Everyday Observations | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

January

The Silent Contingent: Words from a Woman who did not march or celebrate the inauguration of Donald Trump

My skin is jumping with an electrical charge right now. I sped home after dropping the girls off at school, shaking my hands at the wrist. An involuntary tic akin to seizing. Its rapidity and energy escalated as my thoughts raced and my anxiety climbed.

There are words inside me fighting to escape. They’ve been restless and antsy, vocal yet unintelligible. For days they’ve bounced like a current looking for an outlet but with no real shape or message.

Today they began to march. To a rhythmic cadence along my bloodstream. They congested all avenues of thought and overwhelmed the streets of my insides. They are not angry but they are afire with conviction. They will be heard even if there are no ears to listen.

And this is what they say, my words. They say…

“I will not like or comment on your political posts. I do not like your political parties or your brand of angry free speech. I do not like your doomsday vitriol or your celebration of division. I do not like your classless arrogance in either direction. It sickens me.

But I do love you. Not because love’s in fashion. Not because tolerance is sexy. Because I’m pretty intolerant of biting nastiness…..I don’t care which side of the aisle you espouse. Not because you think like me. Not because you believe like me. Not because you hurt like me.

I love you – gay, legalist, feminist, conservative, black, white, yellow, red – because that is the posture most consistent with how we’re made. That’s where personal purpose and fulfillment reside. Anonymous anger feels good in a crowd. It temporarily quells that involuntary tic akin to seizing; it calms the marching ants trying to breakout. But it leaves a residue on our souls.

I did not vote for either of your candidates. And you can be angry about that too. But the same freedom that allows you to march and protest and vote for a man of questionable character affords me the right to vote my conscience.

I believe there are many like me, people who voted both sides of the ticket, who are the quiet contingent.

We are not quiet because we don’t have anything to say.

We are not quiet because we are ignorant.

We are not quiet because we are apathetic.

We are quiet because there is no climate for listening.

I am hungry for discourse.

Sane, kind words bent towards understanding. We will not enter your melee. We will not bloody you with our words nor will we invite your unproductive rants.

I am a woman who was sexually abused as a child by a man in spiritual and familial authority over me. But I am no less a woman because I will not march with a placard. I am also no less a patriot because I will not support a man who devalues women.

Go for it, angry friends. Throw your elbows and force change if you can.

But there will be a corps of us in the pockets of America who are believing in the subversive acts of loving, listening, and championing. You may not hear us. You may not see us on Fox News or MSNBC but you can be certain of a quiet revolution. And it will look like people who are different from each other sitting down to gently nurture healing and understanding.

Discount us if you will; mock us as naive if it feels good. But at the end of the day, we will be able to point to real individuals with real names and real histories and real challenges whose lives are significantly and measurably better because we stewarded our fight well.”

The marching has slowed. The current expressed. And that is what they had to say, my words.

December

Spilling the Secret to Living Your Life Like a Boss

We are not sissies.

Or whiners.

We’re not quitters.

Or victims.

Here’s to doing the hard things in 2017.

I don’t really subscribe to the New Year’s resolution. In fact, I have vegetables in my refrigerator that will outlast most of the declarations of change blowing on the wind today.

But I am a sucker for a good starting point. The writer in me likes a rich, symbolic beginning: birthdays, anniversaries, the start of school or summer, the start of a new job…………and a new year.

So…..I’m wondering……can we make a collective commitment here for 2017? Something akin to a group resolution? Perhaps if we do it together, we might actually see it through to some sort of success. A support group for strong women who want to be stronger. If we could all persist in doing one thing that could make the most dramatic difference in our lives in the next twelve months, I think it would be this…

I will do the hard things.

This single determination will decide the impact of our 2017.

Hands down.

Without question.

So what is the landscape of “the hard things”? They’re the things that live on an incline. They’re hard to reach, and your inner naysayer will venomously suggest they require more than you have.

But you are stronger than you know. And you will only touch that by testing the bounds. By pushing you harder than you ever have.

It may look like getting healthy, losing weight, making better food choices, exercising self-discipline, running a 10K.

It may look like intentionally loving and serving a hard, distant spouse while allowing Jesus to fill your need to be loved and protected. It may look like choosing to forgive a cheating spouse for your own freedom and health. It may look like marriage counseling – with or without your spouse.

