My "Mental" Illness

Depression has been in the spotlight a lot lately, particularly in the recent and tragic events of several celebrity suicides.  People are talking, and that is very good.  People are taking notice, and that is very good.  As someone who has experienced occasional depression, and who is currently experiencing depression, I am glad that more people are realizing the need to take depression seriously.

And I hesitate to blog about this subject for several reasons.  I know it's controversial.  Those who believe specific things about depression, whether it's because they've experienced it first-hand, by walking through it with a loved one, or because they've studied it, are very adamant in their beliefs. Matt Walsh wrote a blog shortly after the death of Robin Williams that got all kinds of backlash.  I'm not afraid of backlash, but I am afraid of hurting people, as Matt Walsh did in the writing of that blog.  I did like a lot of what Walsh had to say, but if he did anything wrong, it was that he did the same thing that a lot of people who oppose his ideas on depression and suicide do, as well.

A lot of people seem to think depression is the same for everyone who experiences it.  Even if they don't think that's what they're thinking, their attitudes towards suicide seem to indicate their true thought processes.  People go to the extremes of thinking that all people who commit suicide are either making a horrible conscious choice, or that all people who commit suicide are too mentally ill to think clearly.

I don't have all the answers.  It's okay not to have all the answers, by the way.  But in talking about this with some others via social media, I realized what my thoughts on depression are.  No one who is experiencing it experiences it the same way.  And I don't have the grounds to say that all suicide is always the result of a conscious, awful choice.  I've been in some dark places.  I've been in some very dark places where it was all I could do to fight the demons (that I believe are both literal and figurative) that told me the world would be a better place without me in it.  But I've never attempted suicide, and God forbid that I ever do.  I don't know what it's like to be in that dark of a place.  I've always had control of my thoughts, to some degree, even if it was all I could do to just keep telling myself to hold on until morning.  Morning always came.  The night was so, so long.  But, oh, morning always came.

Some people might not have been able to think clearly enough to realize that morning was coming.  I don't know.

So I can't make any blanket statements.

But, and this is a but that might offend or hurt some people, I think there's a danger in going too far in the opposite direction and saying that all suicide (and all depression, but I'll touch on that later) is always the result of mental illness.  Our society doesn't like to deal with things that just can't be easily dealt with.  We like excuses.  We don't like to blame ourselves.  And we don't want to speak ill of the dead.  It's easier to deal with something like suicide if we can tell ourselves, "This loved one who left us didn't choose to leave us.  It was the depression.  It was the mental illness that killed my loved one.  It's the depression's fault."

I don't want to be insensitive.  I've lost friends to suicide.  I've had friends who have lost close family members to suicide.  It's awful.  There's just no way around that.  There's no sense to be made of it.  Yet we're a society that wants things to make sense.  It's easier to say that suicide is a result of a disease than the result of a very, very bad choice.

In the case of Robin Williams' death, many factors might have been at play.  He was suffering from Parkinson's and might have been having hallucinations.  But the thing is, we really don't know what was going on at the time of his death.  Sometimes, we just don't know.

And that's okay.

It's okay to not know things.

I think that we forget that sometimes, and we try to explain things.  We try to make excuses.  We try to find ways to make things make sense.

The problem is, suicide doesn't make sense.

It just doesn't.

I don't wish to offend.  I don't wish to hurt.  The thing is, if you're upset enough by anything I wrote above, chances are, you've already been hurt.  And deeply.  And I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for what you've been through and what you're going through.  Surviving a suicide is a grief no one should ever have to bear.  It doesn't make sense, and sometimes this world doesn't make sense.  And I'm sorry.

But sin and death exist in this world, and really, they were never meant to.  We're all subject to pain and grief and loss and hardship that God never intended for us.  But when Adam and Eve fell from grace, sin entered into the world, and we all have to bear the consequences.  Sometimes the pain we experience is the result of our own sin.  Sometimes it's the result of someone else's sin.  Sometimes, it's just a result of sin in general.  And this world is a hard, hard place in which to live.

And this is something else that might offend people, but I've already taken offense.  I take offense to those who make blanket statements about depression.  I take offense to those who say that all depression is a mental illness.  If all depression is the result of mental illness, then, because I experience depression, I'm mentally ill.

And maybe people who make such blanket statements are trying to be encouraging by saying that my depression isn't my fault.  I don't think that experiencing depression is my fault either, necessarily, but I'm not comfortable with this idea that I don't have any responsibility in how I live as a depressed individual.

If I wake up in the morning and don't want to get out of bed, I still get out of bed because I have things I'm supposed to do.  Is it easy?  No.  If I'm at work and I numb and disconnected from reality, I still work and try to invest myself in what I'm doing.  Is it easy?  No.  My particular brand of depression is more numb and apathetic than sad (though if I let myself have a pity party and invite my anxiety, I can get ridiculously sad pretty quickly), but I learned a long time ago that life is a whole lot more than what I'm feeling.  If I don't "feel" what I'm doing, that doesn't make it less real.  What I do is still important, even if I don't "feel" it.

And others might not be able to overcome it that easily, and there are definitely days when I struggle more than others.  But my depression is NOT a mental illness.  And what's more is, I don't necessarily want to be rid of it.

