SAY HELLO
How We Cultivate the Most Healing Conversation We May Ever Have
I had awakened to a growing darkness and cacophony, as if something in my depths were crying out. A whole chorus of voices. Orphaned voices. They seemed to speak for all the unlived parts of me, and they came with a force and dazzle that I couldn’t contain. They seemed to explode the boundaries of my existence. I know now that they were the clamor of a new self struggling to be born.
S U E M O N K K I D D
“HELLO THERE, LITTLE GUY,” I said. “Do you want to sit up front with me?”
I was driving home on a warm Tuesday morning in the Bay, and I’ll admit, I was feeling a little silly. After all, I was talking to myself.
As part of an exercise given to me by my therapist, Jay, I was attempting to connect with the many parts of myself I’d learned to ignore over the years. Like many of us, I learned early on in life that more
vulnerable parts of me weren’t necessarily welcome, that it’d be better to toughen up than to tuck tail.
These tougher parts of me, Jay asserted, were just attempting to help me survive in a traumatic world, to protect those sensitive parts from
getting hurt again. And, boy, did they work hard. I cordoned off every other part within that felt fragile or vulnerable. Instead, a part of me armored up with knowledge, ready to fight anyone who questioned my views. Another part of me remained perpetually cautious, always alert to the danger around me. Yet another part learned to play the game of people-pleasing and
appeasing.
As an adult, the strong, survival-based, self-protective parts of me served a purpose; they kept the ship afloat in the years after I was fired. Like the serpent, these parts whispered within me, Get it on your own,
Chuck. And I did. I put my competencies and intellect to good use earning a living and getting a PhD. I doubled down in San Francisco, working harder and making sure I produced. On the outside I looked smart, competent, and even emotionally healthy most of the time.
But on the inside, everything was out of order.
So in therapy, Jay didn’t praise the parts of me that were competent,
productive, and invulnerable, as some had in the past. Instead, he looked at me with compassion in his eyes. “They must be exhausted,” he said.
Indeed, he was right. Although it seemed as if he were channeling ancient wisdom, Jay was guided by a contemporary model for healing our warring passions within called Internal Family Systems (IFS). We worked to turn toward every part of myself with a gaze of kindness and curiosity, even with a kind “hello.” Each part had a story—a burden, a wound suffered
alone within. And each offered me the invitation to redemptively remember, as the shattered shards within began to mend, as I became more whole.
And that little guy in the proverbial front seat? He was terrified.
When he was young, he’d hide under a side table in his living room,
sometimes curling into a ball, hoping to become invisible. He couldn’t quite remember all the details. But he knew it was the safest place to be when his mom was angry or when his parents were fighting.
He was a tenderhearted kid, the kind who could sense a storm brewing before it even arrived, a barometer for human relationships. He sensed the incoming weather, felt it in the shifting tones of his mother’s voice and how loudly she’d bang the pots and pans while loading the dishwasher. And
when he was little, that side table was never far from view. But he remained cloistered even as the years passed, always peeking around the corner, ever aware of the condescending tone of a boss, always sensitive to the anxious air in every room.
So as I continued my drive that Tuesday, I tried again. “Hello there, little guy,” I said, casting off my self-consciousness and leaning into the exercise Jay had encouraged. “Do you want to sit up front with me?”
He did. As we drove, I asked him if he was glad to be out from under the side table. After all, the house he grew up in has been completely
renovated and has a new owner. He smiled. He was happy to be free. But he
reported that he’d always traveled with me, always remained within, cloaked in darkness, ever afraid, suffering alone.
“Don’t leave me again,” he said.
“I’m here with you now,” I whispered back. “And so is Jesus.”
I sensed him looking at me with a big smile and bright eyes. Thrilled at the chance to sit alongside me in the convertible Mini Cooper I’d recently
bought, we left the foothills of Mount Tam, cruising back through the
Rainbow Tunnel, top down, the vast red expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge ahead. He threw his hands in the air and shouted “Woooooo!” as we crossed.
The fog was clearing.
All the Scattered Feelings Within
Disney Pixar’s 2015 movie Inside Out might just be the most helpful movie I’ve ever seen for the work I do. The trailer sounds the invitation to “meet the little voices inside your head,”[1] the voices of joy, fear, disgust, anger, sadness, and more. It follows the story of Riley, an eleven-year-old coping with her family’s cross-country move. As you might imagine, her joyful
preteen life is disrupted in the process. And the animated film offers an inside look at the disruption, showing her emotions personified as parts of her with their own unique personalities, needs, and longings, all of which begin to war within and without.
