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Feeling Used?

Dec15

by Rita Klundt

“You’re being used,” her mother said. “You’ve got to get away from him!” I agreed with her mother. It was only a talk show on my television screen, but the tears I saw weren’t produced by actors. They were real.

Have you ever felt used? I have, and it’s a terrible feeling. The word used has a negative connotation in so many situations: I bought a car yesterday. It’s used. I sure hope I can trust that used car salesman. I used to be young and energetic. My favorite sweater is sure looking used. The boss used my proposal, and then he/she took all the credit. You get the picture.

 At the root of the word abuse is the word use, so who, in their right mind, would ever want to be used? To be used by another person implies that we are expendable. They consume what they want of us and then dispose of the rest. That kind of use leaves us diminished and damaged. That kind of use, or abuse, serves no purpose at all.

Jesus knew what it was to be used. He tells us to love our enemies, to bless those who curse us, to do good to those who hate us, and to pray for those who spitefully use and persecute us (Matthew 5:44). Jesus isn’t instructing us to wait around for more abuse, or hang around (like the girl on the talk show) to be spitefully used. He is telling us how to respond when (not if) we are used or abused. Most of the time we need to put a little space between us and our user in order to love, bless, do good and even pray for them.

In 2 Corinthians 4:8 we see affirmation that we will be troubled (used) on every side, but not distressed. Jesus knew that we would be used, but he doesn’t want us to feel useless. He doesn’t want us to despair.

Being used can also be a good thing: “Hey! I got a great deal on a used car!” Or, “Wow! The boss used my proposal!” Notice how the emphasis in these situations is not on the word used?

Those of us who know God want to be used by Him. To be used by God serves a good purpose. To be used by God gives us purpose.

Have you noticed how folks trickle into a church building between 9 and 11 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but sometime around noon, they gather at the door, and can get a little pushy? If only they had a taste of what it feels like to be used by God, people would be standing in line or funneling into the doors of anything with a steeple.

Imagine how different our church families would be if we started rushing the exits of our church sanctuaries for a different reason…a better reason. What if the hurry wasn’t to “make it in time for the kickoff,” or to be seated at a popular restaurant? What if we heard the lyrics, as well as the music? What if we allowed that hour (or so) to make us both ready and willing to practice what was just preached? What if we were anxious to serve…to be used by God?

As you “trickle in” tomorrow morning, just think about it. 

Tips for a Joy-Filled Christmas

Dec14

by Rita Klundt

You’ve heard it from friends, on television and on the internet. But humor me, and check out my list below. I created it after having applied all but one of them…with varying results. Yesterday’s post had to do with expectations, and if you’re like me, you’re expecting a certain kind of Christmas this year. The idea (again, if you’re like me) is to prepare for Christmas, without sacrificing the entire season for an hour or two of “merry” on December 25th.

  1. Don’t overspend. Avoid using credit cards.
  2. Take your vitamins and get your flu shot. Who wants to be sick Christmas day?
  3. Pick and choose your Christmas activities. Guard your calendar.
  4. Get plenty of rest.  (Yea, right!)
  5. Stay away from those bad carbs. And really watch your intake of good carbs.
  6. Plan your meals ahead of time, and shop on Tuesday mornings when the crowds are smaller. And by the way, you’ll save time and money if you start shopping now for Christmas 2019.
  7. Don’t bite when someone tries to serve up a debate on politics or religion at the dinner table. And certainly, don’t be the one who feeds on drama.
  8. Save money by giving homemade items. (By the way…you’ll still need to purchase…blah, blah, blah).
  9. Order online, but get free shipping.
  10. Don’t forget the deadline for getting cards and letters in the mail is… for packages… for overseas…
  11. Drink alcohol in moderation.

Eleven suggestions. Hmmm? I thought about deleting one, making it an even ten, but I couldn’t decide which tip to cut. Hey! Another thought? If I’ve overlooked one of your trusty tips, and you let me know, we’d have an even dozen.

