You are enough.
Not because you did,
or said,
or thought,
or bought,
or became,
or created something special,
but because you always were.
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Can I begin to explain to you how honoured I am to welcome my mom here? I can't begin -- because if I do, we'll be here all day long. I will sum it up with this: my mom is the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever known. I've written about her here, here and here. (And a few more times at that.) So go on and read this and be encouraged and inspired and given a fat dose of the hope we all so desperately need...
(PS. You'll know we're clearly related by our mutual love of dashes/ellipses.)
by Christie Latta
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It came with a word, the year 2014 -- a word I had not chosen nor volunteered to experience. This word for the beginning of a fresh, new year, was unwanted -- and unrelenting.
It was clear that it was my word and that I had to own it, but everything in me wanted to push it away. Ignore its presence. Resist its power.
I wanted to shut my eyes tight for a really long time. Then, maybe, when I opened them again, the word would have disappeared -- and a lovely, flowy, happy, bright, cheerful word would be in its place. But no matter how long I kept my eyes closed, or how tightly I held them together... No matter how hard I prayed, or begged God for escape...
This was my word. And I was going to have to own it. Or bear the crushing, relentless weight of trying to fight it.
On January 10, 2014, I was diagnosed with cancer. And although one would think that this was the word for my year, it wasn't. The word that now covered me and surrounded me and accompanied me everywhere I went, was "hard".
This has been a hard year.
After my initial diagnosis, I had to undergo a plethora of tests -- both to confirm the diagnosis and to determine if the cancer had spread.
Every test was hard. And scary.
Waiting for a phone call with the results was hard. And scary.
Meeting with the Oncologist to hear the treatment plan was hard.
8 rounds of chemo, one every other week: hard.
Losing my hair (which I loved): hard. Scratch that... very hard.
Daily needles in my stomach after each chemo: hard.
Surgery to remove the tumour: hard.
Five weeks of daily radiation: hard.
And yet.
Please hear those two little words. And yet...
Through all of this -- all of the hard, all of the painful, all of the unwanted, humbling and achingly tiresome side effects of cancer -- there was Jesus.
Jesus with His grace. Jesus with His love. Jesus with His strength. Jesus with His hope. Jesus with His comfort. Jesus with His listening heart. Jesus with His strong arms. Jesus with His unrelenting mercy.
And He became enough. Truly. Jesus was enough. The days were still hard. The side effects still ravaged after each treatment and each needle.
But He was there. And He was enough for me. He pulled me close every day and held me tight as we waded through waves of grace.
When He tells you that His grace is enough, no matter what we face -- please believe it.
His. Grace. Is. Enough.
Jesus is enough.
Today, whatever you are going through... whatever is causing your heart to ache and your eyes to flow and your mind to numb to all else around you, please hear and believe this:
Jesus is enough for you. Even in the hard. Especially in the hard.
Just this week, I completed my final treatment. (Can I get an amen?!) I am now cancer free and determined to live with great joy every breath that Jesus gifts me. All for Him... who is Enough.
fal(photos from the day I finished my final treatment -- yeah that's right, Jesus gave me a rainbow)
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Let this be our anthem. Let this be sung and breathed and prayed over us today.
Let this be strung like a banner from my fingertips to yours.
Let this be soaked and steeped in the deepest part of our membrane.
Let this be tattooed on our brow, branded on our chest, etched on our doors so all who walk through will know this cataclysmic truth:
Christ, be enough for me. Christ, be enough for me. Christ, be enough for me.
And let you and I believe it, too. Let you and I wholly believe it, too.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teUxQpnhezY
This is day nine. You can find the rest of this series right here.
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The feeling stayed with me long after it happened. It was exactly like Maya Angelou said.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
Hardly anything had happened, but still, I felt stupid and embarrassed. I'd been cleaning the wall at Starbucks, washing away -- what felt like a years worth -- of sticky syrup and milk stains, and I lost my footing on the step stool I stood on. I grabbed ahold of where the giant jugs of iced tea sat, and in seemingly slow motion, took the three jugs of tea down with me.