That’s the hard thing.

It may look like brave, honest, scary, big steps to beat an addiction. Maybe it’s checking yourself into rehab.

It may look like opening your mouth to someone you trust to say, “I’m drowning and I need help.” And then following through with difficult action steps.

It may be the heavy lifting of faith. Believing what we know when our feelings are screaming something different. Such unreliable wretches our feelings are.

If it feels like it may kill you, you’re probably on the right track.

It may be removing yourself from social media because the comparison and the falsehood devours your soul.

It may be doing the thing that terrifies you.

Maybe it’s a difficult confession. A secret that imprisons you with fear and lies. If I know anything, I know the haunt of the hidden. And the healing that is possible with its release.

It may be committing to get up and shower and dress every morning when the depression beckons you to stay in bed. To go outside and walk around the block for fresh air. To go to dinner with friends. When you feel like every step and every breath is a slogging through the mud of heaviness and hopelessness.

It may be making huge sacrifices to get out of debt.

It may be a dogged persistence to awaken at 5:30 to spend time with Jesus. And don’t dare tell me you can’t. We do what’s important to us. It will take a while to create that habit, so don’t cop out the first week with, “I just can’t.” Rubbish. You can do it, friend.

I will do the hard things.

And if we do great for ten days and suck on Day 11. Then we get our butts up on Day 12 and get back after it.

And if we suck for the whole month of April. Then we start again on May 1.

It’s really not how many days we win that will determine our success. It’s what we do the day after we fail that will. Failure is part of the process. Expect it. Use it. If we allow it to fuel our efforts, we will last for the long haul.

That’s the hard thing.

That’s how we change.

That’s how we LIVE.

We were made to do hard things, but we coddle our lazy, scared selves and call it self-preservation. We call it our right. We claim it as our luxury. Frightfully, we may even call it wisdom. When it’s deluded self-sabotage.

We were fashioned to do hard things.

We will dig deep, friends.

And there will be two vital principles we must espouse for success.

I will not despise the day of small beginnings (Zechariah 4:10). This is the graveyard of dreams and goals. Look around; the headstones mark the heart’s desires of millions. In loud, showy, sparkly, sexy, BIG America, we have lost respect for the small, good thing. We think our “thing” is only valid if it impresses thousands, costs thousands, or helps thousands. Garbage. The new American Dream (big on fast, short on effort) is a societal construct not consistent with our inner fabric. Newly married couples should have houses furnished with hand-me-downs not debt. Folks trying to lose weight should celebrate two pounds a week. Folks following a dream have to wake up, believe, and work hard even when that twenty-four hours holds no signs of progress. We cannot languish in the days of small beginnings; we cannot underestimate the impact of simply sticking with a thing day after day.
I will have a long-term goal with a short-term perspective. We must daily slay the temptation to feel overwhelmed. For instance, my body is vertically challenged and bent towards roundness. If I told myself, “You have to eat healthy and exercise for the rest of your life if you want to maintain a healthy weight,” I would want to quit before I started. That sounds daunting and terrible. But if I just have to do it today, that feels totally doable. I can exercise and eat healthy for one day. And then I wake up tomorrow and tell myself the same thing. Because a whole bunch of todays stapled together make a month. They make a new habit. They make a changed life.

Whatever your “thing” is for the next season of life, fight on, fierce one. I’m cheering you on all the way. I’m believing in you even when you’re not. I’ve got faith you can borrow. Because you were made for better things.

And we will not be selfish in the fight. We will not get up simply to make our lives more palatable. To be happier. To focus on me, me, me. We will use our strength to help and serve and love.

And, in the end, we will find ourselves happier, more whole, more fulfilled than we ever dreamed possible.

Here’s to doing the hard things in 2017.

December

How to Make Your Dollar Go Farther This Christmas…

I met with a man this week who is willing to give me his house.

For free.

For real.

That was a first for me.

Hold up…..let me fill you in on the backstory.

——————–

A year and a half ago I met Keisha. In jail. She was about half way through a three-year incarceration. She had grown up in a good home: two parents, a brother, raised in church, gave her life to Jesus around the age of six, and was baptized then. A storybook beginning.

Until Keisha turned 12.

