women | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

April

Me too.

I tried to call someone on my calculator this week.

The call could not be completed as dialed. In case you were wondering.

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I spend a lot of time considering what women need to survive and thrive. It’s a fluid endeavor because we’re a mysterious crowd and quite responsive to our context. As the climate around us changes, what we need to flourish in it also shifts.

Take social media, for instance. It has undeniably changed the landscape of association and interaction. How do we handle the bombardment of opinions and images of hundreds of people in a healthy way when our insides are so given to comparison and insecurity?

Consider the barrage of discord and violence we’ve invited into our hearts and brains when their nurturing nature is bent towards worry and fear. What does it take to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

Amid a national epidemic of high profile sexual harassment and abuse scandals, how do we retain our sense of value when it is often so tied to how others treat us? How do we assimilate the entrenched victimization of women, as revealed by the #MeToo movement, without accepting the jaded, angry heart pervasive abuse conjures?

In a body-obsessed culture, how do we make peace with our genetics without swinging into unhealthy territory on either end of the spectrum?

In the age of accessibility, where we can be reached by text, email, call, LinkedIn, Facebook, GroupMe, Instagram, Snapchat, and FaceTime (not our calculators yet), how do we protect a quiet that is vital to our peace? How do we maintain ownership over our time and thoughts when our devices have given them away to everyone?

Sometimes I pause to realize I’m disappointed with the whole world. All of it. All of its trinkets and corners. And, consequently, that makes me sullen and skeptical and guarded and pointy. Then, in the next breath, I recognize I am the common denominator in that 360° blast of disillusionment. I have to fight for my own heart and perspective. I am in a battle to retain the gentleness and hope, constancy and faith our society wars against. You are too.

What does it take to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

It requires counterintuitive honesty. More than just about anything, we want to hear, “You are not in this woman thing alone.” We want to know we aren’t the only ones dialing whole phone numbers on the calculator app on our phones.

We want to know that you yell at your kids, that you don’t wash your sheets as often as you think you should, that you are pasting a smile over a hurt you don’t know how to fix. Not because it’s any of our business……it’s not, but because it cheers us on in our own struggles, freeing both of us from fake rules about how to be women.

#MeToo is a primal collective cry against sexual violence (thank God!), but we want to hear it in other arenas as well.

You are panic-stricken over the safety of your children at school? Me too.

You take medication for anxiety and depression and can’t function without it? I have too.

You have a gaping, silent hurt that you ignore until an innocuous trigger causes it to boil over into your day; I have known that life.

You continue in a busyness that is shredding your soul even though you know you can’t go on like that indefinitely? Me too.

You bully yourself with a refrain of not enough…not pretty enough, not strong enough, not good enough. I’ve done that too.

Sometimes you rely on coffee more than you do God. Same.

You self-medicate with This Is Us and ice cream; we are connected souls.

You lie awake at night thinking every twinge indicates cancer? Me too.

You hate how your legs look in shorts? Ditto, friend. All of it…..

Me too.

It requires living beyond ourselves. In a world decorated with drivel, the antidote is purpose. Without intentionality, it’s easy to allow the world to paint our days with noise. A steady diet of which leaves us feeling hollowed out. Empty. An inner yuck similar to the physical aftermath of an over-indulgence of fried food. Ick. There is something in us that has to believe there is more to life than self-driving cars, instant pots, Matcha, and Whole 30.

We have an innate desire to be a part of something larger than ourselves, a work that will outlive us. There is a substance-hungry drive in us that must plug in to a giant good. This satiates something timeless in us while feeding hope and optimism (I know of an organization working to help formerly incarcerated women write new stories upon release, if you’re interested ;-).

It requires a recalcitrant faith. We are in constant sensory overload. All of the messaging and imagery screams, “Seeing is believing.” But the words in the messages and the stories in the images aren’t necessarily true. Today necessitates a critical eye for truth and a shrewdness for detecting the false. The need for definitive Truth has never been greater, and from it we boldly assert, “What I believe informs what I see. Believing is seeing.”

Circumstances say, “Look at her mug shot, the list of her charges, the number of times she’s been arrested. It’s an age-old cycle impossible to break.” Seeing is believing.

Grace says, “I was lost but now I’m not. I see my own story in her eyes. Me too, sister.” Believing is seeing.

This is not a sissy faith. It is a tender revolution of belief.

Want to bloom bravely in a garden of bad news?

Ditto, friend. Me too.

March

Leading Lady: Can A Woman Be A Leader?

woman in leadership

You better believe it.

This isn’t a statement about the presidential candidates, so no worries. Though I just want to offer that I would have no business being in charge of the mythical red phone or red button that could launch complete annihilation. My hormonal imbalance could not handle such responsibility. Just keeping it candid right here.

I mean to dig into the messaging – particularly in church culture – that tacitly suggests women aren’t designed to lead. That we aren’t wired to be leaders.

I take issue with that.

I remember all too well one of my early leadership gaffes. I was hosting my first event as the Discipleship Director at my church, and I did not have the database code I needed to check people into the class as they arrived. I had rehearsed every detail, thought about pens and drinks and ice and napkins and chairs and volunteers and trash cans and sound and decor and tablecloths. But I couldn’t admit people. The line began to back up at the four computers, and I officially freaked. Wholly spazzed out right there. The attendees were getting fidgety as the line spilled out the door onto the sidewalk. I am currently sweating and shaking my hands, recounting the debacle. I was running to and fro between computers, calling and messaging people three hours away all at once.

A colleague was assisting me, and I was quite peeved by his apparent nonchalance about the FREAKING MAYHEM OF THE MOMENT! He eventually solved the issue and the class rolled on, starting a bit later than scheduled.

