mama3girls-phnig

I think in pictures.

Some people see letters on a page. Some people see numbers on a page. I see images in my mind.

That’s not to say I don’t eventually find the words. I do. And it matters a great deal to me that those words become precise, because the image in my mind is often so beautiful—whatever situation it is—that I feel responsible for honoring it with language.

The image that stands out to me most recently is the cross.

But when I say the cross, I mean more than the symbol itself. I mean the cross as a picture of how we are interconnected—to each other, to Christ, and to the Father and Spirit.

I keep seeing this vision of a cross that I had my kids make as a craft project when they were little.

We took two pieces of burlap and stuffed them full of Poly-Fil. I wanted to put a little heart in the center of the cross before it got stitched together. Like they did with our “enrichment opportunities” at Build-A-Bear. Jimmy has always had his hands full with my framing of spending lots of money on stuffed animals. Bless his heart.

I don’t think we ended up doing that hidden-heart step, but in my mind, I still think it’s a beautiful concept.

Because the heart—the Spirit inside us—is something given by God that cannot be taken away, and it is freely given by the most loving and compassionate Creator.

At least that is what I believe.

So the picture started there, with a craft project for my kids. Later, I did the same craft project as a Sunday school teacher for the children at church. But I didn’t have the words then that I have now about why that image keeps pressing in on me.

I think something about getting older—reflecting on the good and the bad, the past and the present, and what we imagine for our future—has evolved the way I see life, the things we experience, and the meaning we make from those experiences.

I keep thinking about the word collapse.

About how a star collapses in on itself before it can become something stable and bright. What remains can look like a supernova—destruction and brilliance somehow occupying the same space.

And what’s interesting is that now I have a framework, an imagery, for the church, and I think God had it there all along.

It has been right in front of us and highly, highly marketed. Honestly? I’m amazed it took me 50 years to see it.

But that’s okay.

Got there, I think I did.

How many times have we looked at a cross and never really stopped to consider its geometry?

If you are me? Never really.

Because Jennifer and math = mental torture.

So really, who is to blame? My vote is for typical brains, how weird they are, and the incessant insistence on numbers in black and white. Ha.

Basically, it is this.

At the top of the cross is the Father.

I don’t fully know how to put words to that, but if I try, the top feels like the rules. The law. The standard. The “this is what I want you to do if you are to live a life becoming of your divine image.”

And yet we know there was only one person who ever lived that perfectly.

If you are inside the same spiritual framework as me, His name is Jesus Christ.

Then we move down to the foot of the cross—the very bottom.

There we find the church.

And when I say church, I mean all of it: the seen and unseen, the conscious and unconscious body of believers, the past saints, the present saints, and the future saints.

The entire body.

That is the bedrock and Christ Himself is the cornerstone.

That bedrock stays firm, y’all.

If who Christ is—His importance, His work, His sacrifice—loses meaning or value inside of us, everything destabilizes. I want to be very careful here and intensely nuanced.

I do not believe losing sight of Christ is usually about someone failing to be a “good Christian.” Often, it has far more to do with trauma—past and present—that keeps the nervous system so activated that a person cannot even see the light.

That deserves healing, not shame.

I remember hearing sermons about grace that were beautifully worded, yet somehow still left me walking out of church thinking: Oh no. I’m doomed.

These people think I’m sweet.

They have no idea about the swirling darkness happening inside my brain.

No one thought to ask.

Why do I feel so sad and so lost when everyone around me is smiling?

Why does something feel missing?

That disconnect matters.

Because church should not require pretending.

What if honesty came before performance?

What if, before serving in nursery or Sunday school, someone asked, “How are you—really?”

What if telling the truth about your pain relieved enough burden that holding a baby became joyful again?

Something to consider.

And if the primary connection available in church requires constant performance, it might honestly be cheaper to join a country club.

Probably more fun, too.

If you have ever felt this way, please hear me:

Getting help is not shameful.

It is a gift.

But healing also asks something of us. We cannot ask other humans to become our entire bedrock forever.

That obscures the upward call toward Christ.

I spent years asking what was wrong with me.

