Fill Your Cup... and Your Plate

A few weeks ago I posted a selfie to my social media accounts with a small story concerning life right now: faded friendships; failed relationship; continued faith struggles; negative body image. Life has been a rollercoaster the last few years (and probably more), but I've been committed to wrestling with what's caused me pain or heartache -- be they far past experiences or newer circumstances -- and it's a decision I do not regret in the slightest. Not at all.

My faith issues, I've ranted and discussed them in multiple blog posts and have covered that pretty thoroughly. No update needed, really. Still learning grace; still hoping my anxiety and strong discomfort with church will chillax one day, but am finding some peace with God during regular moments of life (at work, on hikes through the woods). I'm a work in progress and despite my mess I'm gonna say I'm actually doing well.

One thing I've never really talked about is my unhealthy relationship with food and how it affects my body. This is a very old wound that I recently decided to squaresquareoff with, so I'm still in the processing phase. When did this start? How long have I been in fear of what food does to my body size? Here's honesty time, people. My first body conscious experience:

I was at school once day in maybe 3rd or 4th grade when a comment was directed at me. My memory of what I said or did before my perception changed is a fog -- maybe I took too much delight in my small size, as my frame was/is petite, and this girl (also tiny) didn't like it. I have no idea, just a wad of speculation. What she said to me, however, has been unforgettable. "Kristin, you're gonna be fat when you get older. My mom was skinny like you when she was young and now she's fat." Again, memory fog serves no purpose in helping me see how I reacted to her, but I vividly remember how I felt. Shocked. Shamed. Afraid. Oh, so fat is a bad thing. Don't become that. Okay. 😞 I wish I could say I remember exactly how I spent my pre-teen and teen years in terms of what I put into my body and how I felt about it.

In those years of fast working metabolism, my relationship with food was probably healthy-ish. I was an active, athletic girl who ate Big Macs and fries, and then burned them off on the hockey field. I drank Dr. Pepper with my best friends on the weekend (and during class), but I also remember eating what was on my plate at dinner each night with the family. Yeah, I could eat junk and not worry too much about my figure... but I still held fear in the back of my mind about my girlish figure. I'd study the amount of fat on my abs and lovehandle region and felt like maybe there was an excess. But I never did extra exercise outside of my sporty routine to rid myself of the dreaded rolls, nor did I change my eating habits. Live and let live. Things mostly seemed okay.

Then adulthood happened, I moved out of the house after I graduated college, and I could buy whatever I wanted. This is where things changed and I see the mental shift that gave way to fear. My job as a produce associate kept me in decent shape, so I still felt like I was able to eat much of what I wanted without fear of gaining too much... but the fear rose regardless. When my sister got married and I finally saw the wedding photos, I saw what I considered to be unsavory photos of what I deemed "trouble spots". You know, the areas on your body where all the other unwelcome cells accumulate like extroverts at a party. (As an introvert, I love my extrovert friends! This is a friendly reference made in good fun. #promise) I still had my eye on those areas, but this phase in my life meant I took myself to the gym, went on runs, and started to watch what I ate. Not all of this happened immediately; it was a gradual lifestyle change that took place over a few years.

Despite the lifestyle change and becoming more active/eating healthier, I started to become aware of my fear of putting on weight, even though I never put it into words: I'm afraid of gaining weight. My sweet tooth would fight against me and urge me to but candy or whatever unhealthy snack I wanted. I'd buy the item at the store, eat, then feel some kind of regret a week later. I can't finish this whole bag because if I do, I'm gonna to see my problem areas get worse, I'm gonna get fat, and I'm gonna think I'm ugly and hate what I like like. The bag of such-and-such would then find itself in the trash along with all the other stuff I had bought that would bring me the same fear-filled results. Increase in size. And when I did see more rolls on my abs or felt my waist growing ever so slightly? Time to start running regularly if I wasn't already. (My relationship with running was on/off, so I was inconsistent.) I did ask that out of fear that a bigger me meant I would somehow be unworthy, ugly, or even undesirable. The only version of "me" that I knew was "skinny" me. There was no place for anything different in my mindset. Be skinny. Stay skinny. That was my focus.

The funny thing about my eating habits is I'll bet you no one knew I did this. Ask my coworkers: they'll tell you I would buy cakes and cookies at work, and then invite everyone else to have some of what I bought. Offer me a danish? HELL YEAH I'll have one! My best friend is a mellark cook and I always ate what she made as far as I recall. (She was one of my McDonald's & Dr. Pepper buddies in high school, so she's seen me pack away my share of food.) My solution at the time was simple: buy what I want and let others share my purchase. That way I could moderate my intake, get my fix, and let others finish off the rest. I operated on a weird mix of generosity and fear, but it kept me from gaining, so I was okay with this MO.

Nowadays I'm not okay with my former MO. I doubt a healthy relationship with food involves throwing stuff away out of fear, low key monitoring your intake by sharing with others, or even saying to myself I can't buy that, I'll get fat if I eat it while staring at and craving Oatmeal Cream Pies. I know this now. I consciously know this now.
So why the change? Never thought I'd ever say the words, "I read an article by Taylor Swift that changed my life." She may not have changed my life in the most dramatic way you might think of, but it's still a perspective she shared with a magazine about 30 things she learned upon reaching her 30th birthday. That's where I ended up facing a personal monster of mine: she said she used to be afraid of every ounce of fat on her body; what she found with her newfound curves was healthier, shinier hair and more energy. Game. Changer.

That's when I decided to confront my own fear and that's also why I'm writing: it's my therapy, it's my chance to be publicly honesty, and it's an unexpected outlet of support and community with people who have been there or are there. I see a little deeper into people's lives when they share their story with me. That's so precious to me.

