Kiononia

When I sat down this afternoon to write, I had absolutely nothing to say.  I learned a long time ago that if that happens, I don't need to write.  I don't need to force it.  So I chose to step away, and decided that if I had something to say later tonight, I would just wait until then.  I have this weird, obsessive issue where I feel like I need to write every day.  For myself.  Not to enlighten anyone on anything.  Not to impart knowledge, which I don't pretend to have.  When I write, I just write.  About life.  About what's going on in my heart.  What's going on with the kids.  So when I stepped away today, I felt a little anxiety, wondering if I would have anything to say tonight.

Well, guess what!?!  I do have something to say.  And I don't even know what it is really.  This is what happens when I sit down to write.  I have all these thoughts in my head, and I just write.  And usually have no idea what I have really written until I am (sometimes when I'm not too tired) doing a quick grammar check before I click that little orange "publish" button.

So tonight's topic is intended to be Koinonia.  We'll see if it stays on that track or goes elsewhere.

What is koinonia?

First, it's a Greek word.  My husband would be so proud of me digging into Greek right now.  I learned about this word back in high school youth group.  I've never forgotten it.  It means communion by intimate participation.  It can be used to describe how the early Christian church interacted with one another, or participating in communion together.  Essentially, it is fellowship.  With other people of the same faith and common interests.

As some of you know, Kris and I are involved in a group called "Stories".  It may as well be defined as "Kiononia".  That's what we do.  Beyond that, we're real.  About our lives.  About our hurts and our struggles. About our stories.  We are a community of people that care about each other and want to stand next to one another, providing a source of comfort and strength.  Kris and I have been to just two of these meetings and have been blessed tremendously.  Tonight, our second night, was no exception.

We read and talked about an article written by a soldier.  His journey from the trauma of the Vietnam War to transformation.  It was really great article and the author talked about how, when he returned from the war, there was nowhere to go, no one to talk to, about his horrific experiences.  He said this, which seemed to really embody what we do at Stories:

"My healing from the trauma of war began in the early 1970s...PTSD was not even fully recognized or understood at that time.  The cluster of symptoms was often mistakenly diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, depression, or some other form of mental illness, and then treated primarily with psychotropic medications.  However, during those early years in many parts of the country, something began to happen. Often motivated by the mistreatment and rejection of society, small groups of veterans began to come together to meet, talk, and listen to one another.  As we came together, we began to discover something...to experience something--we learned about the power of relationship.  We shared our stories, started trusting one another, let down our walls, unpacked the images of what we had seen and become...and through this process of listening, comforting and crying with one another, we finally began to value something again...each other.  In these small groups, the seeds of change came alive." -Sgt. Gary Beikirch

This is what we do at Stories.  We share our stories, in a safe environment, trusting each other.  Sometimes crying together and comforting one another.  It's all about community.  Kiononia.  Something made clear tonight was that you cannot recover alone!

Tony said that "every person has their personal Vietnam; their personal Katrina."  And it's true.  Our story, whatever it may be, is what impacts us profoundly.  We have to make peace with our stories.  Sgt. Gary Beikirch said "...war and I are learning how to live with one another."  We have to learn how to live with our stories.  To make peace with our stories.  To admit the hurt, the anger, the horror of our stories.  Then we have to accept God's grace and forgiveness, and learn how to live with our stories.  To admit that we are broken, forgiven people, loved by a God who never stops pursuing us, and that our stories will always be a part of who we are.

When talking about his experiences in Vietnam, Sgt. Gary Beikirch said "Those experiences became a significant part of my self-image...a piece I wrestled to accept, I could not understand, and I would not forgive or forget.  The best I could do was hide this part of me--from myself...from others--afraid that if people knew me, really knew me, they would be unable or unwilling to understand or accept me.  The hurt would be too much to bear and I was tired of living with the pain.  Therefore, the 'invisible' walls became my defense mechanism and my disguise."

That was me.  For the last seven years.  Hiding that horrible, ugly part of myself that I hated.  That I couldn't forgive.  That I didn't think God could forgive.  In essence, as Tony put it, "God, you want me to be honest with myself."  And once I was honest with myself and was able to face my fears and failures (thanks to some great counseling and a very patient God!), I was able to finally let myself see that part of me I wanted to keep hidden.  And once "she" was in the light, I could face her and move forward.

When I left home in February to think, to decide if I wanted to stay married, I felt the way that Sgt. Gary Beikirch felt, with my own personal war.  "My anchor, my beliefs, everything I needed to survive the chaos of war came crashing down around me.  Once they were destroyed, there was no meaning to the conflict.  It had no significance."

When I chose to go home, I didn't know what I was going home to.  I didn't know if Kris and I would wind up in the same cycle we'd been in for twelve years.  I still wasn't on good terms with God so He didn't even factor in.  I could really relate to Sgt. Gary Beikirch saying "I did return home, but not as I had left.  I came back valuing nothing."

You see...even though I physically left home 3 months ago, emotionally I left home a LONG time ago.  And when I came home, I valued nothing.  I had no idea what would happen next or if my marriage would last.  I just knew I didn't want to be alone.  Kris and I started counseling, I confronted my hidden self, and am finally able to understand this:

"Being able to accept who I am is a step in the right direction.  Being able to hurt, cry, and laugh helps cleanse the soul and the spirit.  And being able to acknowledge that my life has value to me and others is an indication that the journey is worthwhile...I believe God-breathed TRANSFORMATION is the key factor that makes the real difference."  Sgt. Gary Beikirch

There is so much more I could say about tonight and Sgt. Beikirch's story and how his testimony impacted my life.  So much more I could say about this wonderful family we have found at The Outpost, but it feels right to just end it here for now.