Tea seemed to go... well, everywhere. I stood there sopping wet. The floor was covered. So were the counters. And all of the drink ingredients. Customers stared at me.
Cricket cricket.
Sometimes I'm okay when catastrophic events happen. Like for example when someone faints, I generally can get them a cup of juice or a cold cloth or fan their face with air. Or if a woman was pregnant and beside me and suddenly happened to go into labour, I hope I'd be able to call her family. Or at least dial 911.
But when three giant jugs of tea crashed, I just stood there.
(Suddenly everyone is thankful I didn't try and become a nurse.)
My boss came out from the back room and, let me say kindly, made a bigfathugegiantmassive deal about the whole shebang.
My cheeks burned bright and hard, and it's in moments like those that make me want to disappear like quicksand right there in the floor. Or clock out early and then mail my notice and never walk through the doors again.
Dramatic? Okay fine. But I hate embarrassment. I hate feeling stupid.
I failed my drivers test twice. I don't want to tell you that. I'm ashamed. I'm scared you're judging me.
The truth is, I want to impress you.
I prefer to hand you a long list of things I'm really proud of. I'd give you my high school English mark before I'd ever show you Math or Science. My Instagram is full of things I'm happy to photograph and then share -- art work I've worked hard on, mostly. If you asked me what I'm up to in life right now, I'd tell you all about Choose Brave, and (in)courage, Hashtag Hope, and my writing. I'd be more hesitant to share about Starbucks, or my currently-in-progress certificate.
I don't want to share my shame and embarrassments, no matter how measly they may seem to you. I want to be carefully crafted, humble yet thought of as great. And I think if I can craft myself just so carefully, I may possibly be enough. Enough for me, yes.
But more than that, enough for you.
Does feeling embarrassed influence whether or not you think you're enough?
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I was seventeen years old the day I wrote the poem.
I remember that day well. It was one of those impressionable days, the kind that engrave themselves kindly inside of you. It was quiet — his class was always quiet — but that day was especially reverent. I went there daily, the obvious reason being because I was taking his course, the other because it had become my sanctuary. In those days I needed a safe place. I still do.
It was November, I think, and a snowfall had just begun outside. My seat was beside the window so I could see the flakes floating down and I was tired, yet wide awake. There weren’t very many serious writers in the class. Most of the kids were taking it because they thought it would be easy. I was taking it because I thought I might be found.
That’s usually why I write.
He started off the class in his habitual way, encouraging the use of the dash and the word ought. And then he said, just like he’d said all the days before, ”And remember, when you write: write from what you know.”
It’s the best writing advice I’ve been given, unbeknownst to me at the time. Because I didn’t know a lot then, not really. I hadn’t experienced pain or trauma or heartbreak. I didn’t know how I could write from what I knew, when all I seemed to know felt so terribly uninspiring.
I did know words held power. I knew this because of how their power had affected me. There are words I’ve read in books that I could quote to you, words that have impressed themselves deep into the folds of who I am. They didn’t make me feel happy or sad, which is exactly why they stayed with me. They made me feeling something I’d never felt before.
Those are the kind of words I want to write.
I'm over at (in)courage today... won't you click HERE and come join me?
PS. For anyone who has been following my brave momma's journey... today is her FINAL treatment. She will be ALL DONE everything -- chemotherapy and surgery and radiation! We cannot even celebrate enough. God is good, God is good, God is good. Just praising Him. Just thanking Him. Just so extraordinarily and abundantly grateful for this miracle and this healing and this remarkable life we each have been given.
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Jesus, It's early morning on this tired Monday and this day stretches long ahead, this week stretching even longer.
It's the kind of day where guilt and disappointment press down hard upon me, the suffocating and desolate kind, and I wonder how I'm supposed to make it through this day, let alone making it through feeling secured and enough and whole.
I'm always reminding myself to "choose enough, choose enough, choose enough," but there are times where I feel attaining that choice is close to an impossibility.