She caught the itch of rebellion and took a hard right off the straight and narrow. She was an unwed mother and in an abusive relationship with the father of her sons at age 13. Bad choices led to more bad choices, an apathetic attitude, and a disrespect for authority and others in general.

Her trajectory was set towards jail from the onset of adolescence.

Fast forward 20 years on that path and Keisha is incarcerated on December 5, 2013. Once she walked in, she did not walk out for three years.

And though Keisha had taken a detour from God’s blueprint for her life, His plan for her would not be thwarted. She brought her hard, defiant perspective into the detention center when she was booked, but this was His response…

Since she tried it His way, she has been baptized again, seen the Lord bless her with and develop her spiritual gifts, and grown into this crazy vibrant relationship with Him.

Six weeks ago, I received a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Which is not all that uncommon. I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t know. Who am I kidding? I don’t answer calls from numbers I do know (I abhor talking on the phone).

The next day I received a call from the same number. And this time there was a voicemail.

When I listened, I heard Keisha’s voice on the other end, “I’m at home, Mrs. Cookie! I was released yesterday.”

And I really am as spastic as you might guess, so I started screamining. “AAAAHHHHH! WHAT!?!?!? How did this happen?? I just saw you on Sunday. We just prayed together on Sunday, and we did not know you might go to court. Tell me what happened!!!!!!!”

Since Keisha’s release, we have spoken every few days, enjoyed several lunch dates, and filmed a few interviews. I’ve had the opportunity to walk beside her and witness the challenges that accompany freedom after a long incarceration…

After a year and a half of jail ministry, I am confident we can do better. I have witnessed the unlikelihood of success when a woman comes in and sees Jesus use incarceration to protect her and woo her, and then we send her back into circumstances that haven’t changed. As great as the changes in her may be, the assault on God’s work in her life is IMMEDIATE upon release.

I am telling you, it is no wonder many return to decades-old destructive choices.

Enter the vision for Five Sparrows.

It is the long-term vision of Tenacious Grace to bring a transition home for formerly incarcerated women to the Pee Dee – Five Sparrows (based on Luke 12:6). A safe place dedicated to providing the support and scaffolding critical to these ladies’ ability to write a new story with Jesus. Spiritual stability, community, encouragement, life skills, counseling, accountability, and job connections to name a few.

The need is present.

The need is great.

And as confident as I am of my own name, I am confident this vision is from the Lord. It is consistent with His heart for the oppressed, the marginalized, and the captive:

“Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’”

Matthew 25:37-40 (NLT)

One way I know it’s from Him is because I didn’t like the idea initially. Well, I LOVED the idea, but not its attachment to me. I suggested He tell someone else to do it. In a very Moses-like fashion, I have assured Him I can’t do this. I have told Him it’s too hard. I don’t know how to raise money. We, the Tenacious Grace team, have a lot to learn about recovery programs and recidivism. I have bargained and tried to convince Him this is too big for us. Yet He is unpersuaded.

He listens. He smiles. And each time He reminds me so very little of this depends on us.

So. With no confidence in myself but all the faith in my God, I tell you this thing is going to happen. Write it in your Bible. Write in your journal. Write it somewhere you can come back and appreciate God’s faithfulness.

It will happen.

I may get hit by a bus tomorrow, but His vision will persist to fruition.

Now back to the house…

——————–

We have been sharing and casting this vision for the past six months, and we’ve gotten connected with a homeowner who is willing to donate his home to Tenacious Grace for Five Sparrows.

Isn’t it too perfect?

But here’s the thing. It’s on their family land and has to be moved to make way for the house they’re building.

We are looking for partners who believe in this vision, and here’s how you can get involved, depositing your dollars into someone’s future and providing hope…

How can you invest in the futures of formerly incarcerated women?

