Anne Marie Miller

Category: Essays

Monsters Like You and Me

He was a Monster, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him: muddy, kind eyes and a soft and sparse grey beard. He was the one who brought the turkey out to the table at Thanksgiving and it was always perfect and with just enough crispy skin and the family devoured it over memories and laughter and the sense of familiarity.

Yes, this was Thanksgiving and it happened the same way every year since any of them could remember.

To any passerby, it looked no different than something you’d see at the house next door or the house on the television, but most of them knew – especially her – what pain this man with the kind eyes and the soft beard delivered.

Every year would pass and nothing would change; she wouldn’t say anything about the Monster…what was the point? In hushed conversations and secret phone calls, her observations were confirmed. The shell of the man she knew didn’t change much but his insides did. First his heart, then his mind, and now, she wondered, his spirit? One by one pieces of him broke away and fell like a man of ice walking in the sun for the first time, dripping, cracking, breaking – and completely see through.

She talked to a man named Gary about the Monster and how even when she wasn’t with him, he stayed with her. Was he following her? Was he out to hurt them all? He wanted full control and she wasn’t sure at what cost. She said unspeakable things about him, things someone with the same molecules and atoms and blood should never say, but it was as if she wasn’t talking about him. He was gone, she determined.

Gary sat, plump and attentive, in an old recliner across from where she sat. He let her say her peace and then talked about the monster.

Yes, what the Monster did and what the monster does is inexcusable. The pain from the past, the scars seen and not seen, the anger that rises in her when he is far away or when he is in her own living room sitting right next to her, and even closer, when she carries him around in her heart – it is all justified.

“But,” Gary said, “but.” He shifted forward in his chair and reached into the pocket of his brown pants, retrieving a pair of glasses. “I want you to wear these from now on. You say you want to know what the Monster will do; these glasses will show you. You’ll see everything: who he is, why he is the Monster, and what you can do about it.”

She held the glasses loose in her hand, her wrist ever so slightly bent like the weight of the glasses were too much for her small hand, and like Gary’s simple explanation wasn’t enough.

“Do you trust me?” he said, seeing her reaction.

“I have no other choice,” she said, clasping the pair of tortoiseshell frames and walking out of the room. If her family was to be safe, she knew she had to be the one with the clearest view of the Monster. She had to protect everyone quietly. He could not hurt them anymore.

Shaken by what could be, she set out to find the Monster and figure him out, why he was the way he was. But she could not put on the glasses. She knew it wasn’t time.

But about the monster, she was right. The Monster was following her, waiting outside her house until she came home and because she never locked the door, he’d follow her in. She made dinner; he was there. She took her dogs for a walk; he was there. People would ask about him, how he was these days, and he was right there. Yet they couldn’t see him. The only power the Monster had was to make himself invisible to everyone else but her and disappear right into her very heart.

These were the worst times for her because her heart felt like the Monster took over and she didn’t have a chance. Almost instantly the anger and evil he had transferred into her and if she wasn’t careful, she could become a monster too.

Once when she had enough, when she didn’t allow the Monster in – she screamed at him to go away, far away, forever, and slammed her front door, and she ran into the den where the glasses Gary gave her were tucked away in a drawer. She pulled them out and put them on. She checked herself in the mirror to see how they looked and instantly threw them off her face and frantically brushed her arms off, tearing her sweater, stripping down to almost nothing.

She was a monster, too.

Never before had she seen herself like that; demons and evil covering her every inch, doing anything to break her and take over her. For the most part, she knew she was always fighting something dark, but she assumed it was the Monster, not the demons inside and around her. She fell to her knees, weeping, praying that each one would let her be: fear, jealousy, anger, self-righteousness. Her past, her pain, her anxiety. With heavy wings, each one flew away, leaving her light but weak. She pulled herself up, got dressed, and went out to find the Monster. She circled back to the den, make sure she put the glasses back on.

It took her a while to find the Monster, walking through the chill of the autumn air. Her last encounter with him must have pushed him far, far away. In a barren land she found him hiding in a small cave. He didn’t see her right away, but this was best. Because now that she had the glasses on, she was able to see man she thought was a Monster really wasn’t.

