JENNIFER J. CAMP

4 min read ⭑

It is his invitation to make a list that surprises me. Not just one list, but two: one for ways that I am not fine and then ways for how I am. I am slightly embarrassed. Is God ever coy?

I am at a middle table across from Justin in a coffee shop in Silicon Valley, two miles from our house. Two large screens hang from the ceiling for a standing ad hoc community Olympics watch party in the middle of the workday. Our two sons, who leave for college next week, and their best friend and his girlfriend are at tables by the window. We have laptops out, and I have my journal open, the navy cover pressed against the table’s brown veneer. 

Really, Father, you want me to create lists about how I am not fine and how I am fine?

Remember, I am here. What if you are so much more than fine no matter what you feel?

Yesterday, I went with our middle son and daughter to the store to ship some boxes, and I didn’t know then that I wasn’t fine. I felt like the clerk was being aloof and unhelpful, and almost instantaneously — and without empathy — impatience and judgment flashed hot and demanding within me. 

And the feeling didn’t repel me; I leaned in. 

My tone, an instrument effective in its ability to help and to hurt, switched like a light gone out. It became a twisted comfort — this feeling of power: choosing to be harsh instead of kind. 

“You were not nice,” my son tells me when I turn away from the clerk and towards the door. Embarrassment swells in my chest, an icy familiar chill. My first instinct is to defend, reject and explain. I can feel the wrestling match begin within me, shame feeling like a too-heavy blanket pressing on my chest. Was I unkind? Yeah, and no one deserves unkindness. I am disappointed in myself and sad.

We return to the car and drive home. I retreat to the laundry room and grab clothes from the pile on the washer, mechanically sorting black t-shirts and white socks, rowing unitards and beach towels. 

Oh, Jesus, I am so sorry.

I have had a close relationship with shame, and I can feel her slinking close. But before she can get her words out, I run, run, run. As she opens her mouth, I am no longer near her and can’t hear a word she is trying to say. It may look like I am in the laundry room folding clothes, but I am here and not here. Under the wings of my Father, I hear a song playing through my phone that teaches me, so beautifully how to sing: 

I was living like an orphan
Never knew your love
Tried to find a lover
Lost with everyone
No one holds a candle
To the light inside your home

–“Rooftop,” John Mark Pantana

In my imagination, I return to the shipping store, to the situation less than an hour ago, and I see the scene so differently. I recognize the orphan attitude. I realize the victim mindset: When you forget you belong to love, you forget how to show it.

Oh, Father, I am sad that my choice to show kindness was conditional upon someone else’s kindness. I don’t want to be like that anymore. Today, I forgot you; I was separate from you. I acted like an orphan, all by myself, feeling like the world was against me. Take this attitude from me — the attitude of a victim who believes that hurting other people will help her get what she wants. Please forgive me, for I am loved. I am yours. You are mine.

The song continues to sing, and I am singing, too:

You sat on the rooftop
And you looked over heaven's gates
You came and you sold it all
Just to have me
Cover me in wonder
Beautify my mind
Warm me like the summer
Patient all the time
Glorious in splendor
Wrapped me up in light
And you crown me as an heir

I talk to my son and daughter about my role in the incident and how I am so desperate in my need for God. I speak to Justin, too. Shame tells me to hide when I have messed up. Love tells me I am growing, and I will be okay.

In my journal, I write the headings for the two lists:

• Ways I am not fine

• Ways I am fine

And I realize the contents of each list will be simple and short. Under two headings, I write: (1) I am never fine on my own. (2) I am always fine with you.

It is lunchtime, and the coffee shop is swelling with people on lunch breaks. My journal is still out, and I remember the Psalmist’s prayer:

Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me” (Psalm 51: 10-12).

Amen.

Questions for This Lament

He tells me memory is a gift,
a solace for loss, the holding
of moments so the
leaving is less painful.
But I think he means the
beautiful and less terrible ones.
For what holds these moments?
Are they worth less because
they represent pain?
They speak loud, don’t they?
And why should we heed such noise?
Maybe it’s shame who does it
—her talent to slice through silence,
jarring the space where
happiness makes her home.
We can hear her, down lonely hallways
and streets packed with people,
lonely with wisdom too
great to be ignored.

(from The Uncovering)

Jennifer Camp is a poet and listener who delights in investigating the deeper places of the heart. She founded Gather Ministries with her husband, Justin, and manages Loop Collective, a community for women who reject complacency and pursue connection with God. She writes on Substack at Jensen Road.

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