble of who I am to search for what I want to be now, after the storm.

      I had just emerged from the debris and found a bit of firm footing when I found a new gym. Ready to feel my muscles grow again, the draw was strong towards the studio with the workout and yoga combo. I attended a yoga class first and I left wondering if I would ever get it right.

      When they added a slow flow yoga class, I decided this was my kind of yoga – stretching the muscles I had worked in the strength and conditioning classes. I stuck to those classes alone until the pandemic sent us all home to Zoom our sweat and poses. Slow flow classes were suspended. 

      It is not just my inability to pose like a seasoned yogi.  It is also the blow of walls coming down inside me while I do it that scares me. When is it enough? Haven’t I done enough hard things for now?

      No.

      I hear it plain. Go. I sent you here for a reason, God says.

      “I’m here to give you back your heart and set you free.” (Isaiah 61)

      You are not yet free, he says.

      I do not know how doing something like yoga will assist in the process, unless we go straight to Shavasana, the corpse pose. I only know that I am not yet free. There are deep wounds that still need to heal. My Jesus thinks I am strong enough to bear the weight of more walls coming down. I do not.

      Yoga makes me cry.

      But I will find my way through to the other side where my ragged breathing becomes a deeper healing balm. I will never be the yoga instructor, but I never want to stop learning. I never want to stop trying to be the version of me God saw from the beginning of time.

      So, I will do the poses. I will cry if I need to cry as the walls come down. And I will be grateful to the folks at Namaste Fitness Studio for allowing me to sweat and cry in a safe place.

 Life’s a journey. Pay attention.