It’s a movie that dignifies all these emotions. Joy brings happiness and connection. Anger seeks fairness. Fear offers safety. Disgust looks out for her in social situations. And Sadness, as we discover, seeks help and care. But in the overwhelm of a move, different parts vie for control. Joy spins everything as positive, ignoring the pain. Anger rages. Disgust alienates.
Fear panics. And Sadness is exiled. Riley’s capacity to navigate it all well is contingent on these parts finding their way back to connection with her and with each other, of these parts being re-membered.
I read that the producers of the film worked behind the scenes with psychologists and neuroscientists to understand the role of emotion and
memory. But the kids watching it won’t be confused by the science of it all. No, they might just learn to listen within, to give voice to sadness or fear, to allow anger to speak without taking over, to say hello even to shame and
disgust. I remember watching it with tears in my eyes, thinking especially of my sweet and tenderhearted daughter Maggie, who’d taken our move
from San Francisco to Michigan especially hard, whose own sadness, anger, and fear mirrored Riley’s.
“Trauma is when we are not seen and known,” says Bessel van der Kolk.[2] And what both Inside Out and ancient wisdom teachers might agree on is that we need a compassionate witness to our pain. Absent this,
parts of us go it on their own, as we become more and more disoriented and disconnected, alienated from ourselves, one another, and God. Here, we’re lonely and lost, wounded and wandering. And if we don’t recognize the
disorder within and get the care we need, we’ll only become more divided within. Trauma expert Janina Fisher names the tax of remaining strangers to ourselves:
Over time, self-alienation can only be maintained by most individuals at the cost of increasingly greater self-loathing, disconnection from emotion, addictive or self-destructive
behavior, and internal struggles between vulnerability and control, love and hate, closeness and distance, shame and pride.[3]
Disordered within and disconnected from the Love who whispers to us from our deepest core, we get stuck in chronic fight or flight, in
codependent fawning and desperate grasping to find the supposed love we need. Our internal Storms become the only reality we know. I now see how I lived a self-alienated existence, playing an exhausting game of emotional Whac-A-Mole for too long. Many of us do. Numbing and distracting can work for a surprisingly long time.
Is Something Wrong with Me?
I wish I’d had Inside Out to watch when things began falling apart for me in the summer of 1997.
I was studying in Oxford, England, doing my best to write weekly term papers in order to secure my tutor’s recommendation for a doctoral program in New Testament studies. While it might not sound like your ideal summer,
it was a mid-twenty-something seminary student’s dream. Days in the
Bodleian Library. Evenings at The Eagle and Child Pub. I was in the land of
C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien. It should have been the best of times.
But for me, it was a land mired in Sympathetic Storm. My anxious body began to conspire against me even then, the pressure of impressing my tutor and gaining his recommendation taxing my body and soul. Panic
would seize me during our sessions together, my mouth dry, my heart
thumping, my hands shaking. I’d walk away beating myself up for being so stupid, so messed up. It seemed as if my future hinged on this one person’s approval of me—and I was bombing it, or so I thought. For five weeks, I endured a cycle of anticipatory anxiety, panic, and then disgust, all chased away by a few hard ciders at night. I returned home to the States exhausted and sick, my weary body beleaguered.
With little sense of how it would help, I had the good intuition to book a meeting with Gary, our seminary counseling professor. Like a perceptive doctor of the soul, Gary read the script of my life like a book, offering me kindness and care—my very first human experience of God’s “Where are you?” He recommended a local therapist, and I promptly booked my first appointment. But after a couple of relatively helpful sessions, I noticed a
numerical code and some small print on the receipt with the name of my mental-health disorder.
Disorder?
With little understanding of what was going on within me and without a movie like Inside Out to help, I spiraled into self-contempt. I read my
diagnosis like a disease I’d been plagued with. Disorder seemed to name my deepest me. And I hated the disordered me. Hadn’t I worked so hard to appear perfectly ordered? I looked around at my seminary peers, who
appeared so put together, and my disgust for my own screwed-up self grew.
