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      • May 2, 2018

    Letting Go of Shyness & Embracing Quietness Instead

    A little while ago, I wrote a blog about what it has looked like to grow up as “the quiet girl.” I left the piece somewhat inconclusive. Here’s some light and truth for us quiet folk.


    For most of my life, I have used “shyness” and “quietness” interchangeably. The words seemed married, in my mind—bark of the same tree, blossoming the same fruit. Yet I undoubtedly use them differently. When I feel favorably disposed to think myself reticent, I call it quietness. When I feel ashamed, I name it shyness.


    I was at a friend’s party recently, and my shyness commanded my actions like clockwork. Friends huddled in groups to talk; I awkwardly hovered alone. Even now I feel uncomfortable thinking about it: the way shyness dictates my actions and feeling, and the growing, incessant desire to root my identity in something else.


    When the high school “shy girl” identity threatens to color my adult self, I start to feel panicky. I start to scheme ways I can be more outgoing, or present myself in a more adventurous, daring light. It’s amazing the things we think will set us free.


    As the root of shyness has worked itself out in my life, I have come to see the difference between it and quietness. Shyness roots itself in fear. Deep down, through various layers of soil—of insecurities, of doubts, of lies—it finds bedrock by cracking into our identity. Though shyness might seem a harmless, weak word, the root works at the rock over time and gently taps through. And we find that we believe (deep, deep down) that we are—at the soul of us—shy. We believe there’s no hope for it. That, standing in a room full of people, various groups laughing and sectioned off with their backs turned away from us, we must stand alone. We cannot break in—why? Because we are shy.


    It may be the most debilitating word I know.


    Quietness, I am realizing, is so different. And so sweetly freeing. And, what is more, it is confidant.


    True and unwavering confidence comes from faith in God. This faith works itself out in our lives in myriad ways, and not least on the list is confidence. Finding (and believing) approval from God creates a dynamic shift in our perspectives. When we constantly work for others’ approval, we have to constantly be looking inward, at ourselves. We’re judging every word and movement we make under the law of people’s approval. When this is traded for confidence in God’s approval, we have capacity to look to others’ needs.


    This roots a quiet person in peace. It speaks the healing truth that words do not fix all problems, not all moments need speeches and—most importantly—if I have nothing to say, the void does not need to be anxiously filled with something, anything, but can be waited out with patience.


    It reminds me, in the midst of a party, that there are other people in this room. There are people who need a listening ear. There are people who have joys and struggles to share. And if, past all that, I still end up standing alone, that’s okay, too. I have peace in His presence.


    We know God highly values a “gentle and quiet spirit,” (1 Peter 3:4). We’re told to temper the number of our words in His presence (Ecclesiastes 5:2). We’re reminded to “be quick to listen, slow to speak,” (James 1:19). So we know that quietness can be a wonderful gift. Not a burden, not an identity, but a sweet and unassuming gift to those around us.


    If, like me, you find yourself much more rooted in shyness than quietness, I pray you won’t feel defeated. That kind of thing only leads to fear and more of what we most don’t want. Instead, seek God. Look up, when shyness most prods at your identity, and know that He is there. He is what we need. He is who approves us.

    • Quietude
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    • Sanctification
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    • Humility
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      • Dec 22, 2016

    The Winter Birch (a Christmas catalyst for remembering Christ all year long)


    My husband and I sit in the car, taking a small road trip to Louisville. It’s a quiet ride where the eyes rove the landscape: taking in the birch trees, the pallid winter sky, the dotted line between lanes flying past. The long ride is lost is easy conversation.


    My husband wonders . . .


    What if the Christmas season laid the foundation for looking Jesus-ward all year long?

    A sort of catalyst?


    My eyes flick back to the countryside. And to the white birch—bare-skinned in the blanched winter, glowing amidst the sleeping brown trees surrounding it. The birch tree, who, when the world is frigid cold, frosted over, sits on the hill like a beacon of hope, pure white and shining.


    Just like the Holy Beacon become Babe-in-manger.


    Maybe it’s the glowing humility of the birch that so points me to Christ. The leafless beauty that stands tall, stands out. That catches the eye of the traveling stranger, who, though flying fast in a car on the highway, catches the white wonder in the peripheral and pauses to reflect.


    Yes, Christmas as a catalyst. A holy resolution to look solely at Jesus, all year long.


    This is Our Jesus:


    Who lay in a manger, far beneath the stars He spoke into existence.


    Who started small and speechless, yet remained the Word of God.


    “Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.”


    This is the God we serve and adore. The One we fall in holy reverence before. The One who came humbly and will return in exaltation.


    So often beauty (and holiness) is found in the humble, leafless places. It's a beauty that is present all along, in every season, but blossoms without any bloom at all. Like the Incarnate Deity bottled up in human body. Born to die. Born to rise again. Born to breathe “yes” into the promises of God.


    This season is our time to look fresh on salvation with wonder and awe. So let us see Your life, Lord Jesus, and never look away.

    • Quietude
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    • Seasons
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      • Nov 10, 2016

    Lessons in Quietude


    I look at my cat's green eyes, specked with amber.


    She purrs, and I press my ear to her, feeling the warm vibration. She's chosen a place in the sun--her eyes tucked just below the light.


    Looking at cats, I've often observed their quietude. They sit, they sleep, they stare in wonder out the window--and they are contented in these acts, mundane as they are.


    During college, the rush from bed to bathroom to car to class made me think wistful thoughts about quietude. Cold feet on my kitchen floor, I'd relish the warmth of my coffee mug, sniff the wake-me-up, and stare out the window at the gold of morning. I'd daydream that I could stand there for an hour, frozen in time. Have some much-needed quiet time, time in the Word.


    It's different now.


    My part-time job only partly fills my week. And for the rest of the time? Quietness (different from quietude)--all I could have asked for and more. Yet, instead of gentle mornings gently woken, I often feel alone. My spirit feels far from quietude in these moments, instead residing in restlessness, yearning to go and do.


    In these moments, walks are a refuge. Stagnant inside air gives way to wind and movement. Somehow, walking along the sidewalk beside old brick houses and small business shops, it feels easier to converse with God. It feels easier to hear His familiar whisper to my heart.


    So often I yearn to be, before I am.


    I yearn to be more in the Word, talk more to God, hear more from God--without taking the steps required of such ends. And those ends, inevitably, require quietude. The willingness to embrace the calm, the quite, as a necessary step to a necessary end. It's [often] in the quiet places that God orients hearts toward Himself, adjusting and correcting sight line.


    So calm my mind, O Lord, that I may sit at Your feet as the Mary of old did.

    • Quietude
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    • Seasons
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    • Listening
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