It wouldn’t be much of a challenge for me to find a biblical story or verse of scripture to support each of my great tips. But, wouldn’t it be hypocritical of me to use God’s word to build a blog post based on “Tips for a Joy-filled Christmas” when (honestly) I’ve yet to sustain a commitment to more than one of the eleven suggestions on my list? Except that I abstain from alcohol, I would have blundered that one, too.

Most of what I’d have to offer in the suggestion department would be examples of how I’ve messed up. That’s a lot of writing for me…and a bunch of reading for you! So let’s not go there.

Instead, I’ll share a short promise. The promise is not actually mine. It’s found in God’s word.

In Isaiah 55:11 (NLT) God says:

It is the same with my word.
    I send it out, and it always produces fruit.
It will accomplish all I want it to,
    and it will prosper everywhere I send it.

So go ahead. Follow as many of those eleven tips as you will. Use them as a guide toward a “Merry Christmas,” but understand. They don’t come with the kind of guarantee we have in Isaiah 55:11. Have a strategy. Make plans for your spending, cooking and eating over the next few weeks. Give as much time as possible to family and friends. But look out for unexpected circumstances.

Read, study or meditate on something God said every day. Be sure it’s actually something God said in His word. If not, the promise in Isaiah is null and void. Then, don’t be too hard on yourself if you have days when you can’t seem to do much of anything on my list.

Most of all, don’t exchange the promise of a joy-filled Christmas for a “happy holiday.” I’m relying on God’s promise! I hope you will, too.

We Have Much

Nov22

A hole the size of a car’s front bumper (and then some) is now an eye sore on the side of our house. The police report states that there were “no significant injuries” and our insurance adjuster assures us, “We’ll take care of everything. All of this will be like new.”

We can’t help but thank God for his protection and for the help we’ve already been given in cleaning up and sorting through the aftermath of a concrete block explosion.

I was working at my computer, caffeinated, and feeling great about all I was accomplishing when a lady left her nine-to-five day job and hi-tailed it to our house. Trouble is, she wasn’t invited, and she didn’t drive to the corner and turn into our driveway, or ring our doorbell. She drove on the wrong side of the road for a while, nearly went into a creek, then overcorrected (or perhaps went unconscious), jumped the curb two lawns down from ours, plowed down a solidly posted mailbox, and made straight and clear snow tracks between two of our neighbor’s trees before the crash. All that, with no evidence she saw danger or attempted to avoid what one can only assume was an accident.

The noise was deafening. Chunks of concrete block, and other debris, flew all around me. Some as far as thirty feet across our basement. I felt something scrape the side of my head as it flew by, and a blow to my upper arm, but my computer screen was still lit. My new, hi-back office chair had shielded me from the biggest pieces of flying concrete. I didn’t click to save my work or shut down anything. I turned to see where the rocks had come from, and screamed, “Roger!”

He thought lightening had struck, but I thought gas explosion. The electrical box, previously attached to the wall, was now dangling. I should have known how to shut the gas off, but I yelled for Roger to do it. Turning off the gas seemed the immediate thing to do.

“The gas shutoff is outside.” He looked at the hole in our wall and pointed toward the stairs for me to go. But I wasn’t going without him. He says that he didn’t smell gas, which is why he stepped deeper into the cloud of dust for a better look instead of following my command. But other than a gas explosion, what could have caused this?

“There’s a car out there!”

Now, the immediate thing to do was to run outside and tend to the driver. I grabbed my phone, not thinking that it might not function, ran up the stairs, and raced out the front door. One of the two drivers who had witnessed everything outside our house called 911, and the other was assisting the lady driver. She was walking on her own, steady and coherent. Whew!

Thank God for airbags.

Police and firemen arrived. “Ma’am. Were you hurt? Is there anyone in the house?”

Roger? Where is Roger? Is he still in the house? And then I saw him…with flashlight in hand, checking out the car and the property damage.

So, I’ve been thankful for my husband for about sixteen years now, but never more thankful than today. He tells me that he’s never been more thankful for me. We have yet to know the extent of structural damage to our house, but our home is intact and as beautiful as ever.

Thank God for homes.

