You’re Bleeding, Not Dying {Liz von Ehrenkrook}

This week’s guest post is from Liz von Ehrenkrook: a kind and generous online friend. Recently, God called Liz and her youth pastor husband to pack up and go—Abraham-like—on a new journey. You can follow along here

bleeding

Sometimes I think we’re scared to bleed.

When I was a kid, I played hard; and hard at play meant bruised or scratched limbs, with the occasional should-we-go-to-the-doctor injuries. My parents weren’t the kind to opt for medical bills if they could handle my crying and heal my body at home with peroxide, over-the-counter ointments and band-aids.

In fact, I only remember going to the doctor one time.

I was four years old. Mom was in the kitchen cooking, I want to say macaroni and cheese because I always wanted to eat macaroni and cheese. I remember my brother and I watching He-man, and my decision to sit closer to the TV.

I hear my mom’s voice – but it’s not good for you to sit so close!

I wager, how could I get closer without it being bad for me, without getting into trouble?

My dad’s easy chair was angled toward our coffee table. I pulled the lever and reclined back so the footrest extended. I wiggled my tiny body onto the edge of the footrest, propping my head up onto the coffee table. There, a tad uncomfortable, but closer nonetheless.

I don’t remember how I fell.

My head was aching. Mom was running into the living room scooping me into her arms and flying down the hall to the bathroom. I remember sitting on the edge of the sink while she parted my hair, looking for the source of all the blood. She said I wasn’t crying but I was scared at her reaction, at the worried look permanently wrinkling her face. I turned my head ever so slightly and could see my reflection in the mirror.

There was so much blood. I let loose a howl, a high-pitched screech that sounded like a siren.

Then we were in the car, speeding to the hospital. I was in my mom’s lap, hugging her chest. My blood soaked her shirt.

Everything at the hospital is a blur. I remember crying. I remember bucking, flailing my arms and legs when the doctor cleaned my wound and then began stitching my head. Two nurses lay across my body but the adrenaline released a she-Hulk and I wasn’t going down easy.

I remember my mom’s face then. She was calm; there was no more worry.

“Elizabeth. You need to let the doctor do his job. You’re going to be okay. Can you be still for me?”

My body stopped convulsing immediately. I stared into my mother’s eyes and held her gaze. I remember my nose running and really wanting her to wipe it for me.

My skull has a weird shape now, a flat area. I used to enjoy freaking people out by letting them run their hand across my head. This is my scar.

I did suffer some trauma from the event. Because I had been exposed to so much of my own blood, my reaction to even the tiniest scratch with the smallest droplet of blood would send me into hysterics. I’d run fast and far, thinking I could get away from it.

My parents had to work with me through all my future injuries to settle me down, to remind me, “You’re bleeding. You’re not dying.”

I have grown into a woman of resilience. I adorn my body with beautiful scars to express who God has created me to be. Under the needle in tattoo shops I bleed, and it’s a reminder to me that I’m growing, I’m changing – but I’m not dying.

I imagine a lot of people would die for God because, heaven. But to live for God here, right now, means we have to live out our faith on earth, in this plane of reality, where we face trials of all kinds. In order to live, we have to be willing to bleed, and it’s difficult to make that kind of commitment to pain.

We don’t like the thought of blood; our life flowing from our veins, worrying how much we have to give. Then we sing songs telling the spirit to lead us where our trust is without borders; we worship God asking him to take us deeper than our feet could ever wander. But when we bleed, we retreat. We run the other way, as far out as we can get, thinking the thing God is asking of us will be so far in the distance it’ll never catch up to us. We wrap ourselves in the safety of fresh gauze and padded comforts.

Bleeding usually doesn’t come without pain. And through pain there will be tears. We will lament. We will ask ourselves, and God, “Why?” We will look to others and say, “This is hard and it hurts and I’m scared.”

I believe that with our bleeding, we’re actually doing some really great living.

I’m not saying everyone needs to get a tattoo, to purposefully bleed in order to prove something. My body art is a personal representation of my growing faith.

What I am saying is don’t run from the pain of living out your faith, be willing to deal with the blood.

You’re just bleeding. You’re not dying.

lizvoneLiz von Ehrenkrook – of So I Married a Youth Pastor – lives in Oregon with her husband, Mat, and their snobby cat, Pixel. In 12 days, Liz and Mat will be jobless and adventuring across the country on a summer road trip in search of what God wants next for them. Follow their journey here  and keep them in your prayers!

Tattoos and Cardigans {Jamie Hanauer}

Today’s post is from my friend Jamie Calloway-Hanauer. I am deeply honored that she was willing to share this here.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Once upon a time, I was young.

