Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Rough Draft Friends

We live in a world where filters reign supreme. A world where people take 29 selfies for every one they post. A world where no one sees the pictures that feature double chins or unfortunate hair days or the moments when everyone in the house is decidedly unhappy. 

In a world like this, it’s hard to feel like a perpetual rough draft. We compare our own raw edges to everyone else’s polished masterpiece. Even if there’s one area we’re gifted in, these editable platforms tempt us to think we have to be really amazing at everything. All at once.

At some level, we suspect that everyone else doesn’t really have it all together all the time. But even so, we can’t help feeling like we don’t measure up.

A while ago I read Everyone Brave Is Forgiven by Christopher Cleve. I remember liking it as a novel, but the part I can’t shake is the Author’s Note, of all places. (Yes, I read those things. And the copyright page too. Could I get any nerdier?)

Cleve explains that his book was inspired by his grandfather’s experience serving in World War II:

My grandfather died while I was writing the novel—but, as he might have remarked, it wasn’t necessarily my fault. I regret that he never saw the book. I had finished the third draft of what turned out to be five, but I had decided to wait until the novel was perfect before I gave it to him to read. What a fool I am. If you will forgive the one piece of advice a writer is qualified to give: never be afraid of showing someone you love a working draft of yourself.”

We all need people we can be our rough-draft selves with. Not that I recommend showing up as the rawest version of yourself in front of just anyone. My store clerk/bank teller/delivery guy doesn’t need to hear all my unfiltered, unprocessed ramblings. But we all need a handful of people with whom we can show up and say, “Here I am. The rough draft me.” And they can listen to us and love us and, eventually, help us become a better version of ourselves.

This is the only way I know to get unstuck.

This is the only way I know to move from a rough draft into something more beautiful.

This is the only way I know to avoid missing connection at the expense of perfection.

So here’s my challenge for you today—and for myself, too: Don’t be afraid to show someone the real you—the rough draft you.

***

We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories the better we will want to live them.

Maya Angelou

Hospitality Lessons

Make yourself at home.

It’s something we let slide off our lips without thinking about what it really means. If we invite someone else to be at home in our space, does it mean they can . . .

  • leave the toilet seat up?
  • say whatever they want to without filtering?
  • eat ice cream right out of the container?

There are so many reasons not to invite people into our homes—we’re busy, they’re busy; we’re insecure about our cooking/cleaning/house in general. Besides, welcoming someone into our space makes us vulnerable. It exposes not only our homes but our hearts. It puts us uncomfortably close to another person . . . and opens the possibility that we could get hurt.

So why bother? Why not just go to our own homes, close the garage door, and eat Chinese takeout while watching Netflix?

For the past several months I’ve been getting hospitality lessons from an unexpected source—one who is currently the size of a jackfruit. (Whatever that is—apparently by 40 weeks, the pregnancy books are running out of comparable produce.) This baby growing inside me may not be able to talk, but already this kid is showing me what it looks like to provide a welcoming space for another person.

I’ve been surprised over these past nine months how much a tiny person requires to make him- or herself at home. Before our child was the size of an olive, this little one had the power to wreak havoc on my entire body. How, I wondered, could someone so small make my usually efficient self ready to fall asleep at every red light?

But even with the roller-coaster hormones, stretching skin, and shrinking bladder, it has been a gift to learn hospitality from my new little tenant. Here are some of the things I’m discovering:

Hospitality isn’t always comfortable, but it brings great joy.

This little person is stretching me, physically and emotionally and spiritually. But it’s a good stretching—the kind that broadens the boundaries of my heart and makes me think beyond myself. And the love that comes out of this hospitable stretching, whether it’s for a baby or a next-door neighbor, is worth every moment of discomfort.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

If we waited for ideal circumstances before allowing someone in—either a baby or a houseguest—we would never extend the invitation. Our presence is more important than the perfectly themed nursery or the perfect multi-course dinner, so we just have to dive in and trust that God will give us what we need, moment by moment.