Thanksgiving Day 2018, and the parade in New York City is happening as I write this, and I still need to make a pecan pie. We have much – for which we are thankful.

Win. Win.

Aug27

by Rita Klundt

I fell asleep last night struggling with the commandment to love my enemies. And I woke up this morning feeling I could end this struggle, or at least make it through the day if I could find an answer in my Bible. I know I must, but how can I love this particular enemy?

(Now, before anyone assumes they know who my “enemy” is, consider that I might have more than one. Please don’t make assumptions, and don’t share them if you do. My struggle is difficult enough.)

Instead of picking up my reading at the bookmark in the Gospel of John, I went to Matthew 5:38-48. That, of course, is where Jesus talks about loving our enemies. I’d memorized some of those verses as a child. They were easy for me to find.

When I got to the part about “praying for those who persecute you” I stopped and uttered a prayer for my enemy. I said the words, “Bless…,” but I wasn’t “feeling” it. God heard me confess that my heart wasn’t behind any of what I was asking. I really want justice, and I want it now. I’ve been wronged, and I want things made right. I kept reading into Chapter 6—daring God to give me something I could pray with integrity, if not anticipation and enthusiasm. The next twelve verses prepared me to discover God’s answer.

“And do not lead us into temptation. But deliver us from the evil one.” (Matthew 5:13a NKJV)

YES! Not me or them, but us. I read that verse with the emphasis on the word us. Upper case US! Something I can pray for both me and my enemy! And think about it….God really wants to deliver us from evil. Not just me, but my enemy. Win. Win. And if God should lead my enemy to pray for me? Win. Miraculous win.

Heavenly Father,
Thank you for knowing my heart and hearing the prayers of your hurting and struggling child. Lord, God of all things great and small, lead us away from temptation and deliver us from the schemes of the evil one. Make your kingdom, your power, and your glory the highest priority in my heart and life. Help me to love my enemy. Amen. ps…I really mean it.

That Bridge

May23

by Rita Klundt

A short, narrow bridge somewhere between Princeton, Kentucky, where Grandma lived, and the little town of Cadiz, where one of my aunts lived, is the subject of an often told story at family reunions.

Every time Grandma traveled over that bridge she repeated a story from her seat behind the driver. “A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.”

Without fail, word for word, we heard the story. Our cousins heard the same story whenever Grandma was riding with them.

Twenty years after Grandma’s funeral, I was in the car with my cousin, Barry, and his wife, Kim. As we approached the bridge, Barry was the first to think of Grandma.

“This is the bridge Grandma used to always talk about. She would always say, ‘A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.’ She told the same story, word for word, every time we crossed this bridge. We [referring to him and his two brothers] used to do a count down with our fingers. Whoever got closest to zero when she started the story was the winner.”

We all smiled at the memory of Grandma, but Kim was the first to notice the irony. “Barry, our kids do a countdown every time you approach the bridge.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. They were with me the last time I crossed here. I couldn’t help it. I had to remind them about how, every time we cross this bridge, you tell us about how every time your grandma crossed this bridge, she told you about the car full of teenagers who’d been drinking and must have been going 90 miles an hour over the bridge. Our kids interrupted me with a countdown of their own.”

It doesn’t need to be the short narrow bridge between Princeton and Cadiz for me to smile for a memory of my mother’s mother. Any bridge will do. I think of Grandma and look at the speedometer nearly every time I cross a bridge. If a low guardrail is involved, I reduce my speed, check the mirrors more frequently, and am sure to have both hands on the steering wheel. Depending on the height of the bridge and the depth of the water below, my knuckles turn a different shade of white.

Mere repetition does more than seal a permanent memory. It changes us and changes the people around us. I don’t repeat what Grandma said to every passenger who happens to be in the car when we’re on a bridge, but if there is a conversation in progress or a good song on the radio, I might not be able to listen. Grandma’s voice overpowers everything for the time it takes to cross the bridge.

