Beginnings Are Always Messy Quotes

What is war?' I asked. Oh, it's a messy, stupid business,' he said, 'Two sides wave flags and beat drums and shoot one another dead. It always begins this way, making speeches, talking about rights, and all that sort of thing.' But what is it for? What do they get out of it?' I don't know,' he said. 'To tell you the truth, I don't think they know themselves.

Frame the spiritual journey as a stark good-vs.-evil battle of warring sides long enough and you’ll eventually see the Church and those around you in the same way too. You’ll begin to filter the world through the lens of conflict. Everything becomes a threat to the family; everyone becomes a potential enemy. Fear becomes the engine that drives the whole thing. When this happens, your default response to people who are different or who challenge you can turn from compassion to contempt. You become less like God and more like the Godfather. In those times, instead of being a tool to fit your heart for invitation, faith can become a weapon to defend yourself against the encroaching sinners threatening God’s people—whom we conveniently always consider ourselves among. Religion becomes a cold, cruel distance maker, pushing from the table people who aren’t part of the brotherhood and don’t march in lockstep with the others.

Many traditional models assume that change always occurs in a linear, sequential fashion, with clearly defined stages. For instance, Lewin's framework (Unfreeze-Change-Refreeze) implies a beginning, middle, and end to the change process. This doesn't reflect the messy, iterative reality of change, or life to be quite frank. Furthermore, change doesn’t really have an end state.

Ink was black, in inkwells and bottles, in the past. It would get all over your fingers because it would run and flow relentlessly. This inevitable messiness was the flip side of writing. I always felt caught between two kinds of black: that of the dirty and dirtying substance and that of the signs that miraculously emerged from it through the magic of wayward fountain pens, which, when dipped too deep in the inkwell, had a strong tendency to cover the paper with what used to be called “inkblots.” Oh, the miracle of a clear and possibly elegant sentence emerging from the sticky ink and wending its way between the blots! It is the black of meaning wrung from the black of matter. (…) Isn’t the most profound education the one that was afforded me at my childhood elementary school, the one that divides the ink sharply between thought become Letter and drive turned into splotches and blots? How will those who begin with the darkish gray on the palish gray of computer screens manage? Without the slightest inkblot? Won’t they think that thought is just another variation of formlessness, that the intellect is just a thin additional coat of gray over the gray of drive, and drive a mere stripping of the gray of the intellect? Everything in the world is the result of a creative and careful dosing of black as it is projected onto the formidable invariability of white. Anyone who hasn’t experienced this, and sooner rather than later, will never learn anything.

Can't say I've ever been too fond of beginnings, myself. Messy little things. Give me a good ending anytime. You know where you are with an ending." "Now then, you mustn't say things like that. You know you don't mean them. Purl one, plain one, purl two together... Why, that's what I like about making things for people. You can start off in Birmingham and finish in, well Tanganyika or somewhere. That's not messy, my cherub. That's exciting." "Exciting my aunt banana! What's so exciting about it?" "Well, every one we make's unique. Never seen before. Never seen again." "Hmmph. I don't know why that's exciting. It's not like anyone notices what we do. Not like anyone cares. And they're always complaining: they don't like the fit of it; too loose-- too tight-- too different-- too much like everyone else's. It's never what they want, and if we give them what they think they want they like it less than ever. 'I never thought it would be like this.' 'Why can't it be like the one I had before?' I don't know why we bother.

And so I can always find this, here is the best thing I have read about the experience of being a parent: "And then you arrive on the scene... A Family. They bring you home from the hospital, at which point everything speeds up. It's a montage of first moments, all of the major and minor milestones: first step, first word, first time sleeping through the night. There are a few years in a family when, if everything goes right, the parents aren't alone anymore, they've been raising their own companion, the kid who's going to make them less alone in the world and for those years they are less alone. It's a blur - dense, raucous, exhausting - feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn't go anyone's way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you'll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

So I began another healing journey. Healing journeys always begin with our brokenness. Our humility and surrender. No healing journey is easy. It doesn’t happen overnight and it takes hard work. To surrender those lies daily, sometimes moment by moment, and to take on God’s truth. To ask for his Spirit’s help. To open our eyes to see his truth and reality and to be full of his hope. We are hand in hand with Jesus. Weak, but empowered. Broken, yet hope-filled. Messy, but grace-sustained.