He was just like her.

Those muddy eyes were friendly, but full of pain and tears. Years of crying covered his grey beard in salt, like an ocean leaving its traces behind. He sat slumped in the corner because the weight of the demons he was carrying with him. She thought back to how she looked with all those demons on her and looked at the Monster. He had so many more…hundreds, maybe thousands.

This is what it must be like to see like God sees, she thought, not placing her view as divine, but only seeing what invisible things people carry with them and fight. She walked over to the Monster, ignoring the threats and hissing the demons on him made as she reached in to rest her hand on his shoulder.

He was startled; so startled that the Monster yelled at her, screaming in a voice that wasn’t his, “Get away! Get away!” He hissed at her too, clearly either unaware or resigned to the demons that weighed on him and changed him.

“Get away,” he said to her quietly, with a huff of resignation.

In a great story, she probably should have pulled out a sword to fight or maybe brought an army in, but in this story, she did what the Monster asked and walked away. She no longer saw the Monster as a monster anymore, but saw him for the darkness that covered him, that he was to weak to fight off. She could fight from a distance, offering prayers on his behalf and fighting off her own demons so she could keep a clear mind, but she was not afraid anymore. She was not angry any more. The man she knew that she thought was a Monster was still a man, a broken man who didn’t know any better.

And she would not give up on him, now that she could see that truth.

November 11, 2013
Protecting our Women: A Challenge to Any Man for Any Woman

Yesterday I wrote about how women need to fight for our men, whether they are our spouses, dads, brothers, uncles, neighbors, friends. Today, I’m taking the Y chromosome out of the picture and adding back in an X.

When I was twelve years old, my dad was away at school in another town and my mom was out getting groceries a few miles down a lonely, west Texas road. A storm was pushing across the plains (which was nothing abnormal for early summer in west Texas) as I kept my ears to the weather radio and my eyes on my little brother, I knew we needed to take shelter. A tornado was moving our way.

As my mom pulled into the driveway, the tornado was moments away. We escaped to safety with moments to spare, baseball-sized hailstones pounding at us as we ran.

The next morning, the San Angelo Standard Times featured our property on the front page of the paper. We lost most of the windows in our house, a decent sized storage building, my dad’s library, a considerable part of the roof, and the oddest casualty was the satellite dish.

Our yard was a perfect square with 3 rows of 3 trees each. The dish from our satellite was covering one tree and a across the yard, the pole was pulled out of the concrete, thrown several yards away, and wrapped like a twist tie around the tree.

I was twelve when that happened, and every week or so until I was almost 31 years old, I had nightmares where a tornado was coming and I had to save the people in my dream. Thankfully, with some counseling, the nightmares have stopped, but the message of I have to protect myself stayed with me (and still hangs around) for the rest of my life.

My heart shattered when I went through my divorce, and the walls around my heart doubled in size. There were only a couple of people – and even fewer men – I felt I could trust; that I felt had my best interest in mind.

What does protecting women look like? Do women even need it? Is that a husbands’ job? Or any man’s job?

First, for me, I took the verse Proverbs 4:23 as my shield: above all else guard your heart…

What I didn’t realize is that God was my ultimate protector. As I lived life with that in place, I found it easier to let men enter my life (in appropriate ways) who truly wanted to protect me: spiritually, emotionally, and even physically.

Once when we had a crazy snow storm in Nashville, my dear friend Brian drove me to a Starbucks. Brian is one of my closest friends. We both needed some hangout time and he knew there was no way in the world I’d be able to safely drive in the bad weather. He drove across town to get me, and we sat outside Starbucks in the cold, simply with each other. Even when I moved miles away, Brian was a safe person.

Women aren’t always the best at receiving protection and love from men. I sat in a classroom at Hope College last year and we were always one desk short. A guy and girl walked in at the same time, and the girl sat on the floor. The guy insisted she take the desk. She refused. The professor looked at him and said,

“I understand. It’s tough being a gentlemen these days.”

