Dear Friend: the gift & struggle of listening to my body in transition
My current season in liminal space & a story of when Scripture and church were not what I needed.
Dear Friend,
I'm in the final weeks of pregnancy, and much of my life feels like embodied waiting. I'm receiving a daily (if not hourly) invitation to surrender to what is true today, and often it is a struggle. I'm absolutely finding grace in these days of liminal space AND I'm constantly aware of how uncomfortable this place is, both literally and figuratively. This is a difficult place to be, and my body is speaking the truth of that every day.
My own limitations and awareness of the new beginning that is just around the corner make it hard to hold loosely the things I hope to get done before I'm holding a baby girl. Yet, with interrupted sleep & pregnancy insomnia, sharing my body as a Highly Sensitive Person, plus acid reflux as a few of my current challenges, I'm finding that surrender to my body's needs is often not only the gentlest way forward, but also the most helpful.
I'm so grateful for this reminder from episode 56 of The Presence Project podcast:
"Until my body is tended, my soul will not be able to receive."
These words are helping me to notice where I'm tempted to dismiss or undervalue care for my physical body. As a recovering bootstrapper, I know my own tendency to try harder when things aren't going the way I'd like, especially when I'm in transition. I'm tempted to treat myself like a problem to be solved, quickly forgetting the love that is mine in every season and day of my life. I want to think my way past this liminal space to the gifts of a new beginning and new rhythms. I want to ignore my physical needs, fearing how much I might need here, instead of being kind and curious about what my body might be trying to tell me.
It can be so stretching to slow myself down to be present in this liminal space that feels like a desert, and to reframe this place as an invitation to rest and receive.
I know one of the hardest parts of transition for me can be when the things that helped ground me in another season no longer fit. It only adds to the loss of transition to find that I'm not helped or comforted by the same things. The spiritual practices that served me in another season now feel awkward and only seem to highlight my disorientation and even the loss of my sense of self. I’m learning that so often, it means I need to start by listening to my body and creating space to hear to what messages she has for me.
"Our bodies tell the story that our minds sometimes don't know how to use words for...and in doing so, our bodies are directing us toward healing."
One of the gifts of recent years has been to see the Lord meeting me in my physical body, and to learn to bless those places as holy.
In another season of survival and transition, I found that I couldn't read my Bible. I tried over and over again. I wanted to find the Lord, but I'd open a page and it felt like nothing could reach my heart. I'd read notes in my margins from other times of connection with the Lord, feeling discouraged by how grounding and helpful my younger self had found those verses, when this version of me couldn't even receive them.
The words that could reach me in that season were from Shauna Niequist's book, Bittersweet. I remember how ashamed I felt that her words felt like a friend, when Scripture felt like it couldn't even penetrate the surface of my heart. But I remember pushing through the shame, allowing the gift of what could reach me to be present, holding tight to the lifeline of these stories and kind words.
The truth was that I was utterly exhausted and depleted, and there were so many valid reasons for that. It wasn't just Scripture that felt like it didn't fit in this season. I would stand in front of my closet, trying to pick out an outfit for church and sob. The decision of what to wear and the thought of getting myself presentable was too much for me.
I remember making a "secret" pact with the Lord that if my husband suggested a nap to me in that season, I would take one, even if I didn't want to. I needed a great many naps, and my husband recommended them more than I thought possible. There were many Sundays when I felt like a failure for staying home to sleep instead of sitting through a service. But this rest was everything I needed, and church wasn’t. As a friend once said to me, “sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is take a nap.” I needed to listen and care for my body, in order to have space for my soul to receive again.
Over the years, I've come to love the story of Elijah, utterly depleted and telling the Lord he'd like to die. In this time, the Lord started by caring for his physical needs. He sent an angel to make him cake and gave him the gift of sleep. There weren't sermons or lectures; there wasn't shame or punishment. There was just the gift of rest.
"Rest is a gift to receive,
not a punishment to fear."
-K. J. Ramsey, The Book of Common Courage
And much like Elijah, once my physical needs were cared for in that season of reading Bittersweet and taking naps, there was space for Scripture to reach my heart again. My soul could receive tending again. My body truly had been directing me towards the healing I needed.
There's a part of my brain that almost always forgets that just because I may know what transition is like or even done parts of this same thing before, I still have to live it. Understanding what I'm living may help me be gentler and kinder towards myself, but it doesn't diminish the challenges of living through change or real loss. This is the real work I'm doing here and now.
I'm working to be curious about what is working (breath prayers, beauty hunts, lectio divina, short gratitude lists) and what isn't working, even if it did in a different season.
I'm committed to listening to my body and receiving the rest and love that is mine here.
I’m learning to bless my limits and asking for the grace to see my needs as holy places.
I'm listening for how Jesus is with me here, and the invitations he has for me in this season.
I’ll end with some words that I’ve been holding onto in recent days. May they be a benediction for your own listening and rest, dear friend.
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
-Matthew 11: 28-30, MSG
And the Lord shall guide you continually,
and satisfy your soul in drought,
and strengthen your bones;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
and like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.
-Isaiah 58:11, MEV
"Sometimes rest is the most courageous work of all."
-K. J. Ramsey, The Book of Common Courage
Dear friend, I'd love to hear from you. Feel free to just hit "reply" to this email. I read and savor every email that comes my way, even if I don’t always have the space to respond. Whether you want to share a bit of what transition you’re in, how you are listening to your body, or if my words brought up anything for your heart, I’d be so glad to know.
Warmly,
Alison
I love that you are listening to your body - she is a wise teacher. I pray the next days go well for you and the arrival of your little girl is as easy as theyse things can be. Thanks for sharing the hard and holy of your story.
Alison, I'm new to your writing, but I feel like this piece is just what I needed in a time of unrest and confusion and tiredness. Sometimes it's just a matter of caring for ourselves, not shaming ourselves and resting in a God who can continue His work without us for a time. As a fellow bootstrapper myself, and a Type 2 on the Enneagram, it's hard to just sit and be, right where I am, and not serve others. Especially as an associate pastor, because that is part of my responsibilities. But I know part of that is what the Lord is asking me to do...and giving me permission to do as well. Thanks for sharing your journey.