Don’t wait until you have room to invite someone in.

Each month I say, “I have no idea where this baby is going to go!” But somehow, miraculously, my body expands to accommodate the growth. And I think the same is true about welcoming people into our homes and our lives: our capacity grows to fit the need.

Hospitality gives us a peek into God’s heart.

Of all the ways God could have made himself known to us, he chose an extraordinarily ordinary entrance: in the form of a baby. He made his home in us , and he gives us the privilege of inviting him in. And one day he will extend the ultimate hospitality—by inviting us into the home he’s prepared for us.

On that day when he welcomes us into our eternal home, I have to wonder if this will be one of the first things he says:

Make yourself at home.

We All Need an Editor

writing

When people hear I wrote a book after being an editor for over a dozen years, they often ask me: “So, since you’re an editor, you probably didn’t need much editing, right?”

WRONG.

Here’s the thing: I can be objective and incisive about other people’s stories, ruthlessly chopping out stories that need to be cut or pointing out the holes. But when it came to my own manuscript, my line of vision was clouded by blind spots. I was just too close to the content. It would have been bad enough if I were writing a novel, but the fact that I was writing about my life fuzzied my vision all the more.

What do you mean, I need to cut out that scene? It’s one of my favorite childhood memories! What do you mean, I have too many friends named Sarah, or that I’m the only person who thinks this is funny, or that this only makes sense within the confines of my own brain?

That’s why I’m so grateful for my wise and kindhearted editor, Kim. There came a point, after editing and re-editing my own manuscript ad nauseam, that I could no longer see what worked and what didn’t. She was able to see the potholes and road blocks in the manuscript, and she helped me pave the way so readers could ride through the pages smoothly. And she did it in such a nice way that the process wasn’t painful at all. It was—dare I say?—fun.

People tend to fear the editor’s red pen, but let’s be serious: Kim was making me look good. I’d rather get called out on my mistakes before the book goes to press and I find myself standing in my proverbial underwear. And there are also the unsung heroes of the editing process: the copyeditors. I’m so thankful for Sarah and Annette, who faithfully fixed my sloppy punctuation, noticed missing words, and identified my pet sayings (you mean I can’t use “just” four times in one paragraph?).

What I learned being on the other side of the editor’s pen is that writing is a lot like life. We strive away in our private world, trying to live out a life of faith. But as good as our intentions are, we all have glaring blind spots. There are areas we fall short, but we are so close to it that we don’t even recognize the problem. That’s where we need life-editors—people who will give us wise, kind accountability.

We were never meant to do life alone; we need friends who have our best interests at heart, friends who will gently and lovingly point out where we’re not living up to God’s best vision for us. And isn’t it much better to hear that news from someone who loves us than from the big, scary world?

And as much as we may fear the vulnerability required to open ourselves up to accountability, whether with our writing or with our lives, there’s something sacred about sharing that space with another person. When someone is invested enough to look over every word and comma you typed or listen to the details of your life, it’s kind of like stepping onto holy ground.

So I would like to encourage you to get your own editor today . . . to invite feedback into every area of your life, writing and otherwise. You will feel the burn, to be sure, but the end result is worth the fire.

As iron sharpens iron, so a friend sharpens a friend.
Proverbs 27:17

Bonus: Despite the stellar, meticulous eyes on my book, we are all human. If you can find the typo in my book, I will give you a Starbucks gift card!

Overcoming Shame

OvercomerI suppose it could be argued that every life stage opens the door for feelings of shame to flood in. When we hit middle school, we become uber-aware of how we measure up (or don’t) to our peers. When we’re in high school, our hearts open to shame over a myriad of things: how we perform in school, how we’re perceived by the opposite sex, how we look compared to the girl on the cover of Seventeen.

And shame, as it turns out, doesn’t graduate. When we get married, we come face-to-face with having someone see all the parts of us, even the parts we try to hide. When we become mothers, we wonder if we will pass on our insecurities to our daughters.