Because of the culture shift I wrote about yesterday, it’s hard for you guys to love us like sisters in Christ. But please, don’t give up. Don’t be afraid to show us you are watching out for us. It doesn’t matter if you’re married or single, if the girl is your wife or your mother. My brother bought my mom flowers randomly a few months ago. Why? Because there aren’t many girls in this world that don’t like getting flowers.

Show us that you’re trustworthy. Follow through with us. Keep your promises. Watch out for us in the physical realm by taking the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, getting the door for us. No, we aren’t helpless creatures, but at least in my experience, these tiny gestures help us open our hearts.

All this may sound old fashioned, and maybe that’s partially due to the fact that I’m wired in an old fashioned way. I thought I didn’t need a man (whether a husband or not) to make it in life, but in the last few years of opening my heart to the men who were stepping in and protecting it in a variety of ways, I realize just how much I did need their protection. Fatherly advice. Friendly support. And eventually, a husband, Tim, who protects me fiercely and graciously.

I really do believe if women take to heart how to believe the best about men (who sometimes feel like boys) and if men can take on the challenge of protecting women (who sometimes feel like they’re all alone), we can live holy, beautiful, generous lives enjoying who we are in Christ, male and female, brother and sister.

October 31, 2013
Fighting for Our Men: A Challenge to Any Woman for Any Man

Imagine five women: two married (one with kids), and three single gals. All around thirty, give or take. We’re at the Opryland Hotel, piled on a hotel bed and various spots on the floor, one with legs draped over the side of an ivory recliner. It’s close to midnight. And we’re talking..about guys, of course.

Recently, it’s been encouraging. Instead of hearing the “There are no REAL men to date. Just boys. Boys without jobs. Boys who play too much Call of Duty. Boys with too many other girls who are friends. Boys who live at home. Boys who don’t open doors,” we had a totally different conversation.

“Do you think that sometimes guys feel like they can’t be men because we’re always telling them that they’re boys?” asked my friend sitting next to me on the bed.

Yes, yes, a million times yes.

It is easy to look around and see a world where men are tethered to their jobs, their phones, their parents…whatever gives them a sense of security and identity. Please don’t misread: women are as equally tethered to the things we find our value in. Somehow, we’ve found away, in spite of our competitive and comparative nature, to still champion one another – or at least help each other know we aren’t alone. From my very limited conversations with men, my husband included (who bleeds the desire to connect and grow with other men), it doesn’t happen so easily for them.

Generally speaking, women wired to nurture. Men are wired to protect. And because so many of us have experienced a man letting us down in our life (a father, a pastor, a priest, a spouse…), we have stepped into the role of protector so that we may feel nurtured. Safe. Free from being let down again.

If you’ve ever taken a sociology or human behaviors class, you know that once a group of people or culture changes a behavior, in time, that change has a profound effect on future human behavior. Just take a look at gender roles and how they shift with each passing decade. When the women of a culture tell men (by showing them) we don’t need them, it’s completely natural for the men to adapt to not being needed.

Instead of thinking the men of whatever generation are not men, maybe we can change our beliefs about them. By changing the way we think, I believe it will have a profound effect on how we act toward them – directly and indirectly.

I know in many situations, I’ve not always believed the best about my husband, Tim…even when one of the (many!) reasons he was able to break into my heart and steal it is because of his strong leadership and desire to protect and care for me.

We were one month into our marriage and finalizing details for our move to Nashville. We drove from Iowa to Tennessee and stayed with friends as we looked at renting and buying and where we should live. The cost of living in Nashville is about three times as much as it is in the Quad Cities area, so the sticker shock was a lot to take in.

I really (really, really) wanted to live in one area close to my friends and the community I’m used to living in. We had a little bit of debt to pay off, but we had the money to make the move happen without it stretching us too far financially. I thought it was a done deal until Tim proposed the idea of waiting three more months so that the debt could be paid and we could head into it without the guillotine of interest rates hanging over our heads.

In the living room of our friends’ home, with them present, I started crying/getting angry/being stubborn/wanting my way/and was pretty much on the border of a temper tantrum.

“Why don’t you want me to move back and live with my friends?!”