Then, after leaving toxic environments that echoed childhood trauma, I started asking something even darker:

What’s wrong with God?

Why would He create me?

Three years later, after therapy and trauma work, I understand something I did not know then.

Jennifer was never the problem.

God was never the problem.

Jesus was never the problem.

Never.

The problem is what is dark and exploitative in this world.

Jesus is not those things.

So I no longer believe the problem is the hurting person.

I think the problem more often points to systems that keep insisting the hurting person is the problem.

I was talking to a therapist friend the other day who studied under my old therapist Mike, who has since left this world and currently resides in perfect peace.

She told me her least favorite kind of client is someone “unwilling to work with her to see themselves.”

I appreciated her honesty.

But I gently pushed back.

“Do you understand trauma?” I asked.

She said yes—she had training—but admitted she does not always understand people’s triggers.

And I found myself saying something that surprised even me.

Maybe it isn’t your job to understand every trigger.

She held her fork suspended mid-bite.

I said, bear with me.

I have experienced a lot of big-T trauma and the complexity of navigating that since before I can remember.

If you don’t understand that a client needs a trigger to understand the underlying issue, maybe they need a new therapist.

No client should pay good money to sit across from a therapist who is disappointed by the time it takes for a person to heal.

I would say that’s just my belief, but ACA ethics codes demand honesty between client and therapist—read that: possible loss of licensure if a therapist doesn’t become congruent about what they feel regarding their client.

That is a problem.

Not Jesus.

Friend, you are not “100% of the problem.”

You are not even a problem.

You are a human being with challenges, like everyone else, and some experiences are so dark in nature that you deserve support from a trained trauma therapist who is capable of holding the collapsed state with empathic awareness—even if they do not understand.

Empathy.

Compassion.

Or at least honesty about personal limitations and lack of personal traumatic experience.

I promise you.

We all wish we could be you in many ways.

I think it is even possible that those among us who care most deeply are also the ones who suffer the greatest and have experienced the greatest losses.

Wounded healers are real.

And what’s interesting is that healing often happens so gradually you do not notice it until one day you look back.

After a year and a half, my therapist reviewed the goal from my very first intake note.

It simply said:

“To engage more in life with the people I love.”

I cried when I read it.

I had forgotten how dark it had been.

I had forgotten how collapsed I was.

If you feel even close to that darkness, I hope this gives you hope. Because I would not wish that kind of collapse on anyone. Not even the worst criminal on the planet.

Considering Christ as the one who redeems even the most hardened criminal is amazing to me. That’s an important pin to put in our awareness.

But let’s go from the foot of the cross and look up toward the very center.

Do you see that intersection?

The crossroad between north, south, east, and west?

That’s the center. The very place I wanted a heart to be buried before we stitched our burlap up with embroidery thread.

The center matters.

Does the soul stop existing if someone loses connection to Christ? I think the answer is no.

I think we can feel disconnected.

I think we can feel abandoned.

I think trauma can convince us we are severed.

Mikey, my favorite male cousin calls this string theory. He will call me or text me when he says that my “string is pulling” on him. It makes me feel very special and loved and like I want to hug his neck and fly to Chicago.

Mikey and I are both spiritual. We may not have the same framework but he is my balance beam often in moments of collapse. He knows I’m obsessed with Jesus. He often gives me grace and a gentle nudge to remember “Girl. Think outside the box. If you’re going to be a missionary, use wording that is inclusive.” Mikey loves me.

But feeling something and something being true are not always the same. They’ll try to convince of it. But don’t listen.

Now move to the right and the left.

East and west.

Do you see the outer edges of the cross?

Those horizontal bars radiating from the center?

Man.

This is where the image becomes especially meaningful to me.

Those beams have become a thing of beauty.

And here is where my brain does what it always does and starts doing “special” Jennifer things, because somewhere in all of this I found myself thinking, wow… maybe I should have spent more than two minutes considering whether kinesiology with a dance degree might have actually been a good idea.

Because suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about a balance beam.

And if you know me, you know I can take a metaphor and absolutely run it into the ground.