Get Keisha connected to a job opportunity in Darlington County. Like yesterday. This is our most immediate desire. As we are walking with her through her transition, this is vital to her future. She is warm, super capable, loves Jesus, and ready to hit the ground running. Make some calls and help us help her.
Donate financially and consider scheduling a recurring gift. At the very least, it will cost $18,000 to move the house, about the same to repair it once it’s relocated, and we’ll also have the expense of laying a foundation before the move. And this speaks nothing of insurance, operating expenses, etc… (I had to cut the list short as I was starting to hyperventilate). As a registered nonprofit, your donation is tax-deductible, and we will supply a contribution letter for your tax purposes. If you prefer to give by check, our mailing address is Tenacious Grace, PO Box 7611, Florence SC 29502.
Land. We are looking for 10-15 acres of rural land to allow for growth and expansion. And we’re looking for someone to donate it. Someone who would love to see their property used for eternal purposes.
Share this blog post. Comment on it. Like it if you see someone else share it. Help us use the Facebook algorithm to get in front of people outside of our current circle of influence. The more you interact with this post, the more Facebook will keep it cycling in front of people.

You are officially invited.

Invited to be a part of something bigger than you and bigger than me. Invited to invest in impact that will outlive us when our dollar’s buying power is usually spent on short-lived gratification. Our belief in God’s vision fuels our faith in His provision, and you and I have the opportunity for a front row seat.

Because here’s the reality, God’s already at the groundbreaking for Five Sparrows. And He’s already at Day One of Five Sparrows. And even more than that, he’s already at the Five-Year Anniversary of Five Sparrows; we just have to hang on in belief and work hard.

Thank you…

Thank you for believing with us in what God wants to do through this ministry.

Thank you for believing that Jesus cares about the marginalized.

Thank you for believing that He means to take care of those society considers disposable.

We are humbled and honored by your partnership. Merry Christmas!

November

The Other Donald Trump. The Other Hillary Clinton. And the Other You.

nycviewfinder

I exhaled as the harry of the morning landed heavily in the leather armchair. I looked around without really seeing, allowing the warmth from the cardboardy cup to hug me. Thankful she hadn’t arrived. Thankful to be on time. Thankful for the balm of Ben Rector stilling the air around me. Yet a bit apprehensive….the curse of the introvert.

I closed my eyes to disappear for a moment. When I opened them, I saw her standing at the counter. I stared without expression, intrigued. And a bit disturbed.

I stood to greet her, biting the inside of my cheek like I do when I am uncomfortable. I tried to talk down the tears swelling my vision as she ambled in my direction.

If I looked anxious, she looked terrified. And beaten. Her hair thick and long and in need of a wash. She was inked: a flower on her wrist, a quote on her forearm, the word “truth” in lowercase letters behind her ear – visible as she tucked her hair. A tiny silver ring bit her nose, juxtaposing the round face, full cheeks, dotted by a mole just above the corner of her mouth.

Her copper eyes were hard with distrust but they lacked boldness. More distant than belligerent. She studied the table, rolling a string from the seam of her jeans between her fingers. When she looked up, she fixed her gaze on the others – watching their talking and their laughing, their texting, and their writing. She rarely looked at me in brief snatches.

Her discomfort assuaged my own as I smiled too big and tried too hard to ease her.

Striking me as a gal who wanted to skip the preliminaries, I gently asked her to tell me her story.

She left me. Having transported herself far away, only her voice stayed behind. She told of abuse. Every kind. Abandonment. She gave a sad laugh and remarked, “Turns out, I’m quick to believe promises that no one plans to keep. I guess you could say I’m slow like that.” There were lots of relationships. Lots of drugs and alcohol. Lots of disappointment and hurt and plenty of bad choices to go around. She talked on as though she had forgotten I was there.

I willed my own blood to become steel to keep from dismantling right before her eyes. Every molecule of me rejected her words. There was no home for them in me.

She was me.

The me I would have been under different circumstances. The me minus privilege. And care and protection and Jesus.

///////

We only know the “me” that we are, but there is a you and a me of harder living. A less shiny version of ourselves. The one that could have been carved from disadvantage and dirty, dark rooms.

We did nothing to affect the conditions of our birth. Yet many of us have mastered the swagger of entitlement we feel due our race or our tax bracket or our education.

And we are comfortable in our sad delusion.

If I had been born to a mother who sold me for sex at the age of 11, I – Cookie – would very likely be a prostitute, addicted to drugs, who had many abortions and children with different fathers. Or worse.

Would I disgust you?

Frighten you?

Would you help me?

Hypotheticals aside, this is real life in our area.

You and I can only see the world based on the finite configuration of blessings and hardships unique to our experience. And that only represents the smallest, slightest fraction of all the possibilities out there. We blab our voices and roll through life as if our window on the world is the same one others look through. IT’S NOT.

