In Courage

This opus is enough for about 5 blog posts. It turned out to be so long and unbridled that I have divided it into 3 parts.  I don't have the time am unwilling to take the time to edit. If you are masochistic enough to want to plow through it, please feel free to give yourself several days. Just pretend that I'm one of those diligent daily bloggers, and do one part per day...

Part 1

I’d set aside the day (yesterday) to read, pray, get my head together (as if), and write.

I did the first two, then dallied around and wasted some time. Then I dallied some more.

Finally, I sat down to write. I clicked onto the Margery icon on my desktop.

It looked different. At the top were the bottoms of four little pages that said something like “Lorem Ipsum.” I could see the bottom half of my email address, underneath which there was a space in which to type in my password. “What in the world?” I grumbled. “Why are they always changing things around? Old people don’t like change.”  Nevertheless, I obediently typed in my password, and

nothing happened.

I redid it multiple times. And nothing happened then, either.

I couldn’t open my own page. There was no way to get into “settings.” None of the usual stuff was at the top. Nothing but “Lorem Ipsum” x 4 and a blank space for my password that evidently wasn’t working.

I clicked on the last post’s comments to see what would happen. A new page came up inviting me to join Google and to set up a Blogger blog. “But I already have a Blogger blog. Three, actually.”

The stomach tightens. The pulse quickens. Has Blogger somehow forgotten me? Has some random glitch erased everything? Are those thousands... hundreds of thousands... of words still floating around in space? Has our story been eradicated? Did I forget to pay for something, renew something?

Panicking, I click on Katherine’s Mom’s Blog and In the Meantime to see if they’re still there. Yes, but no way to “sign in” on either of them, either.

Maybe something’s just wrong with my laptop. I grab the Ipad and click on Marg. The strange things aren’t at the top of the page. Sigh of relief.

Until I try to sign in.

I run to the antique family computer and try to access through Internet Explorer instead of Google. Still no luck.

I realize there’s no way I can get on my own blog to let you know that I can’t get on my own blog. I can’t even comment.

Willing myself to calm down, I go to Blogger Help and jump through every hoop they ask me to jump through for about an hour. I shut it down and start it back. I read the directions, and go from external Help site to site. (Ask.com?) But I don’t know about any of this stuff. They’re talking about Browsers and Cookies and this and that. To me, a Browser is a recreational shopper, and a Cookie is something you eat. I’m clicking on every link, emailing cries for help to Blogger. The answers are all useless.

I read the “Last Resort” section.  I start crying out-loud in frustration. I’ve already done those things, or don’t have a clue how to do them.

And then I really come to the last resort, and lay my hands on the keyboard and pray.

When I open my eyes, I notice a part I didn’t notice before (in my panic) about switching from Google to Google Chrome. I download it, go through more hoops, and finally, shakily, I find my way back to familiar territory.

My little space.

And I realize it feels like home.

Part 2

Never, in my wildest imagination, could I have guessed that I would come to feel this way about this vehicle of communication. Friends and long-term readers know about my life-long aversion to gadgetry of every kind. I don’t even like to talk on the phone.

I still don’t love this battered plastic rectangle with lettered keys; I love the community of invisible friends that it has created and enabled. The prospect of losing that fellowship made me realize how much I would miss it if it were gone.

I would miss you.

I had a fresh comprehension of what a privilege this whole blogging thing is… remembering that with privilege comes responsibility.

And, in this case, risk.

I am not completely naïve. It’s been a calculated risk. I’ve sent out an open invitation to one and all to come into my life and the life of my family and share our journey. Not to have the run of the house, though. I haven’t opened the door to every room. Some doors will remain closed for the duration. For every story I share, there are 100 I don’t. (Won’t or can’t.)

(For newcomers, here is how it all began: http://katherineawolf.blogspot.com/2008/10/public-exposure.html)

A while back, a reader advised me to “put my big girl panties on” in dealing with negative comments. When you invite the whole world into your little corner of it, you’d better be ready for some carpet stains. But it has been astonishing how respectful my visitors have been. 99.9% of the comments have been encouraging, insightful, and enlightening. They have been a blessing and a great help.

Over time, we’ve come to know each other a little. Obviously, most of you know me better than I know most of you. Still, I have felt a beautiful sense of kinship and support here. We’ve built relationship. (I’ve even gotten to meet some of you in Real Life!) It has come to feel like a (relatively) safe place for me. Almost as if there were an invisible hedge of protection around the perimeters of this virtual space. (That’s been a prayer, by the way.)

I’ve never wanted this place to feel like an exclusive club. I have purposely encouraged a variety of readership. As I’ve told you before, I don’t like the concept of just “preachin’ to the choir.” Diversity of opinion should be a welcome challenge for all of us.


I do almost none of the things you’re supposed to do in order to grow blog readership. So when someone new ends up here, I’ve felt like maybe there’s a reason. There are “first time readers” every time I look at the numbers. The majority take a peek and say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”  A few stay and become friends.

But there’s a little fear in the back of my head that sneaks out every once and a while. It whispers things like this: “There are people reading who don’t like you or anything you stand for. They are just reading so they can mock you. They are delighted every time you make a fool of yourself. You provide entertainment.”