I’ve been crossing a lot of white knuckle bridges lately, not the kind with painted yellow lines and guardrails, but the kind of bridges that get me from a comfortable past into unknown, and possibly unfavorable, territory. Somedays, I’d like to make a U-turn, avoid the bridge, and head in a new direction. Jonah tried that. He ended up crossing the “bridge” anyway—after a few days detour in the belly of a big fish.

So I’m using mere repetition to my advantage. I’ve got a bookmark at Proverbs 3. There is some good stuff in that chapter. I already memorized the fifth verse ages ago, but for the next forty days I’m going to read it, repeat it aloud, and meditate on it daily. I plan to read all 35 short verses in the chapter every morning as part of my quiet time. Repeating and meditating on the same passage of scripture for a length of time isn’t an idea original to me. I’m finally following up on some advice offered to me several years ago.

If Grandma’s words come to my mind after decades of not hearing her voice, and give me cause for caution, how much more can God’s Word do for me when I read and meditate on it daily?

“So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:11(NKJV)

The Pedicure: A Better Kind of Beautiful

Apr23

By Rita Klundt

If you were looking for a “pedicure” when you stumbled onto this blog…well, you might have found it.

It’s finally sandal season. For those of us who make it through our winters and live for spring, it’s time to close the sock drawer and put away those furry boots. Yeah!

The problem (and there is always a problem): My feet have been hidden and ignored while this year’s winter has trespassed deep into my spring. May is only a week away, and I’ve yet to make that early March pedicure appointment.

I’m not usually one who pays much attention to feet, but it’s obvious, after one trip to Walmart, that I’m not the only one with scraggly toenails and rough heels. Lots of us are anxious to slip into a pair of sandals and get this summer started!

My feet say more about me than I care to share. They give away my age. They expose my need and my priorities. My doctor looks at feet for clues to my state of wellness. I should look at my feet more often than I do. It shouldn’t take a trip to Walmart and glaring examples of neglected and abused feet for me to realize how much I need a pedicure.

My feet, much more than the graying hair on my head, deserve a regular appointment—maybe not at an expensive salon, but if I want to look good, feel good, and live well, my feet need more attention.

Even the Bible speaks to the importance of our feet. In Genesis, Abraham begs three angels to rest with him and offers water to wash their feet. In Deuteronomy, The Lord reminds Israel of how He provided for their feet. Forty years of wandering in the desert, and not one shoe needed replacement. I expect there were hand-me-downs, but forty years without going into a shoe store! Yep, that really happened, and not for just one person, but for a huge tribe of people.

David thanks God for feet that did not cause him to slip and fall (2 Samuel). He encourages and instructs, using feet for memorable imagery and metaphor, in the Psalms. Solomon warns us, in the Proverbs, about feet that tend to run toward evil.

In the Gospels, we can read about people sitting at Jesus’ feet, worshiping at His feet, and washing His feet with tears. And then we learn how to serve and how to love when we read about Jesus washing the feet of the twelve disciples.

John likens Jesus’ feet to “fine brass” in the book of Revelation. He says a lot about Jesus and His feet with those two short words. I don’t understand all there is to know about Heaven, but “fine brass” tells me that when I see Jesus, face to face, even His feet will be beautiful and amazing.

A verse of scripture came to my mind on the way home from Walmart: “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, Who bring glad tidings of good things!” Romans 10:15b (NKJV)

I realized my need for more than a salon appointment. I won’t be satisfied with polished toes and softened heels. It’s not enough for my winterized feet to look good in sandals or meet the approval of other women. I want a better kind of beautiful for my feet!

So, the salon where I go is closed on Mondays, but my feet can still get beautiful today. I’ve got plans to go out and about. I’m praying that God will walk me into what my pastor talked about yesterday—a gospel conversation. As surely as He walked in the desert with the Israelites for forty years, and didn’t allow their shoes to wear thin, He will be with me.

I love the way Romans 10: 14-15 is translated into contemporary language:
“But how can people call for help if they don’t know who to trust? And how can they know who to trust if they haven’t heard of the One who can be trusted? And how can they hear if nobody tells them? And how is anyone going to tell them, unless someone is sent to do it? That’s why Scripture exclaims,
A sight to take your breath away!
Grand processions of people
telling all the good things of God!” (The Message: NavPress)

Hope to see you out and about real soon. I may, or may not be wearing sandals.