In one (loving) sentence, he shut my selfishness and my assumptions on his motivation down.

“The reason I want to wait three months is so I can give you this; so we can do this together, easier, and so you can have what your heart desires most.”

I see the power of my words, my passive responses to him, and the false beliefs I project on him and how they tear away at his innate desires to care for me and love me. When I show a lack of respect for him or my unwillingness to believe he has my best interest at heart fires away at him with 45-caliber force, I’m telling him I’m strong enough on my own. I can protect myself.

These things that hurt men, whether we’re married to them or not.

My friend that asked if sometimes men act like boys because of the way culture tells them to wrapped up our estrogen-filled talk time with a generous and love-filled thought:

“Whoever my future husband is, I pray he has women around him who are showing him he’s strong, he’s capable, and who are praying for him and encouraging him along the way, no matter where he is in his journey.”

May we all take on that countenance with the men in our lives: our fathers, our brothers, our husbands, our friends. May our thoughts, words and actions only build them up so they have one less voice telling them they’ll never be man enough.

October 30, 2013
When You Can’t Breathe – Hold On

One by one I peeled away the sheets and the duvet from my skin, only to walk into the main room of our home and see the curtain pulled back a few feet and a new blanket of soft grey clouds coming toward me, wrapping me up, deceptively sad and cold – they look so soft and peaceful from afar.

Around my mind and heart they reached with arms damp with regret and fear and worry and yes, even that slightest bit of pain. Like a needle, so small but I’m so aware of its presence, slowly pushing through the layers of tissue around this cross-stitched heart.

At least I can feel, I think to myself, my mouth twisted and eyes slightly closed, chest expanding with air as I promise myself if I only breathe deep it won’t feel like I’m suffocating. It’s funny what property owners say about open spaces; sure, there may be no walls in between my kitchen, my dining area and my living room, but they don’t tell you that an open floor plan is only as open as the heart of the person moving in.

So many choices flash through my mind as I ask myself what’s the next right step and try to slough away the clouds from my insides and outsides. Today is a long shower that’s running out of hot water, teasing me with streams of liquid growing colder, subtly, until the chill hits and goose pimples break out and cover me too. I race to find warmth.

So many things covering me, so many layers that are not my own skin. I want to strip down to dry bones and walk away from the pieces of me that are still warm because sometimes its the living that is so hard. Bones don’t have eyes to see and judge or mouths to speak words that harm or flesh to wound or hearts to feel regret.

But bones cannot feel joy either. Bones shatter and turn to dust much faster than this body will. Aches and bruises, confusion and chaos, damp clouds that darken a morning. I must keep in mind those mental photographs of the sunsets that take my breath away with colors that have no name. I must remember the early morning light that paints my windows with silver and gold. I cannot forget the sun and its warmth as it soaks into my skin warming away the coldness of moments like these.

Hold on. Hold on.

September 26, 2013
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August 1, 2013
The Fury of My Heart

There is at least one spot in each of our hearts that lights up as fast as gasoline whenever that one thing happens. For you, it may be when your spouse has that look on his or her face and as soon as you see it, the torch flares inside you. It could be seeing someone else’s highlight reel in this virtual world where we peer through each others’ windows and expose ourselves without shame – either the Photoshopped good or the sensationalized bad. But the comparison we make as Peeping Toms yells at us and reminds us that our life is not nearly as special or bright or dark or good or meaningful as the person we spy on. Or maybe it’s that friend who you thought was a friend until they disappeared and when you shout out to them in the forest, “Where are you?” and you swim across the lake and hopefully sing, “Marco!” and there is no reply of “Polo” and there is no reply at all and your heart ignites in fear and anger and insecurity.

I have many of these spots and as I wake up I lay in bed for several minutes and pray desperately to dance over them with love and softness instead of give in to the torpedo of fury. Like a lighter these spots spark throughout the day and eventually something provides it enough fuel to explode and sometimes I cannot control it.

