trust | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

January

My Big Fat Trust Issues

friends

“I believe people are wholly selfish. Why do I need them?” I asked with flat, thorough conviction. There was no quibble in my query. I wasn’t playing a game. He was a professional and the burden of proof lived on him.

After all, I was armed with forty years of evidence.

“Other people may need people. But not me. I have a vibrant relationship with Jesus, and He’s perfect and has no disguised agenda. He knows me completely, loves me anyway, and He is briefed on all facets of every circumstance of my life. Why would I invite other jacked-up people to drag their dysfunction into mine?” I sincerely continued.

I guess I’m a reformed loner. That dialogue was with my Christian counselor two years ago; I suppose he won the argument since I now find myself thick in genuine relationships. You see, my people are meeting at my house tonight. In fact, I should be vacuuming and hiding the disgust of our lives right now instead of this, but….

Last week I was five minutes late. And I was hosting. I ran in with 2/3 of my wet hair clipped to the top of my head, designated Meredith as the substitute hostess, and pointed them in the direction of the kitchen. I don’t think my dust bunnies will catch them off guard this week.

ladies group

These people are seventeen gals looking for a safe place for friendship and an honest pursuit of Jesus. We began meeting weekly a year and a half ago, and it’s ridiculous. I have cried, cussed, and gasped for air, suffocating from breath-snatching laughter. This is where I asked for prayer as I weaned myself off the anti-depressant. This is where we cry out for wisdom as we parent. This is where we admit we have lost the desire to read our Bibles. This is where we send each other heinous pictures of our morning carline attire and our mountains of laundry. This is where we have permission to be flawed.

laundry mountain

Our purpose is gritty. Because life is.

And then beyond that circle, there are a handful of people with whom I have no secrets. None. And there is no freedom that I have ever experienced like being fully known.

I have zero fear these people are checking out on me. If they had been that kind, I gave them ample reason to vamoose long ago. And they’re still kicking it around these parts.

So how did my counselor change my mind?

FOMO.

Fear of missing out. He sold me on the aspect of life I had never experienced – intimacy. He championed its benefits while acknowledging its risks.

“The real and probable risk of being hurt is worth the richness of relationship,” he lobbied.

I am no longer afraid people won’t love me if they really know me. I am no longer afraid people will use my feelings against me if I share them. I cannot remember the last time I intentionally walled people out to protect myself.

Am I speaking anybody’s language here?

As I learned through counseling, due to childhood trauma, some parts of me stopped developing at age 5. The ability to trust was one of them.

Now I still have some wonky defaults. I still automatically assume the worst about people. It’s my natural response, but I catch it almost immediately and recalibrate to truth and love. I still have to force myself to share with other people….even meaningless details about my life. Sometimes my internal exchange goes like this, “Cookie, you have to tell this. Not because it’s important but because you are committed to this relationship and sharing yourself in it. Now do it. It’s not optional. And it does matter.” I still have to bully myself into it at times.

I was recently told I had been described several years back as “a really neat girl that you’ll never get to know.” Absolutely nailed it.

And, fellas, after extensive conversations and expensive counseling sessions with my dude, you are often apt to live in this place too. Probably for different reasons, but the dangers of isolation are the same. You need other guys who will cut the BS and shoot straight. Who will challenge and support you simultaneously. You carry a weight we gals don’t acknowledge enough. You need the company of other men who shoulder the pressure to succeed and provide. You aren’t meant to be the lone ranger.

Because isolation is dangerous.

We need people to speak hope when our circumstances seem hopeless.

We need people to speak Truth when we are believing lies.

We need people to lend us strength and faith when we are thin.

And we need people to text us nutty YouTube videos and memes that make us snort cackle on a cold Thursday morning.