I could be wrong here, but there may be no place where shame is as rampant as in the dating world. There’s something about putting yourself out there and making yourself vulnerable in front of someone you’re trying to impress that seems to push all our shame buttons. Especially in the early stages of dating, it’s risky business. You are entrusting your heart to someone you barely know—someone who has the power to stomp on that tender heart.

Having been on more than my share of blind dates, I know well that feeling of shame that bubbles up when the guy you like doesn’t call you back for a second date. You can’t help but wonder what it is about you that isn’t good enough or likable enough.

I wish I’d had Aubrey Sampson’s book Overcomer during my dating years, but it’s one we all need as women, no matter our life stage. It offers a vulnerable, tender look into shame and how it affects us as women—and how it affects our relationships and our faith. Aubrey speaks words of truth to counteract the lies of culture and the lies of the enemy, and her words are balm to wounded souls.

Here is a sneak peek into Aubrey’s wonderful book:

You—with your specific body type, skin color, facial features, personality, gifts, and passions—are a unique and living reflection of God, designed to carry the image of his love to the world. You were made in his image, but more powerfully still, you were made to be his. You belong to God, not to shame.

Have you ever felt shame over something that wasn’t your fault? What helps you counteract shame . . . for yourself or your daughter or someone else you love?

Be sure to comment below . . . I’m giving away a free copy of Overcomer to one lucky commenter!

Book Club Discussion: Scary Close

Scary closeThanks to everyone who participated in our book discussion about Scary Close this month! I’d love to hear your thoughts about this book.

My recap: Scary Close is one of the best books I’ve read about vulnerability and relationships and the special brand of courage it takes to let another person look inside your soul. I put it right next to Daring Greatly on the bookshelf of my brain.

Discussion #1: Vulnerability is hard

It’s mystifying and maddening how the one thing we want most (to know and be known) is also one of the scariest things we can do as human beings. Donald Miller says, “I hardly knew who I was myself, much less how to be fully known.”

Do you think you have to know yourself first to be known by others? Why or why not?

Discussion #2: Sorting out the truth about yourself

When Donald Miller is reflecting on his childhood, he says, “I realized in running and hiding I’d sided with the other kids, I’d learned to believe there was something wrong with me. And it wasn’t true.”

Are there any lies you’ve believed about yourself since you were a child that you’re coming to realize aren’t true? What has helped you see the truth?

Discussion #3: Real love

I appreciated watching Donald Miller come to understand what deep, lasting love looks like. It isn’t always glamorous or flashy—in fact, he calls it “that long, boring love that happens when a couple quietly eats cereal together while they read the paper.”

Do you think love is built mostly in small moments or big moments, or both?

Discussion #4: The upside of vulnerability

My favorite part of this book is the way it honestly describes the hard parts of vulnerability but also beautifully depicts the redemptive parts of sharing your true self with another person: “My flaws were the ways through which I would receive grace. We don’t think of our flaws as the glue that binds us to the people we love, but they are.”

Are there people in your life who see you as you are, flaws and all? How have these people given you glimpses of God’s grace?

Rating

I would give this book five stars (out of five). In my opinion, this is Donald Miller’s best and most honest book, and I’ve been forcing it on just about everyone I know.

How would you rate this book?

Remember: I’ll be giving away a free book to one lucky commenter! Respond by Friday to be eligible.

 

Do I Have Anything in My Teeth?

When I was in high school, the group of girls I sat with at lunch had a ritual before we headed to our next class: the daily “teeth check.” We’d flash our pearly whites at each other to make sure no bits of sandwich had unceremoniously lodged there.

(Keep in mind, this was the era of braces and retainers, not to mention just a teensy bit of insecurity.)

Most days the teeth check passed without incident, but on occasion, one of us might be known to say something like, “You don’t have anything in your teeth . . . but you do have something hanging out of your nose!”

(Yes, our humor was very sophisticated back then.)