There is a thing I do that is probably much like a junior high boy. I exist on one plane of real life where there are people and bodies and air and gravity. In my head I click the imaginary + sign and add a layer only I can see and in this layer I throw a bomb at the car that just cut me off or I imagine cartoon arrows shooting at that one man whose existence frustrates me to no end because he hurt someone I love. I look and loathe and try to find some kind of cloak of invisibility so that these things I imagine will never be known or seen though I know the only one who matters both knows and sees these.

My soul grieves the way my heart throws its fire around so easily and with such entitlement. Forgive me, forgive me, I say over and over again. And I know I am forgiven and I know with time and surrender maybe these fires will become smaller and burn so slowly until the embers turn to ash and disappear forever.

June 18, 2013
The Fury of My Heart

There is at least one spot in each of our hearts that lights up as fast as gasoline whenever that one thing happens. For you, it may be when your spouse has that look on his or her face and as soon as you see it, the torch flares inside you. It could be seeing someone else’s highlight reel in this virtual world where we peer through each others’ windows and expose ourselves without shame – either the Photoshopped good or the sensationalized bad. But the comparison we make as Peeping Toms yells at us and reminds us that our life is not nearly as special or bright or dark or good or meaningful as the person we spy on. Or maybe it’s that friend who you thought was a friend until they disappeared and when you shout out to them in the forest, “Where are you?” and you swim across the lake and hopefully sing, “Marco!” and there is no reply of “Polo” and there is no reply at all and your heart ignites in fear and anger and insecurity.

I have many of these spots and as I wake up I lay in bed for several minutes and pray desperately to dance over them with love and softness instead of give in to the torpedo of fury. Like a lighter these spots spark throughout the day and eventually something provides it enough fuel to explode and sometimes I cannot control it.

There is a thing I do that is probably much like a junior high boy. I exist on one plane of real life where there are people and bodies and air and gravity. In my head I click the imaginary + sign and add a layer only I can see and in this layer I throw a bomb at the car that just cut me off or I imagine cartoon arrows shooting at that one man whose existence frustrates me to no end because he hurt someone I love. I look and loathe and try to find some kind of cloak of invisibility so that these things I imagine will never be known or seen though I know the only one who matters both knows and sees these.

My soul grieves the way my heart throws its fire around so easily and with such entitlement. Forgive me, forgive me, I say over and over again. And I know I am forgiven and I know with time and surrender maybe these fires will become smaller and burn so slowly until the embers turn to ash and disappear forever.

June 18, 2013
The Correlation Between Mood Disorders and Fatherlessness

When Donald Miller founded The Mentoring Projec t, I was a fan. He saw a need, figured out a way to help fill in the gap, and went for it.

The psychology in family dynamics has always been profoundly interesting to me. Just last fall, I wrote a paper for a family sociology class. I researched the correlation between mood disorders (like depression, anxiety, etc.) and fatherlessness*. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much in the way of data (yet) but below is an excerpt from my paper that summarizes what I found very well:

Maldonado supports the positive correlation between increased mood disorder in children and fatherlessness. Using research from Barlett, he notes “children who have no contact with the nonresidential parent suffer more detriment than children whose parents “openly reject” them, “hurt…[their] feelings,” or “exploit [them] for selfish purposes.” While a father’s death has significant impact on a child, by nature they are more adaptable to the loss. However, when the loss is caused by a father’s personal decision, children often blame themselves when they are rejected or abandoned by living fathers. A child feels less valued if a parent does not make an effort to engage in the child’s life. Using research by Wallerstein and Kelly, Maldonado expresses children at any and all levels of development experience “sadness and even severe depression” when he or she experiences feelings of rejection by the father’s absence. (Maldonado, 957).

As an interesting sidebar, mood disorders are not only found in children of absent fathers, but also in the fathers who left. Quoting Effects of Divorce on Parents and Children (Lamb, ed. 1982), fathers who “rarely saw their children after divorce felt a great sense of loss and depression.” On the other hand, fathers who stay in close contact with their children post-divorce enjoy “higher self-esteem and significantly lower rates of depression and other mental health problems than fathers who have little or no contact with their children.” (Maldonado, 959).

I’ve been tracking along with The Mentoring Project for a few years now, and love that they’ve developed this great idea for a Father’s Day campaign, Don’t Buy the Tie!

