Embodied: a letter from K.J. Ramsey
God Comes to Find You
Dear friend,
A long time ago, in a state much more humid than Colorado, in a body far sicker than the one I am in now, I believed no one could ever understand what it was like to suffer like me.
Shame had coiled its slimy skin around my life like a boa-constrictor, and I had nearly given up on wriggling out of its brawny grasp. I was only 24, too sick to leave my house on most days, and had just quit the second of two great full-time jobs in my career in community development since graduating college at 21. My husband was delaying his seminary degree to help care for me; his own vocation felt more like a mirage than a hope. I was just on the brink of launching my writing career with the non-profit I worked at (the folks behind When Helping Hurts) when my body decided to hurl my dreams to the ground like a belligerent woman throwing plates on a concrete floor. Our dreams, hope, and my faith in my own ability to be a contributing member of society were shattered pieces of porcelain on the ground of a cold, lonely life.
(Here's a photo of me and Ryan from that year. Behind my badass pixie, I was really struggling.)
While I stared at the fragments of my life from my perch on the pleather couch I almost never left, I was fairly certain all our friends’ lives were bright, shiny china settings at full tables, where laughter was abundant, wine was flowing, and time seemed more than an endless descent into a long, dark night.
It was easier to believe I was uniquely afflicted than to bear the weight of my uncertain future. It was easier to distance myself from others than to imagine that they might have pain too.
Shame—the sense that the ache in my soul for wholeness was both unobtainable and my own damn fault—had put a continent between my heart and the hearts of others.
I was pulling back the covers over my life, sinking day by day into that overstuffed couch, staring into nothingness, angry at God for stealing my dreams. I was certain everyone else was out in the world enjoying life with ease. And I was even more certain they were unwilling and unable to sit with me in my vast sorrow.
Sometimes the assault of suffering lasts so long we can’t help but constantly duck and cover. We hide behind unacknowledged resentment, certain that anyone outside our safe cocoon of self-pity is just another attack or disappointment waiting to happen. What begins as self-protection from the real blows of life turns into self-diminishment. *|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="Sometimes the assault of suffering lasts so long we can't help but constantly duck and cover. What begins as self-protection from the real blows of life turns into self-diminishment." @kjramseywrites #ThisTooShallLast]|*
We make ourselves smaller when do not allow both ourselves and others to be fully human: awkward, bursting with uncomfortable feelings and sensations, capable of wounding, and replete with decent intentions paired with horrible execution.
Shame covers us like a blanket; at first it feels comforting to wallow, but we’re actually being smothered.
Hallelujah, God comes to find us in all the places shame is strangling us. *|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="Shame covers us like a blanket; at first it feels comforting to wallow, but we're actually being smothered. Hallelujah, God comes to find us in all the places shame is strangling us." @kjramseywrites #ThisTooShallLast]|*
While the shards of my dreams, stability, and hopes still lay on the ground, God came to find me in a friend who stopped by without texting first, church members who delivered meals without us asking, and leaders who brought the Body and Blood to my couch when I couldn’t crawl my way to our congregation.
And, if we were having a frank, two-way conversation, I imagine you might say, “KJ—sure, it’s great that people came alongside you, but no one comes alongside me. I’ve tried. I’ve asked. Is God not coming to find me?”
I see you sinking, even as you read this. I know you’ve tried. And I know you’ve been hurt.
God comes to find us—all of us—but I wonder if we turn him away because we’d prefer his presence to be less awkward.
Our aches and pains carry his voice, but we’d rather hear a song.
The faces before us radiate his presence, but we’d rather receive him like a birthday present than a long, uncomfortable silence or an embarrassing river of tears being seen.
The people next to us bear his love, but we’d rather love come glittering on unicorn’s wings than in the blundering platitudes and cringe-worthy attempts at validation most people give.
Love—it’s actually here in the people we fear and judge, including ourselves. Love. I believe it’s already in your life, waiting to be discovered, waiting for your willingness to encounter the human face of God.
God chose to make love something you could touch, hear, hold, and see. Love’s face is the human man Jesus, and his eyes and heart and words and hands extend to us in the finite, flawed, hurtful people right in front of us—including the person looking back at you in the mirror. *|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="God chose to make love something you could touch, hear, hold, and see. Love's face is the human man Jesus, and his hands extend to us in the finite, flawed, hurtful people right in front of us, including ourselves." @kjramseywrites #ThisTooShallLast]|*
God comes to find us in every part of our humanity we most want to reject. He relentlessly seeks you in every unpleasant sensation and awkward conversation.
Today and this week, I pray you’ll look at your life with courage and expectancy to see the human face of God. And as you see those human faces—the strained, awkward, even annoying human faces right in front of you—I pray you’ll receive them with patience and curiosity. God comes to find us, but we receive his relentless love through patience and curiosity toward the parts of ourselves and others we’d rather avoid.
Love and friendship in suffering are born not in a rush of rescue or help that makes all the pain go away, but in small moments of courage where we decide to try receiving the sensations, situations, and people right here, right now, as bearing the presence of God.
And, because this is just a tiny offering into what is a stormy sea of reality, I'll be answering your questions about friendships during an Instagram Live video Tuesday Nov. 26th at 6pm MST/8pm EST. I hope you'll join me then.
Goodness
+ To Hear: I'm doing a radio interview in the morning (5:10am MST/7:10am EST) about lament in church + This Too Shall Last. You can listen to the livestream here (the recording should be there afterwards as well).
+ To Read: I was grateful to have a piece published with Christianity Today last week about making space for suffering in our churches. Read it here. It's nearly Advent. Nearly year since 2008, I've read Watch for the Light, which includes reflections from writers including Kathleen Norris to Meister Eckhart, Annie Dillard, and Thomas Merton.
+ To Sing: I'm loving the new The Porter's Gate album, Neighbor Songs. I'm also listening to S. Carey's Yellowstone album on repeat these days.
+ To Share: Join the conversations happening on Instagram via the #ThisTooShallLast hashtag. Use it to share the grace you find in suffering, whether that's the grace of bold honesty or surprising joy. You'll find so many beautiful stories and thoughts from more than just me there.
Thank you for sharing a little email space with me to find grace and joy in your ordinary life.
In the courage of Christ,
KJ
P.S. I have some exciting news coming next month about one more way we'll be able to have conversations about finding grace in suffering. Stay tuned!