So today, instead of whispering choose enough over and over like a rhythmic ritual in my head, I'll ask you, Jesus, if you'll be enough for me. Because the truth is: today I don't feel enough. I'm fragile and shaky and a little wilted and not enough.
But you are enough for me.
This is my prayer, the prayer I'll breathe and think and whisper today on this weary Monday. May I not choose enough, but choose you to be enough for me.
Amen.
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Quote from Mary Setrakian, as made famous by Sierra Boggess
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The world embeds this idea of unenoughness inside of us, proclaiming who we are even before we're able to try and grasp that ourselves. But I'm standing up for us now, refusing this idea and refusing this label. We are enough.
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I had the privilege of hanging out with an amazing lady: the lovely Crystal Stine. I met Crystal this summer in Arkansas at the (in)courage retreat. Crystal is one of the most genuine encouragers I know. I can honestly say that she has been a constant source of encouragement for me since we started corresponding via email this past March. She asked me to come chat with her about being enough for her 31 day series. Feel free to watch this, but feel even more free to simply pretend it's a podcast so you don't have to see my face. (I'd prefer if you chose the latter.)
Also. About twenty minutes before we were going to do this, I woke up. Haphazardly threw on clothes (definitely wearing pyjama bottoms, shhh) then haphazardly threw on makeup, hence the puffy eyes. My eyes are real puffy in the morning. (Too much information for you? Sorry. But you needed a warning.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YfhashfX2s&feature=youtu.be
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And now I'll leave you with this:
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Welcome to my first blog series. A terrifying thing, it is. This is day one of 31 Days of Choosing Enough. You and I are enough -- just as we are -- except the thing is, most days I just don't believe that.
If you'd like, you can find all of the posts in this series right here.
Let me tell you a not-so-secret secret: I am the very best worst decision maker in the world. Or at least in Canada. Maybe Ontario. Okay Dundas. Moving on.
I am particularly awful when it comes to choosing an ice cream flavour. It honestly feels impossible to me. (Other than tiger stripe. Now that I can easily pass on.) I walk up to the counter and stare into the vast and limitless board of delectable options. I wonder: IS THIS REALLY FAIR? The ice cream scooper kid seems to think so. He asks me if I'm ready approximately four and a half times. And just who does he think he is?
Finally -- noticing everyone who I've come with crunching the last bits of their cones -- I make a choice. Usually it's a different flavour than one I've tried before. I'm basically vowing to try every kind of ice cream in the world at least once. I know, I know, my goals are real deep.
And yes, to answer the question I know is swimming around your pretty head, I actually do realize choosing an ice cream flavour is not a life altering decision. (Somedays I might disagree, but that's for another time.)
If you were to sit me down over an iced coffee and ask me to consider my greatest struggle, without a doubt I would answer, "I am not enough."
Not enough? You might ask. For what?
"Not enough in any capacity." I would reply.
And if I were to continue to answer honestly, this is what I would say.
"I'm not pretty enough, like my mom and sister. I'm not smart enough, not like my dad and brother. I'm not as musical as my brother-in-law, or as good of a writer as Emily Freeman or Jeannette Walls or Lisa Sampson or John Green. I'm not funny like Annie or Shannan. And let me tell you, I only wish my lettering could look like Lindsay's."
I find myself stopping there, all of sudden painfully aware that I may have just totally freaked you out with my fat dose of honesty.
And maybe you would be freaked out and want to run away, wishing you'd never asked me.
Or maybe -- just maybe -- you felt yourself nodding your head, recognizing those resurfacing feelings of not enough. And if that was you, then maybe you want to come along with me these next 30 days. Each day this October I'll be here thinking about this idea of choosing enough. I'm not entirely sure I know what that looks like, but perhaps we can figure that out together.
I'm a bad decision maker, it's true. But this isn't like the ice cream shop. This time there are only two choices. The choice to wallow in all my unenoughness, or the choice to choose enough, just as I am.
Today, I'll choose enough.
I may have to remind myself before the day is over, or every hour, or possibly every fifteen minutes.
But today, I will choose enough.
Which one are you going to choose?
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