I realize many of you have given up on ties and probably purchase something more in the category of requiring batteries, but the principle holds true. What if – just for this Father’s Day, in honor of your dad or a father figure in your life, you gave that hope to someone else?

In this case, it may be giving a boy a chance to have a father figure in his life. However, based on some of the research I did for my paper, you may also be giving a father (who for some reason doesn’t have much contact with his child) a great hope as well.

Tim and I donated to the Don’t Buy the Tie campaign. I encourage you to check it out and do so as well!

*This is not to dismiss other causes for mood disorders. In fact, most of my research indicates traumatic experiences (absent fathers included) often are the beginning of a psychosomatic responses as the body’s autonomous and nervous systems can’t process trauma at early ages so it is “stored” within those systems which cause chemical imbalances and neuropathological disturbances. There are other factors to consider (hereditary, genetics, etc.).

As I finally processed my own traumas (sexual abuse, etc.) in my thirties, much of (but not all of) my depressive symptoms went away! Not every person experiences trauma or loss in the same way so each person’s path in their mental health looks different than others. The important thing is to recognize how trauma affects us and to seek professional help and medication when necessary. I am NOT a doctor, just a student of the behavioral sciences, so take that for what it’s worth.

June 5, 2013
The Unexpected Face of Mercy

There was a season in life when my prayers included asking God to hold me—physically. I wanted to feel arms around me, keeping me safe and helping me not feel lonely in the nighttime hours, once the day quieted and the distractions faded with the sun.

I am a creature of habit, and most nights my routine was the same: read, turn off my lamp, pray, feel alone, pray again, wait, resign and eventually float off to a restless sleep. My twin-sized bed was as big as the ocean, and I was lost in the middle of it. Even in Tennessee’s summer heat, I rolled myself into as many blankets as I could stand so I would feel something—anything—surrounding me.

My prayers were not answered in the way I wanted, and I never understood why.

One of my jobs as an author includes editing books other authors write. A woman telling her story through loneliness wrote one of these books. I initially sympathized with common moments in her narrative, but I began to resent the differences. Someone gave her several years of salary up front so she could begin her writing and speaking ministry; at my lowest, I had 99 cents in my checking account and was balancing a full-time job in addition to writing and speaking. As I read through the retelling of God’s provision for her, I allowed His provision for me to be covered with envy-green paint. At the end of one of her chapters, I read how she felt God physically wrap her up in His arms as she would settle into bed each night. He held her as she went to sleep. I slammed my laptop closed in frustration. That was my prayer! Why did You give it to her? Why not me?

To say I floundered in self-pity is an understatement. After a particularly frustrating evening, a friend sat with me in my pile of bills and confusion and tears. With a defeated voice, I told her I wondered where God’s grace was in everything I was experiencing. I wanted respite in every imaginable way and thought God was holding back His mercy from me.

In hindsight, that simple correlation was my problem. I equated mercy with relief.

In her wisdom, my friend asked me one simple question: “Do you want relief? Or do you want to be whole?”

In the moment, I wanted relief. Desperately. However, over the last couple years, I can see how God’s withholding of emotional reprieve has been the most profound mercy I could have ever asked for.

Once I realized this new manifestation of mercy, my prayers changed. I began to ask God to show me His mercy, and it showed up in unanticipated ways. When my heart was broken and I asked God for mercy, His reply was, “This is My mercy.” When I was overwhelmed and exhausted and asked God for mercy, His reply didn’t change: “This is My mercy.” One sleepless night in May, I asked for mercy and rest. “Your sleeplessness is My mercy tonight.”

Mercy has many faces, and I only knew one: the one that soothed bruised hearts and broken spirits.

That mercy lives and breathes relief, but it’s not always the mercy we most need or the mercy that will do what’s most important: reveal Christ’s love and glory to the world.

Mercy brings both comfort and pain. Sometimes mercy surrounds us with silence, leaving us feeling forgotten and rejected. This mercy is the most difficult to accept, but I’ve learned it’s also the most imperative to transformation.

June 3, 2013