So far I've been trying a practice called "Intuitive Eating": eat what your body is craving until you're satisfied. No guilt, no shame... just enjoying food and letting your body be whatever size it naturally wants to be. It's not a diet; it's a way to give your body what it's telling you it wants. There's more to this, I'm sure, but am still in the learning process and an enjoying this practice. The last few weeks I've done this and z-e-r-o food has gone in the trash out of fear. I'm nervous about how my body might change by giving it what it wants, but I hope to find myself happier, less guilty, more full, and more energetic. I'm excited for what's to come. 😊

Evidence Collector

"Look for evidence of how well you are doing." I remember finding this quote on Pinterest some time ago and it's one that's stuck with me the past six months. Most of you know about my struggle with depression and how difficult it has been. While my life has drastically improved for the better since 2016, I still get visits from my Shadows. However, I am very glad to say that, despite their sporadic appearances, their visits are just that: much more temporary and short lived. 

The past few years may have been a bit of a, uh, "birch," (Thanks auto correct; I'm forever using that from here on.) but it's toughened me up in ways that comfy conditions couldn't have. One of the lowest epochs of my life taught my ever independent self to reach out for help. I found solace and strength in friends and family when I felt I was sinking or couldn't go on; I sought out my Godsend of a counselor when I had questions or needed to work through another knot of issues. I don't know how much of my life I've spent trying not to be a burden to people, but it feels it has been a sizable chunk; it's been a process of unlearning this habit of aloofness while recognizing I need people. Hell, they even need my support and loyalty, too. 

While I'm still learning the importance of seeking out help, my Shadows have taught me to figure out where my boundaries begin. When is my "yes" fueled by my toxic people pleasing habits? Unfortunately, though, saying "no" sometimes comes with a heaping side of anxiety that I've upset someone, even if I'm trying to protect myself from doing too much and, thus, harboring resentment. Nothing is worth doing if I'm going to be exhausted and angry about it. Still I have relapses when I toss out a shaky "Yes" when I should give a firm "No" but, like most things, it's a learning process. I have to learn to recognize when I've gone overboard, try to fix the situation as peacefully as I can, learn from it, and move on without kicking myself for making a mistake. 

Speaking of kicking myself for a mistake, my cat had a vet appointment scheduled for today. I had a reminder card sitting out, the appointment note jotted down in my phone's calendar, and my mental note from this morning of where I needed to be at what time. Still, somehow I lost track of the time and only realized what had happened when my phone started to ring at 3:15. Needless to say, I had to speak grace to myself all the way to the appointment just to keep myself from spiraling into a deep spell of self-loathing. It feels odd to say it's a life-giving practice to recognize my own toxic behavior, but it allows me to try my best to change accordingly. 

Regarding the matters of my faith crisis, my bouts with depression have been teaching me resiliency. Initially I don't think I would have connected the two, but in hindsight it makes sense. My current struggle with faith is a bit like my depression pit: I see how low I am or have been, I know I want to get out somehow, and there are many continued attempts to formulate plans to get me to where I want to be. When a plan doesn't work, I backpedal, rework my steps, and try again. It's been about finding the ability to get back up after sliding back to where I was. Going to church is still a matter that is very painful and awkward, but slowly I'm trying to find a place to get involved in again. Despite my last unsuccessful attempt, I'm going to try to remain relatively optimistic. So my last churchgoing attempt didn't work? Okay, so I'll try another location that won't shove service down my throat on a weekly basis. (Service is still a very sore spot for me, so any attempt to "push" me to go outside my comfort zone in that respect might end up with my fist down your throat... or potentially the seat under me being thrown in your general direction.) And prayer and habitual reading of my Bible? Also a struggle that is a work in progress. Concerning those two, the best solution I have right now is a small prayer that God will heal my broken soul and that I will entrust all the shards to him. So far, day by day, I feel crumbs of bitterness disappear. My trust in God still isn't intact -- a large part of my scarred theology still sees God as that slave driver with a whip in hand -- but in time I'm hoping that will be transformed into a sound theology of grace, forgiveness, and unconditional love.

I still have a lot of work to do. While I'm not gonna leap to far flung conclusions and say this is the best I've ever been, I've measured my evidence and found this: I suppose I'm doing alright. 

Rising from the Ashes

Once time in college a group of us were playing a game in which one of the questions asked was, "If you were to write a book about your life, what would be the title"? I remember very clearly entitling mine Rising from the Ashes. This is no book, but it's my own writing that graces this blog, and that's good enough for me. 

I have contemplated writing a new entry for quite some time but have been stumped as to what to write about. Sure, there's been an update in my faith struggle -- which is still riddled with questions and enough cynicism at which I could shake a branch (Definitely not a stick!); however, a lot of healing has taken place, and that's one of the reasons I started this blog: for the sake of my own healing and maybe someone else's too. So here I go again.

If you aren’t familiar with my story or any of my entries, one of my most recent blurbs was my struggle to trudge through depression. Last year my parents connected me with a counselor who was a godsend for me, and still is, as she helped me not only make sense of the Shadows that had engulfed my life, but also guided me in untying a lot of insecurities that had built up over time. I am very grateful for her strong ability to aid me in my emotional and mental healing. While the suggestion of dealing with depression via medication was discussed, I took a chance at taking multivitamins and, for the most part, I have very little dealings with my Shadows since then. It doesn’t mean they will never pop up again – depression runs in the family, so I am susceptible to it when life gets hard – but so far I have escaped from my own Shawshank Prison, climbed my own Mt. Doom, or what have you. Point is, I have “crawled through a river of shit and come clean on the other side” (The Shawshank Redemption, 1994). I guess you could say so far I am kicking depression in the ass and enjoying it. (I swear I’m not a violent person.)

While there is still my faith struggle to work through – the biggest, nastiest lump of them all – there is progress there also. While I still get tangled up in a wad there also has been restoration. It is a slow healing but it’s been confusingly beautiful in how it’s unfolded. I became connected to a Celebrate Recovery group at a local church that has allowed me to be a mess of issues. While I’m the only one in the group that I know of who struggles with a background in Christian legalism, never have I felt judged for the few times I have opened up and shared part of my story. We all are trying not to let hurts and hang-ups control our lives.

