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Find What’s Useful For You. A Life Lesson

October 20, 2019 By krystamacgray Leave a Comment

I know. It’s been…a while. 

And do you know why?

I’m writing a book. Cough! Let me rephrase that. I’m trying to write a book. It’s going to hell in a hand basket and everything I write sucks and it’s terrible—or—awesomely amazing, it’s really coming together, miracle of miracles, I have written good things.

All depends on the day.  

And I haven’t written here because everything I write is potentially book material and also because I don’t think anyone actually reads this blog. Except my sisters. And Gretchen. And Jeremy. And Craig. 

Hi Sisters!

Hi Gretchen!

Hi Husband!

Hi Craig!

I appreciate your support. It makes me feel loved.

Anyway enough about my insecurity. How are you?

You can’t answer so imma just go ahead and talk about me some more. Good? Good.

Here’s the haps: It’s snowing today. My son just came into the kitchen where I’m sitting writing this and Jeremy is typing up the highlights of The Divine Conspiracy, one of his favorite books. 

“Ugh, the snow” Jeremiah says.

“you don’t like the snow?” Jeremy asks

He shakes his head, sullen.

“Jeremiah, it snows here a lot. You know, the better thing would be to figure out the gifts in the snow. Like, figure out what you like about it or what it offers you so you can look forward to that thing when it starts to snow.”

“Yeah” Jeremy says “I’m sitting here relaxing because it’s snowing. It makes me feel like I just want to be at home and have some down time instead of going somewhere. I like that.”

I’ve been learning how to figure out the gifts of the less than desireable lately. 

My favorite author in the whole wide world, Glennon Doyle, announced the title of her new book a few days ago. 

UNTAMED

On the back cover? 

“What would you do if you trusted yourself?”

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Best because omg I love her and everything she writes and admittedly have an unnatural affinity for her. Worst of times because although I still have no real idea about what my book is about (it keeps changing), I do know a huge theme is trusting myself. I actually have written the words “I think I just needed to learn that I could trust myself enough to know how to take care of me.” And then once, when outlining what my book might be about I wrote “a memoir about learning to trust God, learning to trust myself, and how the two commingle . It’s a combination of dealing with faith and doubt and listening to myself. When I wasn’t sure what lessons I’d learned I’d ask myself “what did learning to trust God and myself teach me about faith and doubt?” And “how did I become who I’m capable of being through these things? How did I learn to trust?”

The answer would be the big idea of your story.

I did not answer what the big idea of my story was, by the way. Because from the time I wrote that to now, it’s evolved. My book is not really that so much anymore. It’s dang close, but I don’t think the God piece is so prevalent. Not because I don’t want Him to be! Just because it’s not the way it’s shaping up. I think maybe my book is about my mid-life crisis instead. How when I got pregnant with Ellie, I was sent into a panic about her going to school and feared my purpose (as a stay-at-home-mom) was running out with my role. This prompted me to ask a bunch of panicky questions like who am I? What can I do in the world? WILL I HAVE TO GET A JOB AT STARBUCKS?! Or maybe my book is about being a Housewife and roles. I don’t know. It’s also about getting an autoimmune disease and what that meant—how I’d have to heal myself in ALL the ways. I’d have to learn to feed myself well and move my body more and…and…and…It’s probably little bit of all of that but I don’t know the label under which all of that fits.

I DON’T KNOW OKAY? 

Diary Of An Overdramatic Hot Mess, maybe?

Just kidding, that’s a stupidly generic title. And too self deprecating. I had a REAL crisis, ya’ll!

The point is, trusting myself is the ONLY thing that I know about my book. And then my hero wrote a book about learning to trust yourself. It hurt a little because I knew that’s how I was going to feel when I read what she had to say about something I’ve been trying to articulate for three years to no avail (yet) and then blew whatever I had to say out of the water—hurt.

How can I be so sure of this? Because pretty much everything the woman has written blows everything I’ve ever read out of the water. 

Heres the thing about this though. In the writing world this whole “she wrote my book before I could get done” is a bizarrely common phenomenon. I’ve read many authors accounts about how the very book they were writing was written faster by another renowned author. Nothing new under the sun and all that. The lesson is always the same: there’s room for everybody at the table. We need your voice. We need their voice. Keep writing.

Still, I felt like I was just drafted to the junior high basketball team when I learn Kobe Bryant is coming to play with us. Like…do they even need me? Do I just quit now?  I can’t imagine I’ll add any value after he steps on the court.

Vulnerable, I decided I needed to send out a little SOS email to my editor, Kelly. I don’t ever write to Kelly about personal matters. I pay her to edit my work. She is not a therapist. She owes me no free advice. But I wrote her because being a writer herself, she was one of the only people I knew who would understand and because I kept getting this nudge–tell Kelly, tell Kelly. 

As I told you, I’m learning to trust myself?

So I sent it. I ended with this question: “today I fear somebody already wrote my book better than I can. That’s not true, right?”

 Then I went to lunch with my sister and told her this whole story. 