Mind you, I’d been schooled in self-contempt prior to this; a student of a simplified, flannelgraph faith, I grew up believing disorder was core to who I was, that I was defined more by my sin than by God’s declaration of my deep worth, belonging, and purpose. And it stuck. This is the experience of many—questions about our worth and goodness begin at a very early
age, and it’s a well-known psychological truism that children believe themselves to be bad to protect themselves from the reality that others,
including their parents, are flawed and fallible. “It’s my fault,” we reckon, even before we have the capacity to reason it through.
By my late teen years, purely because of my existence in the world, I believed I was bad to the core. And though I believed that Jesus had died to save me from my sins, that theological truth didn’t seem to touch my core experience of badness. I prayed for God to root out all the badness in me.
Now, a decade later, my psychological diagnosis was proof to me that those prayers had gone unanswered.
No one ever told me that this was a version of the serpent’s lie. What I didn’t grasp years ago that I see much better today is that disorder isn’t so much about the very bad thing wrong with you to the core as much as things within being not in the right order. They are out of order. Just as they were in the movie.
Inside Out in the Story of God
St. Augustine called sin disordered love; that is, that there is something going on within us that isn’t core to us, but that certainly is disrupting,
disorienting, and disordering us. “Now if I do what I do not want to do,” Paul writes, “it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it” (Romans 7:20). On the one hand, we know we’re image bearers,
delighted in at our core, but we’re also quite aware of how far we’ve
strayed from center, disconnected from our deepest identity. We all feel it. It seems as if parts of us take over, overwhelming us, steering the ship in the wrong direction. You begin to sense the dis-order in Paul’s own
autobiographical account in Romans 7. He writes, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do” (7:15).
Seeking to understand himself, Augustine describes this feeling
viscerally: “I am scattered. Storms of incoherent events tear to pieces
my thoughts, the inmost entrails of my soul.”[4] And this is what disorder
feels like, doesn’t it? It tears us away from Home, pulling us into Storm and Fog, marring our ability to see clearly. We begin to feel as if we’re losing connection with ourselves. We lose the plot of God’s good story.
This is exactly how I felt in Oxford. Different parts of me were vying for control. Fear would take the wheel, driving with extreme vigilance, making sure I was dotting all of my academic i’s and crossing all of my
performative t’s to secure a tutor’s approval. A bit of healthy fear might’ve allowed me to mobilize well for the work, but this inordinate panic
exhausted me. Weary after a long day, another part of me would take over. He sought soothing, mostly in food, drink, and distracting conversation.
And these weren’t the only players in my inner drama.
In the New Testament, James warns that, left unattended, these wars within will inevitably leak out, manifesting in relational conflict. He offers the helpful language of “passions”:
What causes fights and what causes quarrels among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do
not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel. You do not have, because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your
passions.
J A M E S 4 : 1 - 3 ( M Y P A R A P H R A S E )
Others in the early church resonated with James’s language of passions.
The desert mothers and fathers—women and men who left their homes in order to better live at peace with God and each other—sat in silence in
order to better hear the warring passions (Latin for “suffering”) within.
They described what was happening with terms like fear and envy, pride and gluttony, lust and greed, anger and sloth; all words to name the shifting emotions within us. It was an early church version of Inside Out.
Theologian Wendy Farley writes,
The “passions” is an ancient name for some of the ways in which our own psyche helps to trap us in patterns of living that block us from our deepest joy Passions have the connotation of
bondage and uneasiness. They exemplify the way the soul can become twisted and turned in on itself and alienated from the world around us.[5]
Ordinary and good emotions can become chronic states of suffering. Yet, while the desert mothers and fathers—and Paul and Augustine too—wrote intimately of this inner tug-of-war, these passions, and this disorder within, they didn’t see it as core to who we truly are as children of God. As Farley describes, it’s not that the passions of fear or lust are us; rather, they
take control of us in a way that disconnects us from our deepest selves, in a way that makes us feel we are defined by our disorder. I suspect that was always the goal of that slithering serpent in Genesis 3.
Our work, then, is to listen for the echoes of this lie in our own stories so that we can return back to our original design. Back to Home. God’s image in you and me speaks to our inherent worth, intimate belonging, and profound purpose. It’s because God sees us whole and not as a hopeless
collection of disordered parts that we can be re-membered, restored,
reconnected to Love. It’s because God’s memory of us runs deeper than our own that we can find our way back Home, that we can be found, each of us a hungry and heartsick prodigal. It’s because God goes after us—even when we’re turned inside out—that we can experience freedom and flourishing.