Finding a church to attend, however, is still problematic. While part of me craves a church to call home, getting myself to that nestled comfort of familiarity is a very big challenge that I am quite unsure of how to confront. Call me a wuss if you want; call me lazy, unmotivated, lukewarm, or rebellious, but mostly the whole process is overwhelming and is only what I can describe as “sensory overload”. New building, people I don’t know, a worship band and singers that are foreign to me while singing songs that I can’t help but pick apart theologically and cynically, a pastor I want to learn from but don't know if I can yet trust even a little bit… ugh. After an hour of taking it all in while trying to be an active participant, I’m depleted. I’m stumped and have no idea if approaching this challenge day by day is what I’m supposed to do. The only solution I can muster is reading a few verses in my Bible at night (when I actually do open it, which isn't consistently), accompanied by a Max Lucado devotional, Grace for the Moment, and hope that it ignites a beautiful love for God again. It’s a work in progress.

Despite the fact that I know I’m still a mess, I’m more comfortable with where I am and ultimately am trying to learn to surrender to God and his will. I’m not where I want to be – I’m nowhere close to it – but I’m still trying to learn about grace instead of condemning myself when I know I’ve fallen way short. But the beautiful thing about this curious circumstance is somehow I still believe in the goodness and loving nature of my Creator; and somehow, despite all the crap I’ve endured, I still believe He leads me in unconditional love and that will take me all the way home. That is the only thing that gives me a hope draped in peace and restoration. 

"You've seen my descent, now watch my rising" -Rumi

Baby Pool Faith

Some time ago I came across an inspirational quote on Pinterest that has since stayed with me: "Healing isn't linear." Considering the crazy amount of damage I took time to heal last year, it was a comfort to me, as my own healing journey has been anything BUT linear. Often I would wonder why I took three steps forward and two more steps back, one forward and two back . . . you get the point. I considered myself weak and inconsistent for not constantly moving up the incline toward that plateau with a neon sign that screams, "You have arrived!" Nope.

Last year was a tough one to climb -- I don't regret or hate my journey, as I have developed a few "muscles" I didn't have before and healed wounds that have stayed with me, literally, since my formative childhood years -- but despite all my progress, rebuilding my Christian faith is still a massive undertaking. I've returned to the church I went to before shit hit the fan; I left the same church feeling like maybe it's not a fit anymore; I've attempted to go to different churches and chickened out; and once more I revisited that same church with which I was at odds; yet still I hold out hope that my feet will not quit on me again, and one day soon I will walk into a new building full of people I've yet to meet. I anticipate I will be hesitantly excited about it. (Does that even make sense? Hoping for this new thing to be exciting and life-giving, as intimidating as it can be?) I've been present as often as absent from a Bible study full of friends I've known for a few years, yet I haven't been able to shake the feeling that I've been in over my head. I know it's silly to assume everyone else's life or faith seems so stable when I've only been given a small window that opens into a tiny room of one friend's (or many friends') entire existence, but that's how I was feeling: everyone else was a mature adult swimming in the deep end of practicing Christianity, while I was lagging behind and not strong enough to keep my head just above the surface where they freely swam.

Staying in the former atmosphere made me feel like I was holding others back from learning all they could. My questions felt like a distraction. (It's possible I'm overthinking things -- I'm a master at that -- but that's neither here nor there at the moment.) Finally I had to admit my current faith lacks the strength and stamina it once had. Maybe over time I have become a "baby" Christian again and need to relearn the basics before I jump back into the deep end. I'm putting myself back in the baby pool, so to speak. Willingly I am entering a season of rebuilding my faith into something that, I hope, will be motivated more by a genuine love for God and people instead of a faith that is driven by fear of judgment and condemnation. I'll make awkward and failed attempts at unlearning all the unnecessary rules I diligently learned to follow years ago, but I believe the effort will be worth it.

My Story: Cohabitating with Depression

I haven't shared much of my story concerning recent struggles with depression, as it is a relatively recent development; however, as my counselor put it in this afternoon's session, there's still a stigma attached to it, and I felt wary that friends and acquaintances would think I'm being a downer or, worse, a burden. That's what depression does, though: it will tell you that you are less than deserving of anything normal, healthy, or happy, and that's just the way it always will be. (It's not true, by the way. Depression fogs reality and chucks deceit-filled darkness at you like a load of bricks.)

My Shadows started following me in October 2015 after my roommate moved out. She was living with me for a year before she was able to get her own apartment, and in that time we both were working through personal issues. Hers I will keep silent about, but my own were a recent breakup from a guy I had seriously dated for 2.5 years and a severe faith struggle that caught up with me a few months later. (Read my earlier entries if you want to get caught up.) It was an emotionally and spiritually jarring time for me, and when there are severe life changes or occurrences that cause negative effects, it's like a breeding ground for the Shadows to move in and set up a concrete-based camp. They say, "We're not going anywhere for a while. In fact, we plan on staying. [Shadows toss loaded luggage to the ground]" What I can remember about that October was the slow fade into constant fatigue. Time spent with my favorite people and closest friends turned into a battle to stay focused and engaged in conversation, and I may as well have carried toothpicks in my purse to hold my eyelids open. All I could look forward to was going home and hitting the hay. My mood, work ethic, and general demeanor felt cloudy. Lack of focus dominated friendships as well as work, it turns out. I wanted to feel happy and motivated again, but it was like someone tied an anchor or an anvil around my ankles, tossed me in a deep body of water, and told me to swim for my life. Successfully I kept my head above water but it required a lot of effort, and everyone else appeared to have an effortlessly upbeat life.