That’s how we’re built.

friends

So if your bicycle is stuck in the mud of distrust, and you’re exhausted from spinning that back tire and catching no traction, here are my suggestions:

Be wise about whom you trust. My counselor suggested I test the waters with a couple of people before emptying all of my closets and dumping a heap of skeletons at their feet.
EVERYONE needs at least one person they can tell EVERYTHING.
For the most part, people are doing the best they know to do. When you get hurt, be wise, extend grace, and move forward in a healthy way.
If someone breaks your trust, don’t allow it to negatively affect your capacity to trust others.
Everybody needs a group. I highly suggest a same-sex group committed to real dialogue about real life.
If you have trust/intimacy issues, Scary Close by Donald Miller is the best book I’ve ever encountered. If you don’t read, get the audio version.

As much as I hate to admit it – I was wrong. I do need people. And so do you.

Because YouTube wasn’t meant to be enjoyed alone.

[Feature Image: Mathias Klang]

June

What You Don’t Know about the Woman on the Beach

I am often afraid. Like “a belly on simmer” afraid. It’s not uncommon for me to awaken from a dream with fuzzy edges, blanketed in disquiet.

Even in the last days of 41, sometimes my skin doesn’t fit. It wears like a borrowed jacket.

And it’s a heavy endeavor to believe that good lies ahead after a season of tempest.

Expensive hope.

Dangerous faith.

They arrest me and pretend to hug while strangling. With a smile. They often stalk my solitude and prey on silence.

So, naturally, they stowed away in the side pocket of my duffel for a writing weekend. With a suitcase full of books, provisions for days, and all the beach accouterment, I didn’t notice the extra weight.

While most of my time was coated in a tranquil hush, pierced only by rowdy sunrises…

There were instances of lonely unease. Because the quiet that makes room for focus and wonder can be hijacked by lies. Have you been that hostage?

So I took a walk. To breathe fresh air and to feed wonder and to wet my toes and to watch dusk steal the remains of the day, and this happened.

And just like that, the God of the universe had an audible voice.

I forgot to get her name. To ask where she was from. And then a week later, a dear friend sent me a link to the following blog post. “I’m pretty sure it’s about you!” she said.

The Woman on the Beach

Trevor and I arrived on Saturday to the beach for a week alone. It had been an absolutely awful, stressful week. Stressful to the point where I wondered why I hadn’t had an anxiety attack yet. After an afternoon of getting our groceries together and settling into our home for the week, we decided to take a walk down the beach. We walked and talked for a while, then I said that we should sit. So Trevor picked out the perfect spot on a dune, up away from the water and the wet sand. We sat and we talked while the coastal breeze blew our hair all over the place. We talked about how much we miss our kids and all the things they’d love here (because isn’t that pretty much all parents do on vacation alone??). Then we took a selfie- because we did.

As we were sitting on our dune, talking, this woman sat down in front of us. She was far enough away, that I couldn’t see anything about her, aside from the fact that she was a “she” and was sitting facing the ocean. As Trevor and I talked, I couldn’t stop glancing over at her. Before long, I realized that she was crying. Every now and then, she’d grab her own sleeve and wipe her face. Then and there, an intense need grew in me- I had to talk to this woman. Beyond what I could have ever drummed up on my own, I knew God was prompting me to say something to her. I had to tell her. I immediately told Trevor “we have to talk to her.” He had the reaction typical of a sane person and said “what?!!” I told him “she’s crying. I am supposed to talk to her.” He sat there, obviously about to offer up an excuse, when she stood up. And I jumped. Instead of making an excuse to stay seated and comfortable like I would almost always do, I pursued this person, step after step, a woman compelled. I said “ma’am??” she glanced and kept walking (poor girl, probably thought I was nuts). Then I said “Ma’am??” again and she stopped. I said, “I know this is weird, but I just had to tell you that you are not alone. God is with you in this.” I told her the very words that filled my head and that I knew were for her. Her face just exploded in a smile and she said, “that is so cool!” and laughed. Then she said “So I take it you’re a believer?” I said “yes, I am.” Then she told us, “ I am called to ministry. I was just sitting here- I am writing an online bible study for the fall- and I just said ‘God, please just speak to me.’ That is so cool,” she laughed, as tears welled up in her eyes, and I knew that right then, I did exactly what I was supposed to do. Thank you, Jesus, that I didn’t ignore that still small voice and the forceful push of a God that loves me, you and that woman crying on the beach. Our God is huge. He is amazing. And his attention to detail blows my mind. Never doubt that you can be a part of something bigger than yourself.