God’s pursuit begins just as soon as we lose track of ourselves. As Adam and Eve hide behind fig leaves, anxious and ashamed, God meets them, whispering, “Where are you? Who told you?” God sees through the
fig leaves. God knows your deepest you because God designed your deepest you for goodness, beauty, and freedom. Dwelling within, God invites you
back in union and communion. Augustine writes, “Lo, you were within, but I outside, seeking there for you. You were with me, but I was not with
you.”[6] God is your compassionate witness, your guiding beacon from within leading every weary and wounded part of you back Home.
And it’s this kindness, which God intends to turn you back to him (see Romans 2:4), that leads you on a journey of inner transformation. At its
core, repentance (metanoia) is about a new way of seeing and living that invites an internal reordering, followed by a deeper connection to the One who delights in you.
Strangers Become Friends: Turning Inward with Compassion
The apostle Paul wrote, “I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love” (Romans 8:38, NLT). Few people illustrate that truth more clearly than the gifted poet Pádraig Ó Tuama.
Subjected to exorcisms as a young man in an attempt to set him straight and eventually exiled from the priesthood when they didn’t take, he continued
to search for healing. While he may well have spent the rest of his life warring against the church or even warring against himself, he turned his energies toward love. He’d been exiled. But God hadn’t abandoned him.
And Ó Tuama lived into the truth that God was eager to greet him.
In his lovely work In the Shelter, he tells the story of a Taizé retreat he attended where a monk invited various attendees to read the biblical story of Jesus’ appearance to the disciples in the upper room. The monk told his guests that Jesus greeted his disciples by saying, “Peace be with you.” Ó Tuama tells the rest of the story:
The Taizé brother suggested that we pause for a moment and consider the words “Peace be with you” that the resurrected Jesus says to his locked-in followers. The Taizé brother said that, in a
real sense, we can read that as “Hello.” After all, it’s the standard greeting in Hebrew, Arabic, and Aramaic. . . .
The disciples were there, in fear, in an upper room, locked away, and suddenly the one they had abandoned and perhaps the one they most feared to be with them was with them, and he said hello.
Hello to you in this locked room.[7]
Throughout the book, Ó Tuama employs the practice of greeting parts of himself and experiences within his story with a simple “hello.”
Hello to the gift of being wrong. Hello to the need for change.
Hello, distraction. Hello, chaos.[8]
And through this practice, strangers within became friends. Parts relegated to the dungeons of his psyche came out to be healed. He
discovered in this practice a kindness that would allow him to face every wounded and weary part of himself and to chart a course to wholeness.
No one said, however, that this course would be smooth.
Living Self-Compassionately
A client of mine named Jen realized this during our few years of work
together. She came to me because of the work I was doing on narcissism in the church and, in large part, because she was raised as the daughter of a
narcissistic pastor and now found herself married to one. She pinballed
between fight and flight, warring against her husband in brutal fights or by cordoning herself off in a separate bedroom, sometimes not coming out for days.
The wars Jen couldn’t win at home she waged on social media. Amidst her powerlessness, a part of her that felt powerful scrolled for hours, posting and challenging others, especially where she saw hypocrisy and abuse happening within the church. “Sometimes I just get caught up in the moment, and it’s like this fierce side of me comes out that has never had a voice,” she said during one session. And in many ways, I completely
understood why she was doing this, feeling repulsed myself at the toxic spirituality she was calling out.
“I get it,” I said to Jen. “And yet I’d also like to get to know the parts of you that feel powerless, defeated, even exhausted.” She sat back and said, “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt safe enough to share those parts of me with. It feels good to sit here and not have to be defensive. It feels safe enough to let you see how scared I really am.”
Gabor Maté notes that if we continue to try to treat on the outside what is really a wound on the inside, we’ll get nowhere. But if we can shift our
gaze to the war going on within us, we can begin to heal:
Seeing trauma as an internal dynamic grants us much-needed agency. If we treat trauma as an external event, something that
happens to or around us, then it becomes a piece of history we can never dislodge. If, on the other hand, trauma is what took place inside us as a result of what happened, in the sense of wounding or disconnection then healing and reconnection become tangible possibilities.[9]
Slowly, Jen began to make the shift to attending to what was happening within her. She shed tears for the relentless warrior part of her. You don’t
have to fight so hard anymore, she whispered within. It’s time to heal.