“I know it’s not true” I say to her “but I feel like my book has no place now. She’s going to do it better.”

“Unless you’re a doubter, a worrier, a nail biter, an apologizer, a re-thinker. Then Memoir may not be your play pen. That’s the quality I found most consistently in those life story writers I’ve met. Truth is not their enemy, it’s the banister they grab for while feeling around on the dark cellar stairs. It’s the solution.” —Mary Karr

So you see, all this self-doubt and worrying makes me a legitimate candidate for the line of work I’m in. 

Funny thing is, after the initial disappointment, all the worry suddenly propelled me to articulate what I needed to say and get it down on the page before Glennon’s book gets released into the world. The threat of her doing it better than me prompted me to ask “what am I worried she’s going to say better than me?” which allowed me to actually know what I wanted to say. You’d think a writer would know what they want to say, but you’d be wrong.

In one day I re-wrote two chapters and then a new prospective intro. (I say “prospective” because I’ve written what I thought were three separate intros before realizing they were all chapters instead–THE INSANITY!)

What surprised me the most was after I’d written the prospective intro I woke up the next day and read my words and…here’s the crazy part…still felt like they were true.

Here is what I wrote:

“Let me tell you about the women who interest me. 

They are the ones who aren’t afraid.

of aging

of their bodies

of feeding themselves

of what they want

of becoming more

Let me tell you about the women who interest me. 

They are the ones who know love.

of God

of family

of self

of neighbors 

of the unloveable.

They know that beauty isn’t found in the reflection of a mirror but in the reflection of a life. 

They know the wisest guidance is not out there, but inside.

Let me tell you about the women who interest me.

They do the work they were born to do the way they were born to do it. 

They let themselves be human.

They know to see the unseen

They know how to be.

They know. They know. They know.

Those are the women who interest me. 

And I want to be one.”

I don’t know if this is what my book is about but I know that the gift of disappointment pushed me to write true things with urgency.

A few days after I’d found new wind in my writing sails, Kelly wrote me back. 

She said that she acknowledges that sometimes what God does “for” us actually looks and feels like getting pushed out of a tree.

“I’ll tell you something I know for sure” she writes, “Glennon Doyle can’t write Krysta MacGray’s book. Only you are having Krysta MacGray’s journey. And there really isn’t anything more special about her OR her writing than there is about you and yours. I promise. Pinky swear.

My best advice is to find what’s useful for you here. This really feels like some kind of gift in disguise to me. Feel the feels. But when you’re ready, be willing to poke through the ashes of your worry/disappointment and look for that little sparkly gem that’s hiding there.”

Don’t you just wish you knew Kelly?!

I mean.

Sometimes what God does “for” us actually looks and feels like getting pushed out of a tree.

Sometimes it looks like the threat of your hero outdoing you. Sometimes it looks like self-doubt, or fear the the unknown.

My best advice is to find what’s useful for you here, she’d written.

I can’t change what Glennon’s book is about. I can’t change what mine will be about (because it’s my story). What I can do is find the gift in the uncertainty and doubt.

Find the gifts. Find the way. 

Otherwise, it can just look like a bleak struggle. 

When disappointment comes a knocking, look for the sparkly little gems hidden there.

I want to be a woman who knows these things.

Filed Under: Stories Tagged With: book, Glennon, lessons, Stories, writing

Two Songs for Christmas

December 17, 2018 By krystamacgray Leave a Comment

I think Just Breathe was intended to be a song about somebody you love dying. But I sing Pearl Jam’s Just Breathe, to God. Because it’s all my fears, prayers, and all I could ever ask Him, in one song.

Yes I understand that every life must end, uh huh

As I sit alone I know someday we must go, uh-huh

Oh, I’m a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love. Some folks just have one, yeah others they got none. Uh-huh.

Stay with me. Let’s just breathe.

Practiced are my sins, never gonna let me win, uh huh.

Under everything, just another human being, uh-huh.

Yeah I don’t want to hurt, there’s so much in this world to make me bleed.

Stay with me. You’re all see. 

Did I say that I need you? 

Did I say that I want you? 

For if I didn’t I’m a fool you see, no one knows this more than me, as I come clean.

I wonder every day As I look upon your face, uh-huh. Everything you gave and nothing you wouldn’t take, uh-huh. 

Nothing you would take. Everything you gave…

Did I say that I need you? 

Did I say that I want you?

For if I didn’t I’m a fool you see, no one knows this more than me, as I come clean.

Nothing you would take everything you gave. 

Hold me till I die.

Meet you on the other side…

Christmas is the season of perpetual hope. A thrill of hope, as O Holy Night reminds me, as the weary world rejoices.

I am the weary world. My hope is that Jesus came so that He might accompany me in my weariness, lighten the load with his presence should I have Him, and take me to Him and Love along with all the people I cherish and hold dear when someday it’s my time to go. 

A thrill of hope.

Oh Holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear saviors birth. Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till he appeared and the soul felt it’s worth. 