I read something somewhere (I wish I'd written down the source, sorry) that made some statement that depressed people's minds were so distorted that they didn't realize it was preferable not to be depressed.  Maybe that's where I am.  Maybe all of these thoughts are just the result of a mental illness, and therefore I'm just absolutely crazy.  But I don't think so.

I've been depressed, on and off, throughout my entire adult life.  Seasonal depression almost always hits me in the autumn, but I experience it at other times, too.  And what I've learned is that I do tend to think more deeply when I'm going through seasons of depression.  Artistically, some of my best song lyrics and writing have come out of times when I'm struggling.  And maybe I should think to ask God if I could have creativity without depression, but I've always kind of figured that it's connected.  I don't mean just creativity and depression; I mean life.

Life is not just joy.  Life is not just sorrow.  It's not just bursts of creativity or comfortable silences.  It's a journey, and I seem to be taking the scenic route.  Others have had problems with that, but I don't despair of who I am.  Sometimes my depression helps me slow down and look at things others might have missed, or that I might have missed if I weren't looking.

I don't see depression as a mental illness.  I don't see it as a gift either, really.  It's just something that is, that's part of what I have to experience along with everything else in this wonderful, awful life.

And this is more than just that old cliche about the only difference between a blessing and a curse is how you choose to see it.  I just know that I've got a path in front of me.  I don't always see the next step.  I just put one foot in front of the other, and pray I won't stumble.  And sometimes I do stumble.  And sometimes I retreat back a few steps.  And sometimes things are harder than others.

But one thing I'm sure of is that there is mercy in the struggle.

There is so much mercy.

Because the only illness I have is the same illness the whole world has.   It's not really a mental illness as much as it's an illness of the soul.  It's called sin.  There's only one cure for it.  And I'm just grateful that through all that I've experienced, I've met one named Jesus who has saved me from sin and self forever.  I struggle.  Oh, I struggle.  But my hope is in Him.

I can't speak for anyone else regarding depression.  All I know is that He's the One who has given to me songs in the night and joy in the morning.

And I figure as long as I'm traveling along this road of life, that's the way it's supposed to be.

Please Prove You're Not a Robot (Thank You, Robin Williams)

When I was a little girl, I was extremely self-conscious about the way I looked.  I suppose I still am, but I definitely like the way I look a lot more now than I ever did as a kid (I guess I finally grew into my face or something).  My parents cut my hair short because it was so unruly and I didn't know how to take care of it.  I had huge 80s glasses (and I wasn't cute in them).  I was overweight.  My face was all weird, too.  I've always had a pointy chin and a big nose.  And people teased me constantly.  I hated the way I looked and wondered why I couldn't be pretty--or at least normal looking-- like the other girls.

But when I was 8 or 9, there was some Disney Channel special with Carol Burnett, Carl Reiner, Whoopi Goldberg, and Robin Williams (pretty sure it was appropriately named "Carol, Carl, Whoopi, and Robin," and I'm pretty sure it was all kinds of brilliant).  This was also about the time I started seeing "Mork and Mindy" reruns on Nick at Nite.  And I was suddenly just entranced by Robin Williams.  He was over-the-top hilarious, but in a way that was genuine and natural (a lot of the other comedians of my childhood seemed like they were trying too hard).  I saw in Robin Williams a guy I could relate to.  He was a pretty funny looking guy, at least to my 8 or 9 year old brain (I think he was handsome, now--those eyes!).  The more I looked at him, the more I realized that he looked a little bit like me.  He could have been my father with his funny face--his unruly feathery hair and pointed chin and protruding nose.

But people weren't laughing at him like they laughed at me--because they wanted to make me feel badly about myself.  They were laughing at him (and usually with him) because he was funny.  They weren't laughing in a cruel way, but they were laughing at him because he was hilarious, because he made them happy.  It was such a gift to be able to make others laugh like that.  And I actually started thinking, at the age of 8 or 9, that God maybe had a reason for making me look the way I did.  Maybe I wasn't supposed to be classically beautiful like some of the other girls.  Maybe I was supposed to look funny so that I could make others laugh--like Robin Williams did.

Suddenly, everything changed in the way I looked at things.  I was still self-conscious and awkward, but I decided that I wanted to be funny.  I wanted to make people laugh.  I wanted to bring others happiness by being as funny as possible.

I wasn't always class clown material, though, and I was probably more annoying than hilarious...at least for a few years.  But now?  Well, now I have people telling me all the time how much I make them laugh.  I have people telling me they purposely stalk me on Facebook because they know I'll have something funny posted.  They tell me that I bring happiness to their lives.

The kids I watch?  Most of them know two things about me 1) I love them, and 2) I'm silly.  And those reasons, more than anything else, are why I'm good with kids.  I have the tough love stuff down pretty well, too, but only when its necessary.  Most of the time, I'm the fun teacher.  Children understand that life doesn't have to be as serious as adults sometimes make it out to be.  When an adult takes the time to stop being a serious adult and just have fun with them, that actually communicates love to most children.

And in the light of this tragic loss of my favorite comedian of all time, