Mustard Seed

The last month or two I have been thinking about the concept of faith, the size of a mustard seed. What does that mean?

I’ll reference the most familiar scripture for this visual:

“….For verify I say unto you, If ye have ​​​faith​ as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this ​​​mountain​, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be ​​​impossible​ unto you.”

Matthew 17:20

I’ve always felt like there were two ways to interpret this scripture. The first being that even with faith as small, meek, underwhelming and seemingly insignificant as a single mustard seed, you may have the power to move mountains and nothing will be impossible. 

The second would be to interpret this scripture as a reference to the great magnificent potential of a mustard seed. Though it starts out small, if the conditions are right, that small seed can grow into a large tree. So does that mean that this scripture is instead referring to the great potential you have with just a little faith, and that as it grows nothing will be impossible? 

When are the impossible things possible? When can we move mountains? When our faith is but a mustard seed, or is it a promise that the impossible will be possible when it has grown from that humble beginning?

A week or so ago, I lost my car keys. Not just in my house or in my car or wherever, but in a grove of bamboo, 20 minutes away from home. I searched and I searched. And my kids searched. And a friend’s kids searched. And my friend searched, and I searched again and we all searched some more. She suggested we say a prayer. I admit I felt a bit jaded and apathetic about the idea. But the thought I had was that perhaps she had the faith necessary for that to work even if I did not. 

We didn’t find the keys. My frustration grew, but still a sense of apathy mixed in. It felt a bit like just one more trial being dumped on top of a pile of other things that have happened recently and I just didn’t have the emotional energy to spend on being upset about yet another thing. I try not to get upset about things that aren’t really in my control anyway.

After mostly having given up, I let my husband know he needed to come rescue us with another set of keys. Which was a pain because he would have to go walk to the car repair place because he had just dropped our van off to be fixed (another one of those things that has gone wrong lately). There was a part of me even then that thought, maybe he will be able to find the keys. His faith is greater than mine. And we tend to find each other’s lost things anyway. 

But I decided to go give it one last chance to look for the keys. In a quiet and solitary moment, I decided I should say my own prayer, with a quiet and humble “Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief.” And I found the keys within a minute or two after. And it was one of those moments that reaffirmed, that our faith does not have to be perfect for miracles to happen. God only asks that we extend the effort. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you. 

But at the same time, in reflecting on the moment even just a few moments later, it is amazing how easy it is to dismiss those miracles. We give scriptural characters such a hard time for dismissing the miracles they observed. But we do it too. Surely my keys were there the whole time and I would have found them eventually with or without any heavenly intervention (although I swear I had looked there before without any luck). And surely, even without having said the prayer, I could have looked in that same spot and found the keys with or without prayer. Surely it was just a coincidence and it would have happened even without prayer. It is just that easy to wash away the spiritual significance of moments that pass by. 

I found myself thinking once again, that I relate in so many ways, to the scriptural characters that were filled with doubt and disbelief, more than any prophet or amazing saint. They were just people. Real people with real flaws and weaknesses. 

If nothing else, this mental image presented to us of the “mustard seed” indicates that God does not ask us to be mighty spiritual pillars right now. We can come as we are, regardless of where we are in the journey, regardless of the size of our faith, regardless of our strength or endurance. He will take us as we are, and he can pick up the slack if we let him, if we ask for help, and if we act.

I’m a distracted sort. I’m not a great gardener because I do not water things every day. But I try. I planted some seeds a while back and neglected them for a while before deciding to go ahead and re-commit to watering them. Some of the seeds never sprouted. I guess they didn’t appreciate my neglect. But some of those seeds still sprouted despite my initial neglect. It made me think, some seeds once planted can lie dormant and wait for the proper care and attention. While others die if not immediately nourished. I’m inclined to think that our faith is something that can lie dormant sometimes. Like a tree that lies dormant in winter but comes back in full strength every spring when conditions are right.

I’m grateful for the reminders that we are not alone, even if things don’t go according to plan.

Remembering Jamie

Every now and then there’s a slightly awkward moment for people when my kids bring up their little brother Jamie. A look of confusion crosses people’s faces when it dawns on them that I don’t have a son named Jamie. And I think sometimes people feel like they’ve stumbled into an intimate family secret they weren’t prepared for, and don’t feel privy to. Kids do have the tendency to do that. But I don’t do secrets. We found out that we had lost Jamie just a couple weeks after announcing it to our immediate family, back in 2019. My kids knew, so hiding it or keeping it a secret simply wasn’t an option anyway. And I never wanted my kids to feel like our family had secrets we didn’t talk about, so I have never discouraged them from talking about it. At the time, I felt I had to find ways to memorialize the baby we had all lost. And give everyone closure, not just myself. 

Part of that was giving the baby a name. We didn’t even know the gender when we lost Jamie. Which is why we chose a name that was fairly gender-non-specific. But my kids have mostly decided for themselves that it was a boy, and I don’t feel the need to point out that we don’t really know. Obviously it was hardest the first few months when both my feelings and the children’s feelings frequently had to coexist. Abby frequently asked questions like “how many months will the baby spend in heaven?” And “when will Jamie get to come home?” And Adam, my very tender hearted little boy was pretty sad about it initially too. 