He is real.

And affectionate. Personal. And powerful. I know the supernatural seems crazy flaky. I know that you question God’s character. But there IS a loving God. Who has been so misrepresented by…………………………us. There has been a time – in ministry – when I gave up on Him. When I railed against Him through gritted teeth and squinted eyes.

Because I believed the lies that hijack the quiet.

And when I crumbled in a heap under the weight of it, He filled the vacuum of my despair with His compassion. He whispered in my ear…

I love you in the ditch, Cookie, as much as I ever have.

Because you’re mine.

I’m here.

I never left.

This is relationship. Not religion.

He is not distant. Aloof. Angry. Or formal.

We are in real danger of being so bound by what we can see and hear and taste and touch at the expense of what we can’t. For all my tall wedge-wearing, seventeen bangle-sporting, sassy mouth, all-put-together garbage, I’m a wobbly, scared farm girl whose only strength, integrity, and confidence is borrowed from my God.

The relationship more real to me than any I’ve experienced with people wearing skin.

How have you experienced His nearness in your life lately?

The God who made the world and everything in it—He is Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in shrines made by hands. Neither is He served by human hands, as though He needed anything, since He Himself gives everyone life and breath and all things. From one man He has made every nationality to live over the whole earth and has determined their appointed times and the boundaries of where they live. He did this so they might seek God, and perhaps they might reach out and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us.

Acts 17:24-27 (HCSB)

Epilogue: Jessica and I connected on her blog and are now friends on social media.

#WhosYourDaddy

[Title Image: Amarit Opassetthakul]

April

In a World Full of Hurt, How Do We Persist in Love?

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Round bodies. Buff bodies. Hurt people and happy people. Smokers and runners. Ghostly people. Tan people. Brown people. Old men with metal detectors. Extraverted beachcombers who chat with everyone. A couple throwing a football in the shallow. Pretty people. And not so much.

Last week I headed to the beach for a date day with me. I packed books and journals and snacks and music, and I planted myself in a chair for hours. And I often sat, propped on elbows, smiling a smile that was just to me. A smile and soft squinty eyes (’cause my fluffy cheeks sit on my eyeballs when I’m happy) born out of a swollen joy that begged for a name. It was called a raw love for people.

All of them.

Even the fella sunbathing in his sneakers. I find that incredibly endearing. He’s rocking his own thing, and I dig it.

But.

It wasn’t that long ago that I sat in my counselor’s office asking, legitimately seeking an answer that held water, “Based on my experiences, ALL people are selfish and ALWAYS act in their own best interest. What is my motivation to ever trust or love anyone?” Because Jack Johnson was singing in my ear and we wanted to know…

Where’d all the good people go?
I’ve been changin’ channels
I don’t see them on the TV shows,
Where’d all the good people go?
We got heaps and heaps of what we sow.

Of course, my counselor refuted my assertion and touted all the benefits of love and trust and intimacy. And, of course…I tuned him out. He wasn’t going to unravel forty years of distrust and hurt in one session. No matter how comfy the couch or how calming the lavender. But, I have to admit, his words gained traction in my gut over the course of future visits.

At the time, I had a door.

I could go behind the door and look present and engaged but be completely emotionally unavailable. You weren’t allowed behind the door; no one was. I was the population of my safe place. I could even make people think they were invited behind the door……..when they were really just standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. Intimacy was a sham. Because hurt little girls often grow up to be well-fortified women.

Tim, my counselor, had his work cut out for him. But as I began to tread the water of healthy, I began to believe he was on to something. I tested his words like a flag I waved from a crack in the door. And – whatdya know – they. were. true.

I hadn’t been a hard-hearted person before; I had loved people, individuals and people in general, but only in the way a hurt person knows how. I could love you and serve you and cry with you and listen; I was in ministry, for Pete’s sake, but I couldn’t offer you an ounce of me in return. I could hang out with you on the sidewalk, but I always, always retreated behind the door.