But stay with me.

A balance beam is narrow.

You wobble.

You overcorrect.

You lean too far one direction and risk collapse.

And yet the goal is not perfection.

The goal is learning how to return to center.

That feels spiritual to me.

I have two dance instructors in my life who have modeled the image of Christ so effectively that I am left dumbfounded at how truly awesome our God is.

And the more I sit with this image, the more I realize something.

I don’t think the horizontal beam is just wood.

I think sometimes God lets us encounter people who become living balance beams.

People who hold collapse.

People who stretch wide enough to absorb chaos without collapsing themselves.

People who somehow make room for both truth and mercy.

People who can say, “Tell me the truth,” without making honesty feel like a death sentence. On one particularly bad day, one of my best friend’s called me and used these words. I remember finally releasing it.

They then said, “Thank you for being honest with me.”

I was regulated and stunned. Thank YOU? I just vomited a bunch of darkness onto you and you are…grateful?

I never cease to hold these people in my awareness because being that kind of balance beam DOES draw from wells that should be deep enough to continue delivering water to others. Should be. Some of us defy understanding.

Because if I’m honest, when I picture that beam, I don’t first see understanding of theology.

I see people who know how to love.

I see a woman named VRod.

When I was at my wits’ end parenting three highly spirited children—two of whom weren’t even on dance—this woman held space.

Held it.

I think she may have even called the district for me after hearing these words:

“I didn’t try out for Reagan cheer. They made their proverbial leadership bed and they can now honor their commitment.”

I still get Christmas cards from her. But what matters more is this: She loved my children well past what is expected of a dance team coordinator.

WELL past.

Think angry wives.

Teenage girls who mistook the wrong truck.

Emergency shout-outs to connect with a husband who came home in a lot of trouble.

Yeah.

VRod fixed that.

I hope she gave them lots of demerits.

But probably not. Though it does make a solid case for why she retired into real estate agency. Because, there is some level of control regarding the marketing, selling and buying of houses. If you want a very very, very good real estate agent @Val.sales.tx. While this post is not a marketing post and I make no money in the sale of Valeria Sisson? She absolutely deserves the recognition. I’m also absolutely certain that you will not dislike her level of perfectionism and care over you as her client. Trust.

Back to the original reason for this post— VRod always said:

“If you tell me, we will work it out. If you keep it a secret, you are benched at best and off the team at worst.”

That kind of mom.

That kind of woman.

That kind of beam.

And I don’t use that word lightly.

Because recently, one of her girls died.

There are losses that make theology stop sounding clever.

Losses that strip abstraction right out of you.

Losses that force harder questions.

What does love do when it cannot save?

What does grace do when it cannot prevent tragedy?

What does a shepherd do when one of the flock is suddenly gone?

I don’t know.

I really don’t.

But I know this.

I have watched her keep loving.

I have watched her keep showing up.

And maybe that is the holiest thing I know how to name.

Not perfection.

Presence.

Not answers.

Presence.

Not rescue.

Presence.

And a beautiful Facebook tribute that made me weep from the other side of a computer screen.

I suspect the names VRod would lay down her life for would not just include her husband, her children, or her parents.

I suspect some very blessed dancers, pep-squad girls, and cheerleaders would be on that list too.

How many names are written on her heart now?

How many girls has she taught over the years?

How many babies has she helped carry through collapse?

Lord, guard her heart.

And maybe that is what the horizontal beam was always trying to teach me.

The beam does not eliminate collapse.

It teaches us how to hold balance while moving through it.

Let’s say I’m a sinner—which we all should be able to say, right?

We are sinners.

Collapse often sounds like this:

“I wasn’t good enough.”

“I didn’t do enough.”

“I’m unworthy of love.”

But look at the cross, friend.

Look east and west.

Look left and right.

Look laterally.

Look at the horizon.

Look straight ahead.

What you will see is this:

He has already forgiven you.

I say this to myself when I am tempted into shaming collapse:

“He has already forgiven me.”

Then the next best question is:

Can we forgive ourselves?

I think the answer is yes.

I truly do.