Imposter Syndrome: Guarding Lies and Keeping Secrets

Mar5

by Rita Klundt

A favorite nursing instructor discussed the term, “imposter syndrome,” in one of her lectures. I wrote the term in my notebook, added a dash and the time frame of “about one year.” The instructor told us it was a fairly new term, also known as “imposter phenomenon.” She warned that we had already been exposed and should be aware that imposter syndrome could happen to us.

I didn’t tell anyone or seek help when, about nine months into my first nursing job, I noted the symptoms. I expected that my instructor had been correct, and the syndrome, with its symptoms would last only a few more months.

I felt like a fraud. That’s what imposter syndrome is. It’s a feeling, not a reality, but it’s a feeling to be reckoned with.

I had done my homework, passed exams without cheating, and graduated from an accredited and respected university. I had passed the state board exam. My name was spelled correctly on a piece of paper with the official state seal. It identified me as a “Registered Professional Nurse.” Still, I felt like a fraud—a phony who didn’t deserve a nurse’s salary or the trust of my coworkers and patients. I had imposter syndrome.

When others congratulated me on my accomplishments, I doubted their sincerity. If someone thanked me for solving a problem or giving extra effort, I had difficulty accepting their praise. The fear of being exposed as a “phony” was a frequent distraction. I thought, “Someone better than me should have this job. There must have been some sort of mix-up or crack that I slipped through.”

The phrase “imposter syndrome” was coined in a 1978 article written by Dr. Pauline R. Clance and Suzanne A. Imes. It’s not a physiological or psychological illness, or even a distinct personality disorder, but it has all the markings of a syndrome. It happens when high-achieving individuals are unable to internalize their accomplishments and they “feel” like an imposter.

My nursing instructor admitted to having had a “case” of it herself. She told us that it was common among professionals where “excellence must be the standard, not the exception.” Nursing is one of those professions. She encouraged our class, although it wasn’t required reading, to review the article by Clance and Imes. I’m glad I did.

When I found myself anxious, lacking confidence, depressed, and frustrated with maintaining my new professional image as a registered nurse and a single mother of three young children, I had a clue as to my problem. My defenses were constantly deployed because of my hypersensitivity to criticism. I couldn’t keep up the pretense. Something or someone had to give.

Sometimes it was me and my expectations. Too often, it was my friends and family.

Exactly how long I (we) suffered with imposter syndrome, I can’t say. For the sake of my former nursing instructor, and to preserve a bit of my own dignity, let’s assume she was correct in her estimate, and my flare-up of imposter syndrome lasted about one year. I’m no longer that novice nurse, and it’s been nearly thirty years since I’ve thought about that term “imposter syndrome.”

But lately, I’m wondering if I haven’t had another flare-up?

This time, it’s not in my role as a nurse that I feel like an imposter, fearing exposure, but in my role as a Christian. I’m experiencing that same feeling I had as a fresh college graduate. I know I am a Christian and have been since I was six years old. That isn’t what’s been bothering me. It’s more like “Why am I so weak? Why do I struggle with the basic Christian disciplines after all these years?” This time, it’s more than a thought or a feeling. It is reality. I know I’m not that smart, or devoted or spiritual, and that God has gifted me beyond my own capabilities.

“If I slip and mess up, everyone will see my failures.” “What if God suddenly decides His time and effort with me is a waste?” “What if He takes back His blessings?”

Imposter syndrome has been affecting my behavior. Feelings of inadequacy distract me. They stymy my decision making. Imposter syndrome wastes my time. Hours available for accomplishing a task or meeting a goal are squandered on internal self-talk, speculation and worry that my plans are flawed. I’ve been re-thinking almost everything!

I was talking with a friend, who happens to be a popular home-grown counselor, when the term from my nursing school days entered my mind. She thought imposter syndrome interesting, and recalled a time in her life when she might have experienced it. Then, she labeled her problem as perfectionism. She suggested that perhaps I had a “touch” of perfectionism as well. She said, “You’re too hard on yourself.”