I still have the door today, I guess; I just can’t remember the last time I intentionally holed up behind it. The trouble with walling people out is that we wall ourselves in. We inadvertently protect ourselves from the most fabulous thing about wearing skin – the opportunity to give ourselves away. The blast of giving our lives to others.

Will I get hurt? Maybe every day. Will people disappoint me? You bet. Will people do dumb things that are purely selfish and destructive? Yes, yes, yes. Will I hurt and disappoint people and do dumb, selfish things? Unfortunately so.

But. It’s worth it.

Today, my heart melts for marginalized women. I was driving the interstate recently and passed a group of ladies in khaki overalls and loud orange safety vests – incarcerated women collecting litter from the side of the road. Everything in me wanted to pull off and work with them. Smile at them. Dignify them. Serve them.

I love cashiers. Shy cashiers. Distant cashiers with hardship in their eyes. My Diet Pepsi addiction has afforded me lots of opportunities to make great friends in convenience stores. Upon moving back to Florence, one of the people I was most excited to see again was Willie Mae. When smiles were a rare commodity in this life, she never failed to smack talk a grin out of me every day.

I love the warm smiles of strangers on the Rail Trail. I force my introverted self to speak to everyone I pass, and I often receive beaming smiles in return. It’s the goodness in a person that makes their smile pure. There is an imposing man in a helmet and glasses who regularly rides his bike on the Trail. My initial reaction to him was hesitance. His build had me planning self-defense tactics (mainly, run like the wind!) as we approached each other in an empty span of asphalt, but when I spoke his entire head broke into the most disarming smile ever. Now I grin expectantly when I see his big self biking towards me in the distance.

I love Patty from Deltona, Florida. She works at Chick-Fil-A and recently moved there with a friend from Texas. She serves people so well, and her passion is kindness.

And Kenya. That dusty spot on the equator turned my waxy heart into a gooey moldable mess.

There is good in people. Our own hardness is a far greater liability than other people’s selfishness. Even though it is absolutely counter-cultural, we have a mandate to persist in love. But how?

Four Ways to Persist in Love

Do more of what stirs your affection for people. And, as much as possible, eliminate things that feed your cynicism. For me, this means I go to the beach. I engage waitstaff; I run on the Rail Trail…..and I avoid Walmart, Black Friday, and the DMV. It means I don’t watch riot videos or videos of people being shot, and I hide negative Facebook friends. I’m not uninformed about Baltimore and Ethiopia, and I’m certainly not unaffected. In fact, I am protecting my ability to be affected. My ability to be moved. I will not allow my eyes to desensitize my heart. Because if I ever make any impact in my two inches of the world, it will be rooted in a broken tenderness.
Stop making fun of people for sport. I’m as guilty as anybody about taking a crack at somebody’s interesting fashion sense (see my friend above tanning in his kicks) or other forms of human goofiness, but when it becomes a lens through which we see people, it affects more than our wit.
Create a daily practice of serving people who can’t do anything for you. They can’t spot you $20 when you all go out to lunch. They can’t follow you on Instagram. They can’t keep your kids when you’re in a pinch. They can’t help you get a promotion at work. They can’t lend you some of their favor when you’re hanging out together. When we give of ourselves with no possibility of repayment or advantage, we tap into something pretty stinkin’ beautiful.
Know your hang-ups. I know that I naturally prefer to love people from afar. Messy relationships sometimes give me the heebie jeebies – especially when folks don’t make the kind of progress I think is in order. While not holding myself to the same standard (booooooo! selective grace isn’t even a thing). And I can have hard places in my heart for whiny, advantaged women. Even though I am one (selective self-righteousness is self-righteousness nonetheless). When we know what is most likely to keep us from loving well, we can proactively dismantle those tendencies. Because we will never ever accidentally remain compassionate. Vulnerable. And Available.

To read more about my trip to Kenya, you can check out the scariest moment of my trip, our first visit to a school in the bush, when my tongue turned black, and why it’s not a good idea to play duck-duck-goose there. You can see pictures from the trip on the Reel World page.

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[Title Image: alles banane]