Annie F. Downs, author, speaker, podcaster, and self proclaimed loud laughter has a tattoo. It says, simply and not at all simply, "Savor this." I just finished Annie's newest book, "That Sounds Fun." In it, there's a chapter about the tattoo or, more specifically, why the tattoo. Annie reached through the pages of her book and whacked me upside the head with advice from her friend, Jenn.
"'Savor this. There's something to be learned here. Something to be healed. You should sit in it.' And although I want to escape the pain, like a snake trying to get out of its skin, I know she's right. Even if that pain leads to pure sadness, Jenn asks me if I'm willing to savor that too."
If you don't know Annie, you should. You will instantly believe that she is your actual BFF and you'll have to periodically remind yourself that she doesn't know you IRL and your friendship is 100% lopsided. But when she says things, you will believe her because she's just that genuine. So my BFF, Annie F. Downs told me to sit in it.
A few months ago (and many times since), my homework from my therapist was to sit in my emotions. Side note: I have a therapist. A wonderful, godly, Christian therapist who I see not because I believe in Jesus plus anything else but because I believe that Jesus sends us advisors and helpers and we do well to take what He gives us. The fact that she is a believer and we talk about the conviction of the Holy Spirit and my insurance pays for it--right now at 100%--is truly nothing short of a miracle. But anyway, my homework was to sit in my emotions. I'm pretty sure I blinked three times slow and stared back at my computer screen with a baffled look because you know who does not sit in her emotions? This girl. But do you know who has always taken her homework very seriously? Also this girl. So late that night, my husband found me hunched over my laptop and he asked, "What are you doing?"
I told him, "I'm supposed to sit in my emotions and, as I have no earthly idea how to do that, I'm researching it."
He let out a sound that I cannot turn into the written word and blurted out, "Oh gosh! That's the opposite of what she told you to do."
I looked up from the screen and said, "Yeah. I know."
I started therapy for a very specific reason. The goal was to be the healthiest version of myself for my children. We were waist deep in special needs and adoption related pain and therapies and Covid and I felt like I was drowning. I was crying. Like a lot. For someone who doesn't cry all that often and didn't have the foggiest idea how to sit in her emotions, frequent crying was less than ideal. If there's one thing I know to be true about me, it's that I would rather drown in emotional exhaustion than fail my kids. But if there's a way to not drown and not fail them, well, that sounds fun. So somewhere in the intake paperwork, I wrote down that I wanted to be the best I could be for the kids. What I have since discovered is that therapy is about being the healthiest version of myself for myself. The definition of health is not perfection. Sometimes the definition of health is vulnerability and sincerity. Sometimes we start therapy with one goal in mind and end up greatly amending the aim.
I wrote something down in my journal months ago and I actually said that I wasn't going to talk about it in therapy. It was not going to come up. THIS IS NOT A PLACE WE'RE GOING TO GO, BASSHAM. Because if we went there, I'd be in therapy for another year, at least. Maybe 10. Unless she blocked off a long weekend and we went to a beach house on the Oregon coast and just dumped it all into 72 hours. I joke but it is absolutely within the realm of possibility that I might scream inside my own head that AN HOUR IS NO WHERE NEAR ENOUGH TIME AND I NEED A TWO WEEK INTENSIVE! (Although I really love my therapist a lot and a weekend at the Oregon coast where we can discuss our mutual love for Jesus and Amy Grant does not sound at all bad.) Anyway...
One day, she asked a question. I don't think it was meant to be earth shattering but it was. I sat for a moment having rapid fire thoughts because the answer was absolutely the Therapy Voldemort. She'd asked a question that inadvertently (Or maybe advertently, who's to say with these therapy people? They're very good at what they do.) poked the he-who-must-not-be-named situation. I had three choices.
My first thought, being that I'm a dirty, rotten sinner, was to lie. "Answer that question with a deliberate mistruth, Bassham. She won't know and you'll avoid Therapy Voldemort." This was quickly replaced with the reminder that therapy is for me. Not her. I mean it is for her in the sense that she can, like, pay the water bill. But it's largely for me.
Second thought, "I don't want to answer that question." I have rights. One of those rights is to say, "I don't feel like going there today, Lady." But this option felt only slightly better than lying.
So I went with what was behind door number 3. I spoke the truth and it laid there, in the space between us. Slowly, over three or four months, that truth opened a labyrinth of passages and secret chambers and growth. And I'm not going to lie, it has sucked. But in the pain, I have learned so much about so many things not the least of which is that I was carrying a burden that was, largely, not mine to lug around. The arduous climb peaked with me being obedient (to the Spirit's leading), deliberate, and brave. Even though, every part of me wanted to do the opposite.
When I didn't want to do the hard thing, I prayed. I hoped He would direct me a different way. Instead, I was instantly overcome by His words from John 14:27. "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." Now, I find myself in the aftermath. I exist in a world of both/and. I feel heavy and I feel light. I feel fragile and I feel strong. I feel sorrow and I feel relief. But, ultimately, I feel the peace He promised. There is hope here.
I want to rush through this, to leave it in the rearview mirror as I speed toward the horizon. But it is woven through me too much to ever unravel completely. And maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe I need to inhale the moments of sackcloth and ash and exhale the joy that comes in the morning. Life is just all these moments piled up on top of one another and the lesson is in learning to savor them.
So my therapy journey is learning when to sit in my emotions. Sometimes I know what that means and sometimes I don't have a clue. I'm learning to say what I need to say, to trust the process, to stay awhile in the pain and the mundane, to feel the sun on my skin but also not to rush the clouds. There are moments when the savoring comes so easy and there are times when I'm blindly searching for something savory in the darkness. Both are valid and both are true. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, "To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven."
I will savor this. Even this.