There was a time around January or so in which the Shadows disappeared entirely; then they came back with a vengeance in February when 2016 started to fight dirty. Work continued to become more stressful; someone I considered a forever friend walked out of my life after a minor bump in our friendship; plans to run the Derby City mini marathon were cancelled due to consistent sickness during my training; attempts to search for a new career path led to another closed door, as Counseling was the only thing that interested me, but I realized the emotional toll it would take on me in the short and long term; illnesses of various kinds popped up more often than ever (including what I think was a minor bout with mono. I missed the Coldplay concert because of it.); a failed attempt or two at some potential romances; and a work schedule that was (is) crazy enough to have me working as late as 10pm and starting as early as 5 in the morning  some days (I had, and still have, no sleep cycle). It was a lot of crap that was relentlessly being dumped on me over the course of the year. I started feeling worthless, hopeless, hypocritical, like a failure who couldn't even reach her goals; if I was the terrible co-worker, friend, daughter, Christian that I thought I was, why was I sticking around?

I stayed in bed a long time one morning in August before my work shift began and contemplated ending it. The problem was, I didn't actually want to do anything about it, as any option I could think of sounded too painful; however, if  I got cancer, forget about fighting it. Let it take me. I didn't ask for this life; I didn't sign up for it, so riding this toxic roller coaster isn't fair, and don't want to ride on this anymore. I want to get off. . . . But the only way to get off the ride is to jump. I don't want to jump. But the open space just outside the roller coaster car sure did look more inviting than it ever had before. That scared the hell out of me.

Eventually I got out of bed, dressed myself, and went to work. When mom stopped by to see me that afternoon, she greeted me with her typical cheery, "Hello!" and a hug. I tried to keep myself together, but my chin quivered and after a time I broke down in tears, right there in the middle of the sales floor. I told her everything I had been thinking and feeling as of late and how overwhelming life seemed to be. She listened with her typical long-suffering ears as I blubbered on; then she suggested I talk to someone -- a counselor -- who could help me process everything.

She passed on to me the name of a woman who has since been my Psychologist, and I'm doing much better. It's been some kind of an arm wrestling match between me and why my imbalanced brain want me to believe, but I am doing better. Parents and close friends are worth their weight in gold, I tell you. They will remind you why they think you are awesome and worthy of being loved when you forget, and they encourage you to take care of yourself, while making sure you actually do so. And my counselor has been a godsend for me. She has helped me work through a lot of the issues that not only hounded me this past year, but enabled me to confront old scars and properly address them so they could be healed. It's probably a huge jump for me to say, "Yeah, life was terrible for a long time. Then bingbangboom everything's good again!" Nope. For a month or month and a half I was meeting with my counselor once a week; when we weren't meeting, I was processing our session and finding the loose end of the knots we pulled out so I could begin to untie them for good. It was work, but it was worthwhile, and it felt good. It's taken wrestling with those Shadows, even after my counselor said we could start spacing out our meetings a little more. (That meant progress, though!) It meant asking for prayer from friends and family, challenging myself to spend time with people when I really wanted to be a reclusive shut-in.

It continues to mean those things even now. Everyday challenges can be a little heaver for me than for someone who doesn't suffer the clingy Shadows; I'm learning to celebrate the victories, though, and it's a lesson I hope I never forget. (I don't think I will.) I'm on track to get medication for this Thing that follows me around, and maybe that will finally tell my demons to shut the hell up. Mostly, though, I am thankful that God has put incredible people into my life to guide me where I should go/be, be they parents, friends, counselors, a dental hygienist who talked with me about Beth Moore Bible studies (Not a joke!), or old and new friends and acquaintances who have walked where I have walked and still are trucking right along. I'm not same person who once had weightless, carefree happiness that didn't come with a price tag -- I don't think she ever will return without the aid of pharmaceuticals -- but that's okay. My journey thus far has made me stronger, a fighter in some respects, and in a warped way I'm truly facing up to my own worth and owning it. Through all of it, God never abandoned me, even when all I could see was the darkness as black as pitch.

Isaiah 61

100 Things That Make Me Happy

A friend of mine made a blog entry yesterday that listed 100 things that make her happy. It's such a simple and fun idea that I had to make a list, too, as it's a good reminder that I have a lot to enjoy if I just look around.