It’s kind of creepy to think that there may be people like that looking at my family pictures. Makes me feel like somebody’s going through my underwear drawer. But it’s the reality of the world we live in.

I don’t allow myself to dwell on those thoughts, though. The positive things that have resulted in risking vulnerability for the sake of openness far outweigh the negative.

Because there have been relatively few, the negative comments on the “Wounds” post caught me off-guard.

Then, I made a mistake: I responded. I engaged myself with the negativity.

I know better. Defending yourself never does any good. (“Jesus did not defend himself…”)  I didn’t follow the example of my role model. It only caused a backlash.

By the third unkind comment, my phone was going crazy.

It wasn’t just about me putting my big girl pants on.

The negativity was hurting people I love. Friends were angry. Some members of my family were upset. They don’t want/need to be associated with that kind of junk. It’s not what this place is about; it’s definitely not what other family sites are about.

It’s not the message of our story.

So I took it all down.

It made me sad to do so, because I felt the message was an important one.* One that I was supposed to publish for some reason.

Someone needed to hear it?

The next day, a heavy weight of discouragement descended. I felt crushed… little… defeated. I couldn’t really laugh, even though I was with some loved ones from out of town who normally make me die laughing.

My husband was exceptionally sweet to me.

He knew I was wounded.

Obviously, this is about a lot more than a couple of unkind comments. (Eph. 6:12)

Truth be told, none of this is easy for me now. I feel terminally tired. Out of steam. I’ve got some health problems. Just found out about a new one. I have a feeling that I’m not going to be a poster child for the AARP. I have to fight to stay on my feet sometimes. When I get to lie down, the last thing I feel like doing is writing.

Not complaining, just explaining. It is what it is. How it is. Whatever.

Discouragement is not always easy to avoid.

For any of us.

Part 3

I went to church on Sunday feeling bruised and small.

The sermon was entitled “A Call To Encouragement.”

http://www.sjumc.org/a-call-for-encouragement

Every word out of the preacher’s mouth was from God to me.

He talked about the ways in which the world can be such a discouraging place. How rampant a critical spirit is… how we humans love to tear each other down in order to feel better about ourselves. He talked about how criticism and negativity give off a foul smell that permeates all it comes in contact with. (Poisoning the emotional environment and crippling spirits, I would add. Btw, this is a very liberal paraphrase.)

But he encouraged us to remember our mission and our calling.

Rather than wasting energy putting out fires of negativity and criticism, we need to expend our energy in the ministry of encouragement.

En-courage.

From the French cour… from the Latin cor: heart

In courage.

We are called to instill each other with courage.

Take heart!

I have you in my heart…

and I’ve got your back covered.

Be of good cheer… fear not… the world, with all of its systems of destructive power, has been overcome!

And that is exactly what so many of you have done for me over and over and over again… some of you from the first hallucinatory, agonizing days in ICU. Your words have been powerful.

Think about it: We possess such latent power.

You have it. I have it. The power to bless, the power to express love, the power to build up, the power to encourage each other along this challenging journey. (Coupled with the equally potent power to curse, to tear down, to discourage.)

The latest outpouring of encouragement was well worth a down day or two for me.


Thank you so much for the kind comments and emails. The calls and hugs. For the avalanche of love and support.

It has reminded me of why I’m still doing this thing:

My prayer is that this will be a place of encouragement.

I hope that my sloppy stories might encourage someone to keep going when they feel like giving up. I hope that somebody might think, “Well, if God hasn’t given up on a mess like Kim, there’s still hope for me.”

I pray that a little lost sheep, thinking she’s gone way too far to go back home, might read a word here that starts her on her journey back to her Father’s open arms.

I pray that a seeker, drawn here in spite of himself, might want to know more about whatever cocktail that crazy woman is having. Whatever drug she’s on.

And that is why this will continue as it is.

Let’s make a pact to encourage as many people as we can.

It could change the world.

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“When we get together, I want to encourage you in your faith, but I also want to be encouraged by yours.” Rom. 1:12

After debate, discussion, and prayer, I have made the decision to keep the comments turned on, and to put the Anonymous option back up again. The Dark will not transcend the Light here.

Here’s the caveat: If the comment is ugly or unkind, it will be deleted as soon as I see it.

Those are the rules for now. There may be more later.

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To see how many times the Bible mentions the ministry of encouragement, click here.

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*Today, many people (if they believe in God at all) view Him as a kill-joy. (Buzz-killer in current vernacular?) They’ve experienced Christianity as nothing more than a list of restrictive rules meant to keep them from doing what they want to do. The God of that religion doesn’t seem very loving or appealing.

It took me a long time to understand that the rules are not for our restriction, but for our protection. God’s not keeping something back from us. He’s given us our freedom, which is a glorious, but dangerous, thing. He is sad when we use it to harm ourselves. A parent (or grandparent) grieves when a child is hurt. I was not angry that James disobeyed my rule, I was just sorry that he hurt himself.

Since about day four of blogging, I have reiterated that I am not a perfect person. I make mistakes daily. I hope that my mistakes may be redeemed and used for good. In the incident in question, James and I both made mistakes. We both learned something. I was honest about the circumstances in the hope that someone else could learn something from them, too.

If you missed the post and would like to read it, email me at kta2754@gmail.com, and I’ll try to send it to you as soon as I find a spare minute.

Love, Kim