We may have been a little over-vigilant about the post-lunch hygiene, but there’s something to the idea. It’s infinitely better for your friend to point out your social faux pas than to have the popular kids snickering about you behind your back or to have that cute guy see you with a piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth.

Oscar Wilde once said, “True friends stab you in the front.” And I think that’s about right, whether it’s about lunch . . . or your gossip habit or how you’re not being yourself or your tendency to hold back out of fear.

As painful as it can be to have someone tell you that you have the spiritual equivalent of spinach in your soul, how much better is that than to know you’ve been walking around like that for days or weeks or years? And all the better for it to come from someone who loves you.

We will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ.
Ephesians 4:15

I’m thankful to have people in my life who give me spiritual checkups. I’ve invited them to stab me in the front when I need it, and they do. They gently point out my blind spots, they tell me the truth in love, they remind me who I am and who I want to be. And they invite me to do the same for them.

As vulnerable as this whole process is, I’d much rather have it this way than go on living with something ugly stuck in my soul.

***

How about you? Do you have a friend who is willing to give you accountability when you need it? What would it take to get there?

Unveiled

It’s there in every look, every conversation, every relationship—that gauzy veil that separates us from each other. We talk about safe things—the rain, how busy we are, how we can’t wait for Friday. But the moment things start to edge toward vulnerable, we blush over the nakedness of our souls and gather the veil a little tighter around us.

This isn’t a new thing. It’s been the human way for a long time—all the way back to Adam and Eve. They tripped, they fell, they shattered their perfection communion with God. And immediately they looked for a covering, something to hide behind (Genesis 3:8). But our God—he delights in uncovering. They tried to hide from him, but he pursued them, found them, loved them.

Then there was Moses. He kept his face veiled before the people because they couldn’t handle the radiance that reflected from his face. But God didn’t want a veil to separate Moses from him. He alone met with Moses face to face, with nothing between them (Exodus 33:11).

And then there was the greatest unveiling of all, on a Friday some two thousand years ago. As Jesus hung on the cross, he felt the weight of our separation from God. He saw how we are veiled from the Father, how we long to meet with him face to face, but we’re held back by our sin, our shame, our fear. And so, as Jesus breathed his last, he tore away all that keeps us veiled from God. The Temple veil sliced open, and in that single moment, he invited us to meet with our God face to face, without fear (Matthew 27:51).

So what can pull back a veil? It is love—only love.

At that critical moment when people say their wedding vows, it is the one who loves who pulls back the veil of his beloved. Like a groom who lifts the veil from his bride’s face, Jesus comes close to us, peeling away each gauzy layer until we are intimate, exposed . . . until he’s so close we can feel his breath on our cheek.

And we tremble, fearing what he’ll say once our flaws are laid bare before him. But when we finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, we see only love on his face. Pure, unstoppable, unquenchable love. It has been there all along. We just couldn’t see it until the lifting of the veil.

So what is holding you back today?

It’s scary. I know. But I urge you to begin this journey toward vulnerable love. Come close enough to let him pull back the veil. Love is waiting on the other side.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
—C. S. Lewis

The Knife

the_knife_by_stephanie_rischeIn my role as an editor, I’ve been dubbed “The Knife” by a few select people. It may sound a bit harsh at first, especially since if you know me, you know I don’t enjoy inflicting pain. (Case in point: as much as I love bacon, I’ve been known to go vegetarian at pig roasts because I can’t bear the thought of eating little Porky once I’ve seen his face.)

But there’s something to the nickname, because ultimately an editor is a surgeon . . . someone who identifies the parts that are sick, decaying, or sucking the life out of a manuscript, and then ever so carefully removes them. For some manuscripts, this looks like major amputation, followed by the grafting-in of new content. Other manuscripts require the use of a smaller knife for more intricate incisions.