1. Sleeping in

2. Fuzzy blankets and socks

3. Good books

4. Bookstores

5. Caramel Macchiatto coffee from Starbucks

6. Blueberry muffins

7. Lord of the Rings movies

8. Laughing

9. Jokes

10. Inspirational quotes

11. Learning more about my MBTI personality type (INFJ)

12. Educating myself/empowering my intellect/breaking my ignorance

13. Silence after a long, loud day

14. Hiking through woods & discovering trails

15. Running

16. Getting muddy on hikes or runs

17. Bubble baths

18. Being with close friends

19. Introspection

20. An amazing meal

21. Dessert

22. Knowing I have money to pay my bills

23. My sweet cat, Max

24. Watching movies while eating a bowl of buttery popcorn

25. Finding that perfect sleeping position

26. Fresh bed sheets

27. A clean, organized home

28. The gentle hum of a dishwasher in use

29. Sampling my groceries as I unload the bags in my kitchen

30. Max curling up next to me on an almost nightly basis

31. Knowing I come from a good family

32. The occasional scary movie that has more plot than gore; the less gore, the better

33. Superhero movies

34. Book version of Mark Watney from The Martian (Damon's movie version was no slouch)

35. Literary hero Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird

36. Lace/dainty dresses

37. Dressing up

38. Pearls

39. Cute shoes

40. Target

41. Getting in touch with my creative side 

42. Writing

43. Being challenged physically by my job and coming home tired

44. Sour Patch Kids

45. Dr. Pepper

46. Naps

47. Eating healthy, although it's inconsistent

48. Disney movies

49. Listening to the insects chirp at night

50. Sunsets

51. Hammocks

52. Porch swings

53. Swings in general

54. Roller coasters

55. Theological/faith breakthroughs

56. Lounging in the water
57. Going to the beach
58. My geeky interests
59. Discovering new stores, shops, or restaurants
60. Revisiting favorites of the places listed above
61. The color blue
62. Getting to know my regular customers by name
63. Appreciative customers
64. When someone says I did something well
65. Encouragement -- giving and receiving it
66. Hugs
67. Sweet tea
68. Good hair days
69. Re-watching favorite movies
70. Becoming more "me" and less like who I feel I "should" be
71. Confronting/outgrowing insecurities
72. Running into people I haven't seen in years
73. Becoming friends with unexpected people
74. Long lasting friendships
75. Field hockey
76. Riding horses
77. Animals in general
78. Hearing someone's laugh that's funnier than the joke
79. Laughing so hard you can barely finish what you were trying to say
80. Finding peace in chaos
81. To Kill a Mockingbird, book and movie
82. Being intrigued by/reading classic literature & why those books still have something to say
83. Successfully cooking dinner
84. Music that moves me
85. My comfy home
86. Netflix
87. Fireworks
88. Christmas lights
89. Looking at photos on Instagram
90. Fresh snowfall
91, Thunderstorms
92. Hot chocolate with marshmallows
93. Cuddling
94. Eating S'mores at a bonfire
95. Movie quotes and references
96. Eating stadium food at a ball game
97. Forehead kisses (and other kisses, too)
98. Traveling
99. Conversation that flows easily
100. Chocolate

Tainted Roots

As I write this, I'm sitting outside in a gazebo while  listening to the chirpings of the night. It's a different venue for my thoughts to come out and it's peaceful. I kind of like it a lot.

The whole reason I started this blog was to give myself a place to grapple, complain, get excited about, and even question my faith. Seven or eight months ago I had what I thought was a wonderful breakthrough that lifted my depression and, with it, a lot of anger and frustration toward the church and Christianity in general. I thought it was an experience or moment that would stick, but it didn't. Because it has blown away again, I constantly blame myself for not getting past all of my faith struggles. I feel like it's my fault.

Here's where I feel like I've realized a few things: as much as churches try to pass off faith as a feel-good-your-life-is-now-fixed experience, I disagree with it. That's partly a "health and wealth" theology that I don't completely agree with. Does God permanently lift depression or heal other diseases for good? Yes, I believe he can. All the time? No, he doesn't. I don't have answers as to why. No clue. But what I do know is the performance-based faith that I've railed against for the past few years is one I have slipped back into without realizing it. All the "Am I doing enough?" questions have invaded my brain territory again; some days I am afraid I've failed because my faith and the expression of it doesn't look like what I often see in churches on Sunday.

I wish I didn't feel so weird and, let's be honest, so unmotivated. I used to have sizeable dreams and goals when it came to my faith in Jesus; now I feel like what I used to want has been demolished and I have no clue what my true interests are. But I guess I've recently had the goal to love people. No matter who or where, love them. Listen to problems, be a solid emotional support when things have turned more sour than sweet, and act justly and mourn for those who have experienced tragedy. And I'm tired. I'm lonely because I feel like sometimes I'm carrying the weight of the world's grief on my shoulders. Constant emotional and spiritual fatigue is supposed to be the life of a Christian? No! Jesus said he came so that we may have life and have it to the full.

I'm frustrated that many churches I've been a member of over the years talk a whole lot about serving and giving God your best all the time, but mention very little of rest. It pisses me off, to be honest. We are called to a life of service, sure, but that doesn't mean we have to exhaust ourselves to the point of burnout.
I'm trying not to let legalism get to me again, but its roots have reached deeper than I previously thought. I need to give myself permission to let this healing and restructuring of my faith take time, but it's difficult when I have perfectionist I-want-results-now kind of tendencies. Major change doesn't happen immediately. I need to remember this. I also need to give myself permission to fall down a lot (Which I am. So much.) and, dammit, to be imperfect. But mostly I know I need to remember that my failures don't determine or diminish my worth in God's eyes. I'm perfectly loved always, no matter what.

Mountain After Mountain [Revised]

Last week I posted a blog entry that I regret ever writing. Not just because it wasn't worded the way I wanted it to be -- the words in my brain don't always cooperate when I want them to coexist peacefully with others on a page -- but also because it was written in the middle of another gale that rocked my faith. It was another all-out cage match between myself and legalism, the latter doing most of the punching, elbowing, and body slamming. I merely played the part of a rag doll.

I really thought I was just getting angry at God again for believing those lies I've already spread out for you all already: that He's just a whip-bearing, hard-as-steel commander who expects us to ServeServeServe until we're too tired to have joy, and then serve some more because that's what He expects of us. I put up my trusty walls again; I crossed my arms in rebellion like a temper-tantrum-oriented toddler and fussily exclaimed, "NO!" (complete with pouting lips and furrowed brow); I said I wasn't going to have it, that life of tired Christianity that I have actively and forcefully resented for the last 1+ year. Then I realized that while I have desired lately to seek God and see Him for who He really is -- without simply believing every quip or easily memorized theology thread strung from the pulpit -- this was spiritual attack. (Satan's pissed.)

I started to fight back. I called the father of lies out on his bull, then reminded myself of the truth that God is love; salvation comes by faith in Christ, not finding myself able to measure up to a list of expectations (Ephesians 2:8). Peace trickled in and eventually took the helm.

I think back on the first entry I wrote and remember wanting to let God "love the hell out of me" but, weeks later, admitting I had no idea how to do that. I think I'm learning that now. (I think.) For me it means risking vulnerability and bringing all those horribly broken and deformed pieces of myself to God; it's trusting that whatever condition I'm in, He loves me. (That's that unfathomably beautiful unconditional love thing that still I'm learning to believe and accept.) As I have said before, my anger doesn't scare Him, and neither do my doubts and questions. I'm not discarded because I don't have it together. He loves the hell out of me. Almost literally. He loves me when I want to turn away from him in rebellion; he loves me when I don't understand him; he loves me regardless. He loves US regardless. That's something we don't hear enough. He. Loves. Us. No facade required. We are a mess of ourselves but He intends to love the hell out of us. Because of that I know I can breathe a sigh of relief and be filled with joy and peace.

Aaaaahhh . . .



"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid" (John 14:27, NIV).

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believe in him will not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him" (John 3:16-17, NIV).