I thought all the admonishments, advice, and wisdom of my elders would not apply to my life, and I shook off their words.

I believed but didn’t always live prayerfully.

I thought through things as wisely as I could, often better than most, but youth does have its shortcomings.

I got my first tattoo when I was fifteen. A friend performed the task, in my living room, using a hollowed Bic pen, thread, India ink and a guitar string. I was in a band then (Christian punk), and each member got the same x-eyed smiley face to commemorate our commitment to one another.

I received my second and third tattoos when I was seventeen. Fairly well done, this time by a different friend, using an actual pro gun, once again in my living room.

The fourth I got at age eighteen. This time in a professional shop, done by an elderly man whose hand shook towards the end.

The fifth and sixth I got as an adult—a parent and law student at the time, you might think I would have known better.

But I didn’t.

Truth is, I very much like tattoos of a certain variety (the Sailor Jerry type). I find them attractive and I often like the stories that they tell about those who bear them.

What I failed to consider as recently as eleven years ago, however, is that no matter how much we rail against it in our youth, we do actually grow up. And buy minivans. And join the PTA. And wear wedding gowns and become bridesmaids and take the children to the park in hot weather. We attend church picnics and pool parties and workout in gyms. And—surprise!—people will see us during these times.

And people will judge.

Tattoos have become commonplace in my generation. I served on the PTA with women (and men) who had a few. After getting to know someone well, the presence of a little (or a lot) of ink usually goes unnoticed. But in those first moments, that first glance, or even when wearing a short-sleeved Easter dress for the first time to a church you’ve attended for eleven years, eyes travel to the vivid color on pale skin, and minds begin to calculate (or recalculate) just exactly who it is they are talking to.

And believe it or not, I don’t like this. I don’t like the knee-jerk assessment, the reassessment, or the stoic attempts to be “accepting.” And so by the time I hit 30, I’d learn to invest, heavily, in cardigans.

Thankfully I live in Berkeley. That has multiple benefits, one being that it is, well, Berkeley, and the other that it’s fairly cool here year-round. Most women carry a sweater with them at all times, and so my long sleeves in July warrant nary a glance.

We are, however, about to move to DC, a place not known for its temperate climate. I will be making new friendships, new first impressions, searching for a new church, and in general trying to develop a new community with whom to laugh, cry, and pray over the coming decades.

That isn’t something to enter lightly.

I wonder: should I or shouldn’t I? Meaning, should I swelter in the August heat until I’ve solidified my “personality” and good graces? Or should I live in relative physical comfort and risk being labeled a “type?”

Some might say, “Who wants to be friends with those who would judge or ‘type’ you anyway?” If only life were that easy. I have children. I have a spouse. As an adult, friendships are often born of what your children choose to do on Saturdays, or where you/your spouse finds employment.

Over the last seven years, I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve heard someone say in incredulous tones, “You have tattoos? You?? You are the LAST person I ever expected to have tattoos.” This statement comes from a belief that a mini-van driving, church attending, faith writing, non-smoking, non-drinking, non-partying mom of four would ever, EVER, think to get a little (or a lot) of ink.

They are both right and wrong. Would I today, being the person who I am, get tattoos? No, I wouldn’t. Do I regret, being the person who I am today, having gotten them? I would say, emphatically, yes. Does that have to do with me and how I feel about tattoos or how others do? Sometimes the line gets blurred and something born of societal influence becomes an “I’m doing it for me” type thing, but in reality the chicken and the egg have become a bit confused.

There are those who wear their tattoos as a badge of God-accepts-me-and-you-should-too honor. I believe that, but that’s not who I am. I don’t want second looks, discussions of a past life, assumptions of a present life, or a walk through Leviticus. I just want to be.

A friend once prayed for me that I would know I am more than “tattoos and cardigans.” As I move from my well-established home here in Berkeley to a life full of new friends, new church, play dates, and summers spent at the pool, I find that prayer coming back to me time and again. I have taken bold steps already—I purchased some new cap-sleeve dresses. I put a picture of my largest tattoo on Facebook (much to my mother’s dismay) and answered honestly when someone who I’ve known for years asked whose arm it was on.

I’m echoing daily my friend’s prayer for my life, and I’m getting closer to baring it all. But I don’t think I’m quite ready to throw in the cardigan.

Jamie Calloway-Hanauer is a work-at-home mom of four—two under five, one in college, and one called away too soon, for whom the poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay” was surely written. After practicing law for eight years, Jamie has put that chapter of life behind her and begun a new chapter of editing, writing, and considering whether or not she should donate all her suits to charity. Be sure to check out her blog where she writes pseudo-weekly on the absurd, the ironic, and the faithful, and connect with her on Facebook or on Twitter.