I argued, and compared myself to mutual friends whose perfectionism manifests itself in physical ways, like meticulous and obsessive organization and neatness. She reminded me that perfectionism is doggedly remaining loyal to an unachievable standard. Any unachievable standard—physical, emotional, intellectual, or spiritual. She gets me.

My friend also reminded me of a recent betrayal and rejection, and wondered if that’s when the symptoms of imposter syndrome returned. That kind of insight is what makes her such a popular home-grown counselor. It’s been well over a year, and I am still hurting over the loss of a relationship. I’ve been misrepresented and accused with seemingly no opportunity to defend myself.

My anger over the injustice has settled, but the unanswered questions leave me choking in a dust cloud of doubt. What did I do to deserve this? Why me? Even if I had done what I was accused of, this punishment far outweighs the crime, doesn’t it? How long will this have a hold on me, and can I trust myself to get close to anyone new?

Since that conversation with my friend, God is helping me to resolve that I don’t need to have every answer. Some of my questions have actually been fueling the greatest imposter of all time. He has a name that I’d rather not mention. He gets into my thoughts, wiggles his way into my psyche, and then watches with satisfaction as my behavior begins to carry out his malicious agenda. I know better than to guard his lies and keep his secrets, but I do. He pretends to have my best interest, to be covering my back side, and to have the answers, but he is bogus. He is the fraud. Not me.

“So, now that you know I’m a perfectionist with imposter syndrome, can we still be friends?” I asked my friend.

She gave me a big hug, and said, “Of course we can.” We made plans to do lunch.

Is my imposter syndrome in remission because of one conversation with a friend? Not quite. But my feelings of inadequacy are no longer secret. Imposter syndrome no longer has power over me. There’s no need to fear being exposed as imperfect, because I’ve already confessed. My friend was so kind in the way she reminded me that I’m not alone in dealing with imposter syndrome. None of us is worthy, but we all seek affirmation as good and somehow deserving.

Since that conversation, verses of scripture remind me that:
• Christ gave his life for mine, and it’s no longer me who lives, but because of my faith in Him, it’s Christ who lives in me. (Galatians 2:19:20)
• The term “Christian” was coined in the town of Antioch. (Acts 11:26) The term means to be an imitator of Christ.
• God’s grace is sufficient. His strength it made perfect in my weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

I’m only a fraud or a phony when I try to impress others with something I don’t possess. My confidence isn’t a crock, it’s in Christ who lives in me. If my courage seems to be an imitation of Christ, I thank you for the compliment. And my strength…I have none. I’ll take God’s grace any day!

The conversation with my friend also brought to my memory (because she asked) how I overcame my first flare-up of imposter syndrome. It took some time. I spent hours reading and meditating over what God had for me in His Word. I prayed—a lot. I decided to risk being the woman God created me to be whether that was at home, on the job, at church, or hanging out with friends. That meant asking questions without fear of appearing ignorant. Learning the difference between what I know and what I think I know became crucial. I began to hear the intensions behind a person’s words as much as the legalistic meaning.

Most importantly, I wasn’t “so hard on myself” when God revealed a sin in my life. I repented and moved on. For me, and I suppose others with imposter syndrome, pride was the sin I confessed most often.

I gained some insight from the article by Clance and Imes, especially as to why I would see myself as an imposter. They point out two lies (although they don’t call them lies) that little girls hear either audibly or through overriding family dynamics.

One little girl hears that she is the “social” one. And while her ability or intellect are lacking, her personality or people skills will bring her success. That doesn’t seem so detrimental, except someone with superior academic skills (usually a sibling) is held in high esteem by the family, and noticeably a contrast to her. The girl can study and achieve enough to receive accolades from teachers, but it doesn’t seem to impress her family or advance her status. She keeps working for validation of her intelligence. It’s never enough. Turning to charm and social skills for a fix of approval becomes easy, and she feels better for a time. Attention for intellectual accomplishments is a secret desire, but she has learned to trust her social prowess for instant gratification. The seed of imposter syndrome has been planted.