When You Don't Get What You Want (But You Get What You Need)

[Disclaimer: Blog post written from the app on my phone. Please excuse any odd formatting that currently is out of my control. Laptop is out of commission at the moment.]

This post will be a more 'train of thought exercise,' so expect choppy waters ahead.

Thank you, Rolling Stones, for writing that classic song "You Can't Always Get What You Want" because the chorus is so friggin' true it hurts.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime, you find
You get what you need

Yup. Sometime in September of last year I decided to ask myself what dreams or goals I would pursue if I had no limitations of any kind standing in my way. In other words, what would I give myself permission to pursure if I knew I had full capabilities and could not fail? I had -- and still have -- a running list of possibilities, and within the last few months, I seriously and prayerfully considered one of my items: to go to Seminary.

I looked at brochures, received mail from one of the seminaries in town, saw the class prices (which nearly melted my face off in a kind of Spielberg/Indiana Jones type of way), and asked if the only career option that caught my attention would be a good fit for me.

When I saw a degree for Biblical Counseling, I was intrigued and I thought, This might be something to consider. And why not? I love creating and maintaining a kind of friendship that allows those I care about to come, be who they are, share their burdens, and in general just drop the façade of perfection. I'm not claiming I'm good at this all the time, but when those real moments happen, I treasure them. Maybe it's self-centered to be glad that someone feels comfortable enough with me to admit when life has turned to shit, but I still love that authenticity nonetheless.

While I mulled over all the joys, stressors, and questions that come with going back to school while working full time, I had to ask myself if an emotionally challenging career move would be something I could handle. Sure I love those unplanned moments when a friend and I bond over hardships -- that's just a few moments out of my day -- but can I take that strain session after session, day after week after month, and so on? Considering my immensely sensitive emotional state (been that way ever since I can remember . . . and that's okay), I think I realized it's a career that would chew me up and spit me out. I would drown under the burden in an attempt to buoy another soul.

Mostly I was at peace when I stopped trying to force myself to take leaps of faith forward that probably weren't meant to be taken; but just outside of that peace leaked in a lot of self-loathing and discouragement when I realized my answer to this particular desire was "No." Why can't you be strong enough like most people are? You absolute fucking failure. Are you even of use to anybody? Harsh words toward myself, I know. (I'm working on that, but clearly I have relapses.)

The more I looked at the situation and the more I prayed that God would ease my pain so that I wouldn't feel like someone who isn't smart enough or strong enough to carry out this dream I had, the more I saw His grace in not giving me what I thought I wanted. What I wanted would have crushed me; what He wants will not only add life and joy to my existence, but to that of others, as well. And that is my overarching dream: to be a breath of life, encouragement, hope, and strength for others, all while asking God to let that lead wherever he wants to take me. (Lord, that is a terrifying prayer.)

So maybe carrying out this dream I have means God is asking me to courageously stay where I am at the moment. (When many have suggested that I do something else with my life other than my current job, yes, staying still requires strength.) Maybe I'll be called elsewhere soon or farther down the road. I don't know, and this drives me absolutely bonkers because I need to see the road map. But I'm trying to learn to trust that when God says 'No,' It's not just a flat denial; sometimes He's telling me to wait,  or that dreaded, heart-sinking 'no' actually means, "I have something better in mind."

When I lay all of my dreams on that alter, sometimes the sacrifice will be carried out in full and the knife plunges, and the "no" hurts like hell. Sometimes the knife will be raised, only for the hand to be stayed, and the dream survives. (This is all Abraham & Isaac/Old Testament parallels here.) But when the dream dies, the plans change, and I don't get what I thought I would, I hope I can still say to God, Thank you for knowing what I need to carry out Your will, and mean it.

Commit your way to the LORD;
trust in him and he will do this:
He will make your righteousness
shine like the dawn,
the justice of your cause like the noonday sun. (Psalm 37:5-6, NIV)

But the plans of the LORD stand firm forever,
the purposes of his heart through all generations. (Psalm 33:11, NIV)

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28, NIV)

The Oasis

I work in grocery retail, and as often as some have implied that it's not a very glamorous job (Oh, you work at Kroger? And what do you want to do after that? is a question strangers have asked me at social gatherings.), I enjoy it. There are so many moments I've shared with customers that have stayed with me because of the sweetness of a conversation, the tears of grief that inevitably and stubbornly slip out, or because a kind soul let me partake in a witty joke. I love asking where a shopper is from if I hear traces of an accent. (Bonus points are collected if I've visited that same section of the globe.)

As much as I enjoy these moments, they don't happen as often as I would like. I admit I often get caught up in making sure the produce shelves are full of fresh product instead of truly trying to meet the needs and answer the questions of shoppers who are responsible for supplying my paycheck. I don't know how many strangers I serve on average in a day, but it's a lot; I admit I start to see those customers as part of a mass of consumers I am to serve instead of seeing them as living, breathing souls who have stories to tell. They're just people who come to me when they need to know where to find ginger root or avocados; what vegetables are good for juicing; or if I could possibly bring out more broccoli from the back because what's on the shelf looks terrible.

That is my routine day in and day out, and within in that routine of customers coming to me with their needs, I begin to feel . . . invisible? I'm the one who answers the questions about product location, suggests different apple varieties, endures complaints about product prices when I have nothing to do with such decisions, and more. Basically, I am among the fruits and vegetables to be your produce and customer service "Go To Girl," but sometimes working to please as many people in a day as I can begins to feel lonely.

I'm sorry if that comes off as whiny -- that's not my intention -- but my point is that loneliness doesn't discriminate. We all feel it and we all wonder if anyone sees all our serving and caring and trying and pleasing. Maybe you are a stay-at-home mom who wonders if her husband sees and appreciates all the sacrifices she makes for the family on a daily basis; or a nurse who, quite literally, gets shit on all day, only to be yelled at later in your shift by the same grumpy-ass patient; or a businessman who is handed project after project when you're already struggling to keep up with your regular work load. Regardless of your place in life, eventually that question slaps you in the face: Does anyone appreciate me? Am I only important to others but only if I have something to offer? That question pierced me a few days ago and I ended up wallowing in that loneliness most of the day.