She was beginning to do exactly what Ó Tuama suggests—she was compassionately greeting every wounded and weary part of herself:
Hello, raging social media warrior. It’s time to rest. Hello, frightened little girl. It’s safe to share your hurt.
In time, Jen began to experience a new sense of strength—real power
—a deep feeling of security in her experience of God’s love and a deep feeling of safety that allowed for an inner re-ordering and integration to take place.
Rev. Martin Smith says it eloquently:
The Holy Spirit of God dwells in your heart and is no stranger to the diversity and conflict there There is no secret place where
the Spirit has no access, nor any inner person excluded from the Spirit’s presence. . . .
The Spirit will bring the selves of the self into a unity around the center of the indwelling Christ.[10]
Hello, Spirit. May the peace of Christ be in me and with me.
The Practice of Hello
Thomas Merton says, “To be born again is not to become somebody else, but to become ourselves.”[11] And don’t you long to become yourself?
Aren’t you, like me, weary of coping, tired of surviving, worn-out from wearing the masks of all our other selves?
When we are able to turn inward with compassion—to greet the parts of us that long to come out of hiding—we move forward on the path of
healing, of coming Home to ourselves. The practice of saying hello invites us to approach ourselves with the same compassion of God in Genesis 3, the same compassion Jesus offers when he says, “Peace be with you.” Yes, the lies are loud within us. And it’s easy to forget. But self-compassion, not self-condemnation, is the way forward. Curt Thompson says it well:
Those parts of us that feel most broken and that we keep most hidden are the parts that most desperately need to be known by
God, so as to be loved and healed. God came to find Eve and
Adam to provide them the opportunity to be known as he knows
anything else. For only in those instances when our shamed parts are known do they stand a chance to be redeemed. We can love God, love ourselves or love others only to the degree that we are known by God and known by others.[12]
Offering this compassionate and even redemptive greeting can be
challenging. Jesus does not condemn the woman caught in adultery in John 8, but he does call her Home, to reordered love, to reconnection. And that
road Home can be daunting, as the lies of the serpent continue to echo within. That’s why the practice of hello will be a lifetime one for you. Around every turn, you’ll discover new ways in which you’ve grasped for control or hidden parts of yourself away. And yet around every turn, there God will be to greet you again.
Often the practice of hello needs to begin in relationship with a caring friend, an attuned pastor, a compassionate therapist. At times you may need to sit with someone kind, someone who can mirror your God-given worth, offering you connection and care, courageously calling you to more, before you can continue this practice on your own. You do this through giving attention and attunement to parts of yourself that need care.
This is what I attempted to do as I continued the conversation while steering my convertible across the bridge:
Hello, little guy. You don’t need to hide anymore.
You may need to acknowledge the hidden part of yourself at the business meeting when you stumble over your words and a fire surges up through your chest and into your face.
Hello, shame. I’m with you. It’s okay.
Or perhaps after a surge of rage within, even after harsh words to a spouse or criticism of a coworker.
Hello, rage. Take a deep breath. Let’s find our way back to center.
Henri Nouwen writes, “Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the
‘Beloved.’ Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our
existence.”[13] And while there are parts of you that you might be
frustrated by, even parts that you might consider bad or broken to the core, you’re invited to practice the same tenderness toward yourself that God offers you. Send them a kind hello, offering compassionate presence to whatever parts of you are activated within. It may be just what is needed.
Your growing patience with yourself, even your self-compassion, is the fruit of being pursued, known, and loved by God.
After all, the same God who whispers, “Who told you?” and offers a “Peace be with you,” dwells within, by the Spirit, joining his hello to yours.
RESOURCES
Alison Cook and Kimberly Miller, Boundaries for Your Soul: How to Turn Your Overwhelming Thoughts and Feelings into Your Greatest Allies
Ann Weiser Cornell, The Power of Focusing: A Practical Guide to Emotional Self-Healing
Jenna Riemersma, Altogether You: Experiencing Personal and Spiritual Transformation with Internal Family Systems Therapy
Elizabeth O’Connor, Our Many Selves: A Handbook for Self-Discovery
3. What is your first instinct when you experience an uncomfortable emotion or bodily sensation? Most of us want it to go away. Journal or talk to a friend about this instinct within you. See if you can find a concrete example. And then through the practices below, see if you might greet that emotion or sensation with a hello next time it arises. See if you might ask it what it’s trying to tell you.