The other girl is “told” she is perfect. Her family places her on that proverbial pedestal. They (usually a parent in this case, and not a sibling) tell her she can achieve whatever she wants. She hears them share examples of her accomplishments with others. She feels the hint of exaggeration and undeserved accolade, but risks embarrassment if she disputes the “files” of proof being presented. Pleasing her family begins to take more effort, and their praise adds pressure. To onlookers, her success seems effortless, and she fights to keep up appearances. She doesn’t trust parental approval to survive one of her mistakes. Others are blamed for her failures, and when no one investigates, she feels relief rather than guilt. Little failures are buried beneath new achievements, but not forgotten. Bigger failures lead to both mental and physical exhaustion, but quitting isn’t an option for her. What was intended as encouragement just gave root to imposter syndrome.

Clance and Imes made an omission in their article. I think it was probably a purposeful omission. They undoubtedly discussed it before the work was submitted for publication. What about the little girl who internalized both lies? Is that even possible? Oh well…that’s a question for another day.

Right now, the sun is shining. It’s beginning to look like spring, and I’ve been sitting in front of a computer all day. I’m not feeling the need to prove myself as a writer or impress anyone with more words, so I think I’ll go open the front door, take about three deep breaths, and see what happens next.

 

In case you haven’t archived old copies of Psychotherapy, Research and Practice (Volume 15. #3. Fall 1978), you can find the Clance and Imes article on the internet. It’s titled: The Imposter Phenomenon in High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention.

Food for Thought

Feb8

by Rita Klundt

On the topic of leadership, there are volumes upon volumes of expertly written, best seller listed books, with proven methodologies out there. So none of my thoughts on leadership can possibly be original. Nonetheless, I offer some food for thought:

  • Excellent leaders don’t have all the answers.
    They own all the right questions.
  • Excellent leaders don’t react to rumor, threat, or even a crisis.
    They respond to need.
  • Excellent leaders can start in the middle.
    …in the middle of a crisis.
    …in the middle of the confusion.
    …in the middle of a sentence.
    …in the middle of a thought.
  • Excellent leaders understand the difference between equal and fair.
  • The heart of an excellent leader won’t try to hide behind attitude or image. It bleeds into actions and decisions, both large and small, without restraint.

 

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for godly leaders – those who make it seem natural and easy, as well as those who’ve worked diligently because they know people like me are watching and following. Amen.

Deceitfulness

Aug2

by Rita Klundt

 

This afternoon, I accepted a challenge to write a poem using an acrostic format.  The words love and beauty came to my mind, but those two words were crowded out because of some difficult circumstances. Avoidable circumstances. Someone told a lie. A big fat lie. So, here is my answer to the acrostic challenge:

Deceitfulness

Do not lie
Everyone tempted – Everyone warned
Calamity only deferred
Embellishment becomes necessity
Integrity blemished then redefined
Trust destroyed
Facts omitted or misaligned
Unscrupulous souls enjoy
Love exploited
Niceness tooled for betrayal
Everyone loses
Soiled legacy
Sin. Because to call deceitfulness by any other name would be a lie.

 

And this evening, I was still spewing anger because of that same lie. Adding self-righteousness to anger didn’t help. My stomach still churned. A passage I read from my Bible did help. 1 John 4:7 tells us to “love one another: for Love is of God.”

The person who told the big fat lie today probably knows about God, but doesn’t know Him. That could explain a lot!

My goal: To gaze at something beautiful before I decide on a topic for my next acrostic poem, and to remember what it says in 1 John 4:11. “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.”

Get Plugged In

Oct24

“Get plugged in.”

The invitation was sincere and others were responding, but I had been plugged in for years? Half a century of Sundays and Wednesday nights in the same pew ought to prove something. And I’ve been more than a seat warmer. I’m involved. I am plugged in!

The challenge presented by our new pastor was clear. Yet, my mental picture of “plugged in” looked something like the dusty tangle of cords behind my desks, both at home and at work.

My answer to his plea (not to his face, of course), “No thanks. I’ve been thinking of getting unplugged!”