I was devastated.

female leaders

I later apologized to my co-worker for my oversight, and in his response he taught me one of the most valuable leadership lessons. He said, “Everybody picked up on your panic and they responded accordingly. Your volunteers panicked with you. Your guests registered restlessness and concern in response to you. As the leader you have a lot of influence over how others around you react to the environment and the circumstances.”

I’ve never forgotten his wisdom from that mistake.

While I had a lot to learn about leading well, I fell in love with building a team and making magic happen. We all hunger to be part of something larger than ourselves and leading allows that. When we can assemble gifted people, rally them around a vision, and empower them to do what they do best, MAGIC HAPPENS. It’s exhilarating.

The last fifteen years as an educator, a mom, and a ministry leader have awarded their own education in leadership, and many of those lessons have been specific to leading as a woman. I recently had the opportunity to share many of those lessons in an article entitled, “The Challenges of Leading as a Woman.”

Click here to check it out.

[Images: Military Health, Kompentenzzentrum Frau und Beruf]

February

Why Women Don’t Like Each Other

woman on call

I love women. And sometimes dislike them at the same moment.

That’s not a terribly uncommon sentiment among my ilk. Affection and disdain can accessorize the world of women like an infinity scarf. They’re made of the same cloth.

“Girls have never liked me……I had more guy friends in school than girls…..women are exclusive and critical and catty; friendship is difficult,” people of my kind will say.

And they are often correct.

But, after years as a woman (42 to be exact) interacting with other women, I’ve discovered a commonality that has the potential to dramatically unite us for the long haul, or at the very least, color us in a favorable disposition towards each other.

100% of the women I’ve ever met smuggle around a life hurt that has threatened to extinguish them. If I haven’t met you and you would take issue with my proclamation either a) you’re fibbing; b) you’re a unicorn, or c) you’re in store for a doozie.

Hurt. It’s as universal as our affinity for chocolate. But, it is born as varying personalities…

woman reading

The Victim. She has allowed her pain to seep into her DNA. It replicates itself and permeates her cells. She white-knuckles her hurt and dares anyone to take it from her. She’s entitled to it. It has become the fabric of her identity, the dominant color of her life. She often unwittingly propagates more hurt and loneliness because she feels due our pity and we have very little stomach for that.

The Mean Girl. She sees the world through anger. It’s her default emotion. Her life leaks venom, and her people are always on guard against a barb aimed in their direction. She is entirely predictable and anxiety-inducing. She thinks little of publicly sawing people off at the shins. Red is her favorite color; nails are her favorite snack, and high blood pressure is her trademark. She is impartial, cursing a sunny day with the same vigor as a rainy mess.

The Controller. She needs to feel she is capable of warding off everything undesirable if only she is vigilant enough, bossy enough, well-informed enough, assertive enough, in-charge enough, together enough. She is possessive and terribly, terribly afraid. She is often paralyzed by fear which further nourishes her attempts to keep all aspects of her life within the bounds of her reach. Rest does not come easily because something may stray beyond her if she relaxes her grasp.

The Unconvinced. See also The Career Woman. The Party Girl. The Domineering Mom. The Scantily-Clad Girl. The Material Girl. The Promiscuous Woman. The Comedienne. The Workout Obsessed. She believes her value is external. She operates under the assumption she has little to offer intrinsically, so she must add to who she is to establish her worth. She is defined by what she does. She is tired and her happiness is extremely volatile because it is completely circumstantial.

women

The Fortress. Her composition is one part tender, four parts steel. Her softness is about an inch deep; after that you hit an impenetrable bunker. A no-man’s land. She can smile easily. She can be gentle and kind easily because everything of any importance to her is behind lock and key. Gaining clearance is unlikely, and she can sit across from you in a coffee shop, chatting life, and sipping a Salted Caramel Mocha, and inhabit a land a million miles away all at once. She is always alone because she doesn’t know how to let people in.

The Disappearing Act. She often pretends she is invisible. Feeling that way is her favorite. She approaches life as a transparent spectator, assuring herself, “If I’m quiet and nondescript and cooperate with the mandates of the universe, maybe I can escape the notice of pain or loss.” She believes by averting her eyes she exempts herself from all that life requires. She acquiesces, disappointed and protected by her own resignation. She wants more but feels incapable of it.

The Pretender. She doesn’t even let her own self know that her life isn’t perfect. She’s got the ugly locked in the gun safe. While she sunbathes in a hurricane. If you were to stare into her eyes, you would find a tumultuous longing for disclosure. If there were only a safe place for her. A place or a person who could know her pain without her ever having to give words to it. She is absolutely convinced the syllables would kill her. She moves quickly so the truth can’t catch up.

The Strong & Tender. The Steel Magnolia. She is friends with her brokenness. She has processed her hurt in a way that leaves her open without leaving her weak. She is free to love without being shackled by fear. She is certain hurt will come again, and she is confident she will survive it. The strength in her is not of her. This juxtaposed assimilation of hurt and hope is otherworldly. There is no other explanation.

Only Jesus.

woman in field

I’ll come clean. I can be all of these. I have been all of these. I naturally veer towards The Unconvinced and The Fortress, but I can suit up in Mean Girl with the best of them….

It’s little wonder we struggle to love each other well, is it? Our defense mechanisms are rarely compatible.

A whole bunch of masked hurt bullying our interactions.

We can fight to be whole instead.

To be healed.

To revere our scars as beauty marks.

We are free to champion our kind as we do the hard work of rehabbing our hearts.

Wanna?

[Images: Uncalno Tekno, Mickael MENARD, Jason Meredith, Michal Koralewski]