What do we need to talk about?” I ground out, folding my arms to keep myself from hitting him with a blast of akasha, the fifth and most powerful element only the gods and the Apollyon could wield. It wouldn’t kill him, but sure as hell would sting like a bitch. Apollo shifted his gaze to the dark ocean. “Do you have to always be so messy?” My brows rose. “Huh?” “Back there,” he said, jerking his chin to where the lights from the mansion twinkled in the distance. “Do you always have to be so messy when you dispatch those who betrayed us?” “Do I have to? No.” “Then why?” He looked at me. Killing them the way I did was unnecessary. I could just blast them into nothing, make it quick, neat, and painless, but that’s not how I rolled. Maybe in the beginning I’d been less…violent, but not anymore. Not when my sole purpose of existence was carrying out the gods’ dirty work. Because every time I saw one of their faces, I thought of my own major screw-ups, and they were plentiful, and that made me think of— I cut that thought off. I was so not going down that road tonight without a bottle of whiskey. “You all turned me into the Terminator. What did you expect?” I shrugged. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about? My method of carrying out your orders? I’d think you’d have better things to do than pop up just to bitch at me because I made a mess.” “It’s not just making a mess, Seth, and you know that. It’s you.

After we become Christians, we have let him, so to speak, into our house. But there are all sorts of messes in our house, and while we might maintain the front room for “company”, the problem with our Lord is that he is never content just to stay in the front room. He wants nothing less than all of us, every closet, every messy room, and even our cluttered junk drawers. He is always poking around, letting us know that we are not right yet, and that there is yet another mess for us to begin cleaning up.

I don’t know how many years had passed that I hadn’t thought about her. It was a few months after the death of my mother that her name came to me again. I was cleaning out her closet and dresser to donate some of her clothes to the Church. They always had clothes drives to give to some of the poorer people in the area. Better for someone else to have them than just hanging in a closet or in a drawer. At the bottom of one of her drawers, my eyes saw an envelope with my name on. Immediately, I recognized the handwriting on the envelope and for the first time in a long time, I could feel the tears flowing out of my eyes. This wasn’t no single tear drop cry. This was the big, fat, messy tears that come from memories flashing through your mind. Tiffany did write something to me and it was kept from me. I almost unintentionally crumpled the letter in my hand as the combination of hurt and rage took over me for a few moments. I went back to my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. The letter had her North Carolina address on it. That letter would have been a way for us to stay in touch. For almost eight years, I had believed that she didn’t want to stay in contact with me. In that moment, I realized that the hurt I felt for being disregarded was unfounded and she was the one who had the right to feel forgotten. She must have believed that she meant little to me, like I thought she did of me. It’s weird how quickly your perspective can change when given new information. I held that letter in my shaking hands for a few minutes. I didn’t know what to do. Opening it seemed pointless to me. All it would do was rekindle feelings that I once had and couldn’t do anything about. After all those years, I couldn’t try and reconnect to her life. We both moved past each other and it wouldn’t be fair to her to come back. It wouldn’t make her feel good about herself to know that my parents hid that letter from me, like she was some horrible person that I needed to avoid. She may not even live at that address anymore. She undoubtedly moved away for college. I wasn’t in love with her anymore and I don’t know if she ever loved me, but if she did, I’m sure she didn’t anymore. I did the only thing that I felt was right. I went outside and lit a cigarette in the backyard. I took a deep inhale from my Camel full flavored filtered cigarette. I hadn’t converted to menthols, yet. I re-lit my lighter and put a corner of the letter into the flame until I was certain that it had caught fire. I held it in my hand watching the white of the envelope turn black under the blue and yellow flame. Once the envelope was about three quarters burned, I let it fall out of my hand and watched it float for a few moments before it hit the bottom concrete step where it continued to burn. It had all turned black and the carbonized paper started to break away from each other as I stamped out the embers with my sneaker. The wind carried away the pieces of carbon and the memory of her floated away from me. Watching those small burned pieces of paper scatter across my backyard made me realize that my childhood was over. I had nothing to show for it. All I had was myself. I didn’t even know why I was still living in my parent’s house after my mother died. There was nothing there for me. Life would only begin for me once I found something that mattered to me. Unfortunately for me, the only thing that mattered to me was words.

God loves to meet us in that messy middle of the tunnel. And at the end of the tunnel, as well as the beginning of the tunnel. I’ve learned that it is in that messy middle that God becomes particularly “loud” in our lives. God never tells me to get over my emotions and just get past them. God meets me there in my emotional mess. Sometimes I’m so emotional I believe God has abandoned me. Until I get through that tunnel and I realize how present God always was.

As women pull back the veil and begin to examine, push up against, and reject the status quo, patriarchy and all its many players are pre-programmed to shut us down in order to protect the way it’s always been. This is one of the many reasons it’s so important to cultivate strong, healthy, empowering connections with other awakening women. We’re stronger together and can support one another in times of messy change and tender growth.

A messy life isn’t the end — it’s a chapter, not the whole story. There’s still time, still space, and always a chance to begin again and choose better.

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