Am I the only one bothered by the tangle of vitally important electrical cords that create ugly clutter under my desk?

Has anyone else found themselves intertwined in a complicated mess of churchy personalities who make “plugging in” undesirable, if not impossible, even when you agree to connect through their dusty old mess? Where does your mind go when you think of getting plugged in?

Our pastor is a fine orator who practices, as far as I can tell, what he preaches. I’m just getting to know him, and I already like the man. I like his wife as much, or more. He wasn’t asking the unreasonable, or even on his own behalf, and I would have been persuaded had it not been for the heavy mental baggage I was carrying. I had yet to unpack it when the final “Amen” was said.

The best I could offer was a silent prayer of confession that I doubted this “plugging in” thing would change anything—in my corner of the world (or sanctuary) anyway.

I’m in a place right now where situations seem to be closing in on me. I feel it at work, at home, in front of the computer screen where I lay it all down in words, and now at church. My one hour a week of rest and rejuvenation was at risk with this call to “plug in.” For a month of Sundays all I could see was the image of those electrical cords. Unsightly, dusty, and a tangled mess.

All the outlets are taken. Not one more electronic thing can be plugged in. This mental picture was in every room of my life. And it wasn’t pretty, well framed, or blending in with the rest of my décor.

After about a month, my husband’s prayer before lunch nearly pushed me over the edge. I’d been betrayed by the one person who should have understood and been on my side when it came to the unplugging thing, and I knew that God had heard his prayer.

It was a simple prayer. He offered thanks for the crock pot meal, and “for our many blessings.” In a very general way, he asked forgiveness for “our sins,” and then before he said the “Amen,” he ask for God’s direction as to “how we should plug-in at church.”

“You do the untangling!” Yes, I know it sounds more like a demand. Yet, it was a request I made clear to God before I opened my Bible.

I go to the Psalms when I’m mad at God. This time I went to Psalm 102. You’ll never guess what happened – or maybe you’ve been in the place where I was and you won’t be surprised.

From my old King James, verses 1-2 say, “Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call answer me speedily.”

Anyone who knows me well knows there were tears by the time I read that first phrase. Could there have been a better place for God to start? And He wasn’t finished. I found permission in those verses to tell God to look at me, to hear me, and to answer me quickly. The psalmist was begging for God’s attention. Oh how I understand that! Two short verses, and I had God’s undivided face looking into mine. Here’s what I saw:

It wasn’t God who had hidden his face. Between verses two and three, I realized that God was the one who had His hands firmly, but gently, cupping either side of my face — like a parent wanting a child to get the message.

I read the rest of the chapter like that small child, wishing for an alternative, but knowing there was none. And when I finished, another mental image came to my mind and gave me the rest and rejuvenation I needed for the coming week. Here’s what I remembered:

I had walked home from school in a heavy rain. Probably stepped in a few puddles intentionally, but with a block or more to our front door, my shoes were rubbing blisters on my feet. By the time I made it inside, my feet were bleeding, but I couldn’t get those snug canvas sneakers off. My socks were soaked, and the shoes wouldn’t slide off without tearing flesh. The shoe strings, now swollen and wet, had been tied and triple knotted since the beginning of the school year. Can I get a witness? I was in a terrible mess.

Mom tried to help, but I was wet, mad, and probably dreading homework. Too old for the traditional temper tantrum, I threw one anyway. Eventually, Mom got down on the wet floor, and used her hands to turn my face toward her. I don’t recall what she said, but I absolutely remember her using words to calm me before she could take her hands from my face and begin working to untangle and untie those nasty shoe laces.

So I’m telling you this, why?

Because we’re supposed to record and share God’s mercies.

I’ve decided to stay plugged in. If you live in the area, Liberty Baptist in Pekin, Illinois has a lot of rooms with numerous outlets if you need some space, or if you don’t mind a crowd of cords. God’s been doing some untangling.

One more thing. If you ever have the opportunity to help a child untangle shoelaces, or a wad of yarn, or any other frustrating mess, do it.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: Psalm 103:1-2.