It’s not.

We only move beyond being tiny, whiny creatures when we will close our mouths and open our hearts to understand the other histories people bring to today.

Otherwise we are prisoners of our ignorance. Shackled to a small world.

Our tenure on this ball of dirt could have gone very differently for me and you, privileged friend. Is compassion – and sometimes gentle silence – too costly a toll?

October

Dear Everyday Heroes, Thank You for Giving Us Hope in Ourselves…

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As I flicked my thumb to propel my Facebook feed forward, an image halted my scroll. Tessie Smith, hero and local paramedic involved in a horrific wreck while responding to a call in March, was ascending the Ravenel Bridge in Charleston. To honor the fallen first responders of 9/11. In another clip, she was ringing the bell at the crest of the climb.

All the tears. Every last one of them.

Overcomers always win my heart. Because they wreck me with their stubborn courage. My heroes are scrappy, uncelebrated people. Marginalized people. People whose smile cost more than yours and mine. Resolute people.

We are wretchedly spoiled in the land of opportunity. Luxury has been assimilated into our DNA as an adaptive trait. A slow internet connection, an antique IPhone model, a town without a Starbucks or Target and we are crying injustice. But we were crafted from sterner stuff. Less whiny stuff.

chemo-patient

In the raw fabric of our composition we were made to scrape out a living in severe circumstances. To invite a fire out of nothing. To hustle a meal with our own dirty hands. We were made for work that required every calorie we consumed and then some. We were made to lay our heads down with bodies wrung dry by physical exhaustion. We were made with strong backs and an even stronger spirit of survival.

The life we now live is incongruent with how we were assembled.

I’m not complaining. I’m currently nursing a heavenly coffee drink, swaddled in a comfy blanket, sitting on my derriere, pecking away while the more primitive me would be out gathering roots for dinner.

But there are consequences to our plum living. Obesity. Anxiety. Entitlement. Isolation. Purposelessness. Vanity. Injurious ambition. Sometimes I really do wonder if we have traded up. We have become a frightfully vacuous people. Which is why we are so stirred by underdogs. Overcomers. Heroes. They demonstrate an ancient strength that reverberates deep in our bones and stings our eyes.

fireman

This was powerfully on display in my area during the aftermath of Hurricane Matthew. I could weep right this second thinking about all the linemen – many from far away states – working to rehab our crippled city. The police, the firemen, the National Guard, the EMTs. The beautiful others helping with tree removal, food, and water.

They exhibit the finer things in us. Heroes remind us that when suffering slices through the insulation of convenience in our lives the indomitable human spirit is exposed. They rise to the challenge of adversity and allow us to see with our very own eyes what we hope is within us. We all wonder what we are made of, don’t we?

They give us hope in ourselves.

To some extent, it is this thing that draws me to jail. As I share smiles and hugs and tears with the female inmates, the resilience of the soul is baffling and brilliant. As the team and I enter behind heavy, locking doors, we step into a concentration of hurt. Abuse of every sort. Loss. Abandonment. Destructive cycles. Emotional negligence. Egregious crimes. The looming prospect of years in prison, yet they smile. Yet they hope. Yet they thank a God who loved them enough to save them. From themselves.

We are indeed made of sterner stuff than we imagine.

paraolympics

James Neil Hollingworth aptly states, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” Yes. It’s not that our heroes are impervious to fear; it’s that they aren’t deterred by it.

Hats off to you, beloved overcomers. Martyrs of our faith, thank you for inciting our conviction by your willingness to die. Ruby Bridges, thank you for your courageous six-year-old self desegregating William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans in 1960. Veterans. Parents of medically fragile children. Moms suffering post-partum depression. Those who beat addiction and rise up out of the humblest circumstances. Cancer survivors. Widows. Children who have lost parents. Little ones who learn differently. Community servants who risk their lives. Formerly trafficked women. First generation college students. Those who are able to doggedly persist in love despite the sharp discord of the day.

We celebrate you. And your stubborn courage.

Thank you for calling us to a higher standard of fortitude and tenacity. Thank you for giving us hope in ourselves.

[Images: Chuck Simmins, Liz West, bizarrellama, Tony Reily]