4. What is it like to consider that God sees you to the core and calls you “Beloved”? Who are people in your life
who offer the kind “hello” of Jesus, who mirror your image-bearing worth, belonging, and purpose to you?
Practice: Say Hello
Practicing hello throughout your day
Spend a day focused on greeting whatever arises in you with a “hello” or even a “peace be with you.” Whatever you sense arising within—sadness, a headache, an inner critic, anxiety—see if you might just turn toward it with some curiosity and kindness. See if you might greet that emotion or sensation the next time it arises and ask it what it’s trying to tell you. We spend a lot of energy avoiding uneasy and uncomfortable inner experiences or emotions, so this exercise may feel unnatural or challenging. It’s sometimes
Get to know a part of you
Simply begin by noticing whatever emotion, thought, body sensation, or image is most present. Try to pay close attention to this as a distinct part of you. If possible, get a sense of where you experience this part of you in or around your body. See if you get an idea of what it looks like, how it relates to you, how old it is. Don’t be surprised if you get a really clear image or inner experience of this part of you.
How do you feel toward it? Can you find your way to compassion and curiosity for it? How does this part of you feel when you offer it compassion and curiosity? What does it want to share with you about how it feels? What it needs? What its experience has been? What role has this part played for you/in you? What would happen if it wasn’t so
extreme or if it softened a bit? What positive role could it play within you?
Acknowledge impact
When parts of us become extreme (what the ancient sages called “passions”), they can block us from joy, cut us off from our sense of clarity/agency/freedom, entrap us, alienate us from ourselves and others, and even manifest in harm to ourselves or others. In the Christian tradition, this is called disorder or sin. And it’s helpful to get really clear about how this is happening within you so that you can be freed from its grip. So get to know one extreme part of
How was it trying to help you, and how did it end up hurting you or others? Can you empathize with it? And then, can you begin to become curious about or perhaps even acknowledge its painful impact on you or others? How does living from this more extreme part create more disorder and disconnection within you or in your relationships? And what might recognizing its impact through repentance (metanoia) look like?
Repentance often comes with a sense of grief for how living in that disordered way has caused ourselves and others pain, yet it’s instrumental to the internal reordering we seek. Parts of us want to be free from their extreme roles, their fiery passions. Here, you might imagine Jesus greeting this part of you, not with anger but with delight, eager to know your heart, longing to see you live freely and fully. This isn’t about self-contempt but about experiencing the compassionate embrace of the father in Luke 15.
[1] Disney Pixar, Inside Out, 2015, trailer, “Inside Out | Meet The Little Voices Inside Your Head | Available on Digital HD, Blu-ray and DVD Now” May 11, 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiCWU8SrbBU.
[2] Quoted in Gabor Maté and Daniel Maté, The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture (New York: Avery, 2022), 23. This contention is further elaborated throughout Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma (New York: Penguin, 2014).
[3] Janina Fisher, Healing the Fragmented Selves of Trauma Survivors: Overcoming Internal Self-Alienation (New York: Routledge, 2017), 5.
[4] St. Augustine, Confessions XI.29.39, quoted from Henry Chadwick, trans., Saint Augustine: Confessions, Oxford World’s Classics (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1991), 244.
[5] Wendy Farley, The Healing and Wounding of Desire: Weaving Heaven and Earth (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 37–38.
[6] St. Augustine, Confessions X.27, quoted from David Vincent Meconi, ed., St. Augustine of Hippo, The Confessions (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012), 296.
[7] Pádraig Ó Tuama, In the Shelter: Finding a Home in the World (Minneapolis, MN: Broadleaf, 2015), 11.
[8] Ó Tuama, In the Shelter; see chapters 8 (“Hello to Change”) and 10 (“Hello to Story”).
[9] Maté and Maté, Myth of Normal, 35. Italics in original.
[10] Martin L. Smith, A Season for the Spirit: Readings for the Days of Lent (Cambridge, MA: Cowley, 2004), 35.
[11] Thomas Merton, Choosing to Love the World: On Contemplation (Sydney: Read How You Want, 2008), italics in original.
[12] Curt Thompson, The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe about Ourselves (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2015), 125–126.
[13] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World (Pennsylvania: Crossroad Publishing, 2002), 33.
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