It took me a few hours to snap my head back up from the Eeyore-esque mentality I had donned, so when I felt like I no longer wanted to be a victim of my circumstances, I started to pray. (I hope this doesn't come off as a look-at-me-I'm-so-holy humble brag.) God, I feel invisible, unappreciated, and like I don't matter. Could you please meet me in my loneliness and remind me that you see me, love me, and fill me with purpose?

There wasn't an immediate relief from this burden, but feeling the sweet freedom from my pangs after a time was encouraging. As much as I know God created us to have friends and find joy in knowing others well -- He did give Adam a companion in Eve (Genesis 2:7, 18-23) and Jesus commands us to love each other selflessly (John 15:12-15) -- I also know that as wonderful and fulfilling as friendship and community can be, they aren't meant to fill every dusty nook and cranny of our hearts. I think it was author Donald Miller who wrote in the book Blue Like Jazz, "There are some places only God can go." Consider what Jesus says in John 6:55-58:

For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever feeds on me, he also will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like the bread the fathers ate, and died. Whoever feeds on this bread will live forever. 

All the food, friendships, delights we could possibly enjoy eventually will leave us hungry again and craving something more; the love God gives us in and through Jesus Christ is the kind that was made to satisfy us eternally. We were made specifically to know God and delight in his love for us. Find your purpose, significance, and love in Him; in my own search for various things to fill that void, I've discovered that nothing else will do.

Truly my soul finds rest in God;

my salvation comes from him.

He is my rock and my salvation;

he is my fortress, I will never be shaken. (Psalm 62:1-2, NIV)

O Glorious Breakthrough

It has been more difficult than I realized to write my thoughts when they're peppier and less gloomy, and that has made this entry particularly trying. Mostly I think I'm afraid of coming off as too syrupy sweet and full of fluff, when substance and depth is what I hope for; alas, I'll try to remove myself from Cloud 9 so that my good news will be worth the read.

I wasn't expecting a breakthrough to happen so soon. In fact, I was bracing myself for a period of an unknown number of years full of all the crap I've already written about before. Maybe this season of struggle isn't really a season at all, but is my new reality. I just didn't want to get my hopes up. After all, I would read my Bible on occasion, but most of the time I felt numb when I did. Maybe there was a verse or two here and there that stuck with me or made me feel at peace, but mostly I just saw a bunch of lifeless words on a page.

Admittedly, I sucked at opening that thick book on a regular basis. It spent more time gathering dust while sitting on my bedside table than it did with the pages supine. Trying to motivate myself to read even a few verses felt like it required the effort it would take to push a giant boulder uphill while I'd be wearing roller skates. I just. didn't. want. to. do. it. Being in that rut sucked and I wasn't sure I had the energy or desire to fight my way through it,

But one day a few weeks ago, I started to challenge myself. (I have no idea where this newfound motivation came from, but I was thankful for that drop of life-giving water.) You know, if you keep sitting here like this, nothing is going to change. So why not do the very thing you don't want to do and choose to fight your way through these doldrums? So that evening I picked up my Bible, opened it, and [gasp] READ IT. The next evening I followed suit.

I believe that second night was the catalyst for my 180-degree turn. Begrudgingly I had opened that professional dust-collector to Isaiah 54 and the first three verses did absolutely nothing for me. Why is this so difficult? I asked myself. You used to feel so joyful when you read these verses; so why is this so difficult now? Then I read verses 4-5 and that's when that dusty light bulb turned on:

Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;

Neither be disgraced, for you will

not be put to shame;

For you will forget the shame of your youth,

And will not remember the reproach of 

your widowhood anymore.

For your Maker is your husband,

The LORD of hosts is his name;

And your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel;

He is called the God of the whole earth. (Bold print mine)

Back in my first blog entry, I hypothesized that maybe in my arid season I just needed to "let God love the hell out of me," but I wasn't doing that. Some of my wounds felt too tender to touch; I still didn't quite trust God to take care of my pain and turn it into something beautiful. But these verses reminded me of his mercy and love, and all of my walls crumbled. I felt joy and peace and relief again; any anger or resentment I had for more than a year concerning church and faith disappeared. And the depression with which I co-existed for the past few years and which only grew worse these three recent months? Gone. 

I don't think I ever imagined myself having the kind of testimony that feels as dramatic as the one I just recounted here. This good little church girl turned into a rebel, wandered into a desert full of doubt and anger, and finally made her exodus having rediscovered grace and peace and the unconditional love of Jesus Christ. For all my struggles, I am glad I endured them because he has made me stronger. When in doubt, look for the Author of hope. He is always there.

Therefore I am now going to allure her;

I will lead her into the desert

and speak tenderly to her.

There I will give her back her vineyards,

and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.

There she will sing as in the days of her youth,

as in the day she came up out of Egypt. (Hosea 2:14-15, NIV)

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. 

(Romans 5:4, NIV)

When You Feel Like Letting Go

For years I was obsessed with having a strong, confident faith that appeared flawless and seamless. So when I felt the first shock-wave of resentment toward God and the church because I tried to live up to standards and expectations I now realize I could never actually meet, I thought it would be just a short-term jarring of my spine; what I didn't know was how shattered my faith would become. I looked at all the years I spent trying and trying and trying to live my life in ways the church said was appropriate -- how often I needed to serve and how I needed to keep serving even more when my proverbial cup had run dry -- and I was fed up. I became bitter towards those who cracked their whip at me, and became bitter even towards God for feeling like He was endorsing this breakneck, tired-as-hell lifestyle of service. 

You know what, God? If this is what being a Christian and serving you looks like, this is bullshit and I don't want it. That's the line I threw at God more times than I can count when I felt like I couldn't hold on any longer. I wanted to let go, run away from the expectations I came to loathe, and leave all that legalistic crap behind. 