As gentle and careful as a surgeon might be, there’s no getting around it: the knife hurts. It’s never pleasant to have a part of yourself sliced into or lopped off. But the alternative is worse. It’s better to have someone who cares about you do surgery than to let the infection worsen and potentially creep to other parts of the body (or manuscript) as well.

Lately I went through the eye-opening experience of having the tables turned. Instead of the knife being in my own hand, this time I was on the receiving end of the edits. And you know what? It hurt to be on the operating table. But in the best possible way. That’s how it feels when you hear truth from someone who loves you. Good hurt.

Wounds from a sincere friend
are better than many kisses from an enemy.
—Proverbs 27:6

As in manuscripts, so it is in life. Although there’s a part of me that wants to bury my head in the sand and hide my vulnerable places in front of others, deep down I really want to know my weak spots. I want someone to gently point out my blind spots. It’s the only way I know to grow.

Right now I’m reading Daring Greatly by Brené Brown, and she talks a lot about the power of making ourselves vulnerable before others. “Courage,” she says, “starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.”

Maybe you don’t need a literal editor or a surgeon right now, but in what ways do you need to show up and let yourself be seen? Where do you need to let down your guard? Where do you need to allow other people speak truth into your life?

If we’re going to find our way out of shame and back to each other, vulnerability is the path and courage is the light. . . . To love ourselves and support each other in the process of becoming real is perhaps the greatest single act of daring greatly. —Brené Brown

If we’re going to grow and dare and live brave, then we need to put ourselves on the operating table every once in a while . . . and entrust our friends with the knife.

Sweatpant Friends

I was given an unspeakable gift last weekend: the gift of sweatpant friends.

We women, we feel almost constant pressure to put forth our best self…to coordinate the outfit and gloss the lips and fix the hair and don the stylish (i.e., uncomfortable) shoes. All so we can look like we have it all together, that we ourselves are all together.

But last weekend eight of us girls who have been friends since the days of Jars of Clay and bad perms got together and spent a few days in the rarest of settings—a safe haven where we could be our unvarnished, un-makeup-ed, sweatpanted selves.

girls2

It’s been almost fifteen years since we were all in the same place together, and honestly I wasn’t sure how things would fall into place. Would it work to have eight women accustomed to having our own nests all together under the same roof? Would things get cliquey or competitive or catty? Would we still find common ground all these years later?

There were a thousand reasons not to do it—the cost, the travel arrangements, the logistics, the potential awkwardness. Not to mention the 14 collective children we have as a group, plus one on the way. Was it worth all the effort?

I credit our loyal, creative teacher-friend for setting the tone in the first place: You all don’t mind if I wear sweatpants all weekend, right?

And from that moment, the stage was set for things to be real, authentic, vulnerable. In a word: imperfect. Just like our cottage.

girls5

With its turquoise and canary-yellow walls, adorned with mismatched bits of Americana, the quirky rental felt like a metaphor in itself. The kitchen sloped down on one side; the wood floors let out contented groans every time we took a step. The gaps around the window frames and the door ushered howly gusts of wind and sand into the otherwise cozy living room.

But something about it felt just right. Community, after all, isn’t about creating something pristine, seamless, perfectly composed. The beauty of community comes when we bring together the mismatched pieces in a delightfully quirky collage. As the eight of us sat in our mismatched chairs, sipping hot chocolate and pouring out the past decade of our lives to one another, our words tumbled out much like our attire: real, raw, unpolished.

girls3

I know it’s unrealistic to live in beach-cottage world all the time, but still I wonder: How can I keep this sense of community even when my old friends are miles away? And how can I turn new friends and acquaintances into sweatpant friends?

I’m not quite sure, but I offer you the same challenge I pose to myself:

Reach out.

Take a risk.

Embrace the messiness of real friendship.

Find someone with whom you can ditch your makeup and your put-togetherness.

girls6

And by all means, if you don’t have a sweatpants-level friend, do whatever it takes to become one.

Friendship arises…when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one.” . . . It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision—it is then that friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.

—C. S. Lewis