I decided to make a fairy garden in honor of Jamie. In my heart at the time, I imagined my kids playing with the garden and it would sort of symbolize playing with Jamie. A way for Jamie to be in our family. I put a copy of the ultrasound picture in an album of family photos that the kids sometimes look at during the first hour of church on Sundays. It just felt important to remember Jamie, and help my kids feel connected in some way. I wanted Jamie’s existence to feel real instead of something intangible and unreal. 

That fairy garden is in a very large pot and only recently made its way to our new home. And I have been feeling the need to tend to it, and add new plants. That might have to wait a while but still, I just wanted to say, that healing from trauma doesn’t mean forgetting it ever happened. Instead, healing from trauma is finding a way to move through the pain (and not skipping past it). Finding a way to interact with it despite the triggers, in a way that allows you to keep moving forward. And I find it often involves love. Perhaps primarily being able to find love for yourself. But also love for and from others, love from God, love with patience, love with the willingness to fumble.

Shameless Scars

 I don’t often talk about the subject of self harm because I don’t feel qualified to represent all who have experience with it. And explaining my own experience is difficult to put in words. However, it’s been a nagging thought in the back of my mind for several months now, so we’ll see what I can come up with.

I have a shirt from a group called “To Write Love On Her Arms” which is a suicide/depression/self harm awareness group. Often when I wear it I get blank stares of “what does that even mean” or I get “I love your shirt” or I get people who ask me questions, and I get people who glance away and feign ignorance. But the most unexpected response I’ve ever gotten was actually from someone close to me. I’d already explained the shirt to them, but they were around when someone else asked about the shirt and instead of letting me answer this person chimed in to answer for me. They said something simple along the lines of “it’s for people who self harm” but it was said with such a tone of disgust I admit it was one of the few identifiable moments in my life that I was left speechless. Like “ew, THOSE people.” I don’t honestly think this person meant any offense to me personally. And realistically I don’t even think they ever considered the possibility that me wearing the shirt might imply I had any personal experience with self harm.. but it definitely took me aback.

Now, granted, had I never heard of self harm, had I not found friends who engaged in it, I might never have done it. So I understand to some extent, some hesitancy regarding speaking out about the subject. Because while helping some, you may unknowingly introduce others to a new trial. But realistically, that’s just not something that can be avoided in this day and age. And people who aren’t mentally healthy that don’t get any help, usually struggle in some way or another regardless of what they’ve been introduced to in regards to this subject.

But what I don’t understand, is the almost prideful taboo and prejudice against people who experience this trial, almost as though they are a different class of people. I don’t personally take any offense at this idea because it seems too ludicrous to consider worth my hurt feelings.. but it’s just not a helpful attitude. On what planet does anyone think that shaming people who self-harm will make them any more mentally healthy, or any less likely to self harm?

And it’s something that is perpetuated in so many ways. I can’t even identify how we learn these attitudes, but everyone is familiar with the culture of shame regarding scars from cutting. People who wear long sleeves or never wear shorts, or  get tattoos to cover up old scars. And when you see someone’s eyes glance at your scars there’s an immediate shame reflex. Cover it with your hand, fold your arms, pull your sleeve back down, cross your legs, what have you. And then verbally deflect away from the conversation. Make excuses. Pretend it never happened or doesn’t mean what people think it means.

But my question is why? I mean, not that I’m encouraging or supporting the habit. But shame just doesn’t help anything. I shouldn’t have to look back at old scars and feel shame. I can feel sadness when I think back about how I felt back then. I can feel regret about not seeking a therapist. I can even feel triggered to some extent by those old memories. But shame? I don’t want that. I won’t be helped by that.

The last time that I was struggling with self harm… I remember talking to someone about it and one of their excuses for why I shouldn’t do it was based in shame. Something along the lines of “You don’t want to be stuck with the scars. You won’t want yourself or other people to see them” I understand the sentiment and I don’t fault that person for saying it at all, and sure, sometimes I wish I could wish away the reminders, but it was also not an effective argument and didn’t stop me. It just meant that I put a little more effort into ensuring people wouldn’t see them. And honestly, the whole idea is backwards. While I’m not going to attempt explaining why I have cut myself at this time, I will say that part of it has to do with making feelings tangible. Especially as a teenager. Making them real. Making them seen. Acknowledging them. Feeling them when you don’t know how else to feel them. So the idea of hiding the tangible expression that came about because of how unseen I felt, so it remains unseen? There’s some disturbing irony in that. That’s an environment ripe for relapse.

We need to fight back against shame. Inner shame, and shaming others. One of the most memorable things my last therapist said to me was that “Shame comes from Satan. Guilt comes from God” because shame encourages hiding from real accountability, hiding from feelings, hiding from change. Whereas guilt is intended to incite actual change and growth. But guilt mixed with shame? Clearly they can be difficult to untangle. But shame does not encourage change. 

And what combats shame but unconditional love? And willingness to talk about the hard things instead of pretending they don’t exist. And that applies to a lot more than just self harm. It applies to pornography. It applies to depression. It applies to past sins. Shame leads to more shame. But unconditional love can be a vehicle for all sorts of things.