I admit that in the mix of my anger and my desire to still hold on to my faith (despite the temptation to just toss it into a heap and leave it behind), I felt like the responsibility to 'hang on' was all on me and God was just sitting back watching, waiting to see what would happen to me. God, could you give me a hand here? It feels like I'm doing all the legwork. 

It's a frustrating sensation to feel like God is just watching me dangle on my string, swaying in the wind, as if this giant struggle was/is somehow a test of strength on my part. Will I let go or will I hang on until He decides to rescue me? 

But the part of me that has read over and over again in the Bible about how much God loves us and even knows the number of hairs on our heads (Luke 12:7) kept reminding me that He already carries more of my burdens than I realize. One of my favorite books in the Bible is Isaiah, an Old Testament book. (Reference point: the Old Testament is the set of books that tell of Israel's history before Jesus was born.) While the context itself is set in a particularly barren spot when the Israelites were exiled to Babylon, it is still a story of God's unconditional love for his people and his desire to rescue and redeem them. That story of love, redemption, forgiveness, and reconciliation is still alive today because of Jesus Christ, so I often feel a connection to those prophetic chapters in the Old Testament:

Shout for joy, you heavens;

rejoice, you earth;

burst into song, you mountains!

For the LORD comforts his people

and will have compassion on his afflicted ones.

But Zion said, "The LORD has forsaken me,

the LORD has forgotten me."

Can a mother forget the baby at her breast

and have no compassion on the child she has borne?

Though she may forget, 

I will not forget you!

See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;

your walls are ever before me. (Isaiah 49:13-16, NIV)

No matter how forgotten, alone, or abandoned I feel by God, it simply isn't true. My anger, my uncertainty, my doubts don't drive him away. My pain doesn't intimidate him. In my own period of exile, God is still here. He still cares and tends to my every need, even if he seems silent; his love is never driven away by any circumstance. "For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, neither any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38-39, NIV). No matter the height of my uncertainty or the depth of my doubt, God remains faithful, even when I feel my life and my faith and my ability to hang on has turned to shit. His hold on me is stronger than my own feeble, fickle, slippery grasp. For all the ways I am unfaithful and uncertain, His love remains steadfast, his grip perfect in strength. For that I can have hope. 

I have loved you with an everlasting love;

I have drawn you with unfailing kindness. (Jeremiah 31:3, NIV)

In the Aftermath of Legalism

I grew up going to church but it wasn't until high school that I truly started to make faith my own, instead of just inheriting all the spoon-fed stuff I heard on Sunday morning. Seriously, what kid wouldn't rather sleep in or go outside and play than go to church? Blah. I just wanted to eat cereal and watch cartoons while dressed in my pajamas. Digression aside, high school is when all those Sunday school classes started to make sense and, hey, they actually had a point to them. That metaphorical light bulb came on as the youth pastor explained in his sermon, "Jesus died on the cross to forgive you of your sins. You just have to trust and believe He did." Oooooh, that's what the cross is for. (Yeah, it was that moment.) 

About a year later I was baptized, and since then I have spent years reading and studying the Bible -- complete with a Theological Studies degree from my alma mater -- and trying to get a grip on what it looks like to love God and love people. 

I'll spare you a lot of details and just say somewhere along the way I learned to clothe myself in legalism. Merriam-Webster defines legalism as, "strict, literal, or excessive conformity to the law or to a religious moral code," and being a vigilant rule-keeping Christian was what I thought I was supposed to be. 

There was a problem with living by all these rules, though: I said I believed Jesus died so my sins would be forgiven, but I lived my faith like my salvation was something I had to earn. If I wasn't trying to earn God's love outright, I made sure my actions proved I was the real deal: I volunteered with homeless ministries, co-led a Bible study for four years geared towards high school students, donated food and money to local food banks, sponsored (and still sponsor) a child through World Vision, and sent monetary contributions to other such organizations. I didn't cuss, drink, smoke, or do drugs; I was careful to avoid the media I thought was too sensual or vulgar for my liking. Bible verses often were my Facebook status of choice. I did all this for the sake of trying to prove to myself, to others, and to God that, dammit, I was a Christian. I lived and acted as if all my good doings wouldn't be enough to get me into heaven, despite my faith claim that Jesus's death and resurrection meant my sins were forgiven and I'd be spending an eternity in heaven with Him. I tried being that poster girl of a good little Christian for years.

So what was missing? I had it all together. I was the "good Christian girl" who ran as far away from any trouble as possible. Here I sit, years later, looking at that mindset in hindsight and now I know I wasn't motivated by love for God; it was all about fear. I also tried living my life in the way a few of my home churches thought appropriate. "Go to church as often as possible." "Volunteer in this ministry and this one and this one . . . We need your talents!" "Lead a Bible study on a weeknight. You have the education and knowledge to be a great leader!" "Oh, and don't forget that Christian women are to be gentle, loving, hospitable, and weather any hardship with a smile while believing that God will deliver her!" 

Ugh. Can I say right now that the reason I'm writing this blog is therapy for my burnt-out faith? That's where I am right now: church-y Christianity burnout. I'm not quite the mess of cynicism and resentment towards God that I was, say, six months ago, but I'm still struggling. The past three years of my life have taught me a lot about accepting God's grace -- probably because I was wrecking my health just to keep up appearances -- and I'm still learning to see God as my loving Father and Redeemer instead of a celestial slave-driver with a whip. 

It's a near outright war trying to give God permission to pull out the painful burrs of anger and rebellion so that my character will look a lot more like Jesus's, but it's a struggle. (Okay, it's a big struggle.) And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do in the meantime; then again, maybe I'm just supposed to let Jesus's unconditional love fight through my anger and bitterness and cynicism. Maybe I just need to sit and be and be reminded that John 3:16-17 applies to the little rule-follower-turned-rebel that is me: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him" (NIV). Maybe all I need to do is let God love the hell out of me.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light" (Matthew 11:28-30, NIV).