My soul doesn’t always feel it’s worth. I question things a lot. I’d like to think God is okay with this because this is how he made me, but sometimes I wonder, does he think it’s okay? Does my questioning bring me nearer to Him or further away? At what point does it matter?  

 For yonder breaks a new a glorious mourn.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angle voices. Oh night divine.

Nat King Cole beseeches me to hear. To fall on my knees and to declare the night divine. To feel the sheer thrill of it. That we might not have to be alone with our suffering without end.

The night of our dear Saviors birth.  

I had a big ole Christmas party last Friday night. Many people came. We ate, drank and were merry. I celebrated many friends and health and happiness. I went to sleep in a warm bed, woke up to warm food, and basked in the warmth of my family. 

Yeah I’m a lucky man to count on both hands the one’s I love.

Then the restlessness started to creep back.  My constant companion as of late. Now what? it says. The party is done. What will you plan next? And it knows I must plan something next, or else the restlessness. The feeling of doing nothing, contributing nothing, being nothing and even more so, having no work to do that’s of any value—being a waste of space. Even though I am loved. Even though I love. Even though I am happy, I feel like I am not living up to my potential. That I am not doing the work I am meant to do. Not living my purpose. Not even knowing what it is. That I’m wasting my days, not taking time seriously, and what if when the “one day I must go” comes and I’m still living this way and haven’t figured it out? The regret. The sadness. And so I regularly lament in the midst of my lovely, wonderful life. 

It’s a strange thing. A waste of a lovely, wonderful life in a way. How ironic. Why not just enjoy my life?

Because something inside me prompts me to more. Prompts is a bad word. Invites. Something invites me to more. The “more” isn’t inherently bad, it simply keeps whispering that there is more than just enjoying your life. That maybe even just enjoying your life leaves you the most hollowed out and alone because there is good and useful work for me to do that merely enjoying doesn’t give. That maybe even just enjoying betrays. But “more” won’t say what that work is–not specifically. So I spend my days searching for it. 

Maybe it’s THIS. Maybe it’s THAT. Perhaps I’d be useful at this. Maybe that’s why I have these gifts, because I’m supposed to be using them this way. If I go and do this thing, surely I’ll find my purpose which will give me lasting fulfillment and I won’t have to pine after it everyday. I won’t have to wonder who I am or what I’m good at anymore because I’ll finally know and then I’ll just keep doing that. I won’t have to long for it anymore because it’ll be there.

I’ll do a thing or take on a project. I’ll like it. It maybe even brings value to people other than myself. I’ll feel good. I’ll feel useful and worthy of my life. I want to do it again so I search for the next project or thing to work on. But in between, the restlessness and sadness and doubt.

I know I’m looking for something that doesn’t bring lasting fullness. The thing I should be looking for, I know, is Jesus. I should be looking for God. Confusing since I thought I’d found Him. 

Do you ever really find God? When you do, do you ever really get to hold onto him or do you just have to keeping trying to find him hundreds of different ways, hundreds of different days? Him in plain sight, but I’m blind again.

Practiced are my sins, never gonna let me win, uh huh.

Did I say that I need you? Did I say that I want you? For if I didn’t I’m a fool you see, no one knows this more than me.

Jesus came to earth to be born as a baby.

A thrill of hope.

I am loved and doubtful and full of questions that never provide answers. I am taken care of and I take care. I am not worthy or living up to my potential. Perhaps I never will. I can’t seem to grasp how to do it—how to hold the stars. I’m too self involved and overly indulgent at times. I don’t give until it hurts. I fail over and over. 

And yet He came. One night in December, He came for me. He came for all my not enough-ness, and then also for the times when I believe I am EVERYTHING AWESOME. He came just the same. And I can question if it really happened, and ponder my doubt mixed with hope that it did, and pray to make my faith stronger so that belief could just be easy and tidy for me to accept. 

Or I can just decide to accept, in an audacious act of faith. 

Acts of faith like that are hard to maintain for me.

It’s not in my nature, I don’t think. I’ll surely forget again. Forget how to have faith like that all the time. 

But for this season of advent, and in anticipation of celebrating Christ’s birthday, the gift I will give is my audacious faith and celebration and thanks and praise that He came. I will show him a weary world rejoices—even if it’s a conscious choice rather than a genuine reaction because I’m so jaded and poor and not understanding.

This Christmas, I’m leaving space. I’m not filling it with another project to make me feel better, useful or relieved. I choose Christmas. I choose to behold the night divine. I choose God with me. Even if I don’t feel it all the time. Even if I doubt it will make a difference. I will let God be enough. Alas, He is the only thing that ever has been.

Hold me till I die. 

Meet you on the other side…

Filed Under: Stories, Uncategorized Tagged With: christmas, Faith, Hope, Songs, Stories

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Krysta MacGray

Wife of one, mother of four, lover of books, seeker of growth, hunter of beauty, gatherer of inspiration, student of wisdom, maker of art, spreader of wildly inappropriate humor, and writer of longer than necessary texts.
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