Shame says:

You are the problem.

Sin says:

There is a challenge in front of us.

That distinction matters.

Because maybe Christianity is not ultimately about performing perfection.

Maybe God never intended that.

What if He expected collapse?

What if collapse was part of becoming?

What if He knew we would need each other?

What if the whole point of this step on the way to heaven was not rule perfection but relational transformation?

What if God did not want robots?

Who even wants love that isn’t freely given?

What if He wanted people who loved each other well?

People who could point each other upward and say:

Look, friend.

Look up.

Up, up, up.

Look at who created you.

Yes, He has rules.

But does He expect flawless performance?

I think the fact that He planned redemption before we collapsed probably answers that question.

So what if Christianity is simply this:

Loving each other well.

Blessing out.

Blessing up.

And if we ever collapse back into self-sufficiency and infatuation with self, the people around us should be able to say:

This is hurting me.

Please fix it.

And the Spirit hidden in the heart—that hidden heart we forgot to sew into the burlap cross—will help us discern whether that correction is truth, control, or some complicated mixture of both.

Maybe that’s why I still think about that unfinished craft.

We never stitched the heart inside.

But maybe it was there anyway.

Maybe the hidden heart was never dependent on our ability to sew it in.

Maybe grace was already there.

Maybe Christ was already holding the collapse.

And maybe that is why people like VRod matter so much.

Not because they are Christ.

They aren’t.

But every now and then, in the way they hold us, correct us, grieve with us, and keep showing up, they help us see Him more clearly.

And if that is true, then the best thing I can say about VRod is not that she taught girls how to dance.

It is this:

She helped me see Christ.

And somewhere in there, I can still hear her voice.

Be a good human.

Go, fight, win.

And when you look up?

Tight core, facials, pointed toes, and confidence.

From the top. 5, 6, 7, 8!

References

Power of a good coach / transformational leadership in coaching:

Hummell, C., Herbison, J. D., Turnnidge, J., & Côté, J. (2022). Assessing the effectiveness of the transformational coaching workshop using behavior change theory. International Journal of Sports Science & Coaching, 18(3). https://doi.org/10.1177/17479541221122435

Liu, W., Zhang, Y., & colleagues. (2023). Perceived transformational leadership from the coach and athletes’ well-being: The mediating effect of basic psychological needs. Frontiers in Psychology, 13. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2023.1072534

Transformational coaching describes a coaching style in which the coach does more than improve technical performance. Transformational coaches create psychologically safe environments while maintaining high standards, using trust, accountability, encouragement, and corrective feedback to foster both performance and character development. Research suggests such coaches improve athlete motivation, belonging, resilience, and subjective well-being.

Biblical parallels for transformational coaching:

• Proverbs 20:5 — “The purposes in a person’s heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out.”
• Proverbs 27:17 — “Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.”
• Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 — “Two are better than one… if either falls, one can help the other up.”
• 2 Timothy 1:6–7 — “Rekindle the gift of God that is within you.”
• Hebrews 10:24 — “Consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.”
• Cross as vertical and horizontal love
• Matthew 22:37–40
• Ephesians 3:17–19
• God’s holiness and divine standard
• Leviticus 19:2
• Matthew 5:48
• Christ as sinless and sufficient
• Hebrews 4:15
• 2 Corinthians 5:21
• Christ as cornerstone / church as body
• Ephesians 2:19–22
• 1 Peter 2:4–6
• Trauma, suffering, and obscured light
• Psalm 88
• Isaiah 42:3
• 1 Kings 19:4–8
• Bearing burdens / relational support
• Galatians 6:2
• Romans 12:15
• Ecclesiastes 4:9–12
• Shame, grace, and freedom from condemnation
• Romans 8:1
• 2 Corinthians 7:10
• Healing as gradual restoration
• Mark 8:22–25
• Romans 5:3–5
• Nothing can separate us from divine love
• Romans 8:38–39
• New heart / hidden heart imagery
• Ezekiel 36:26
• Romans 5:5
• Humans reflecting Christ to one another
• Matthew 5:16
• 2 Corinthians 3:2–3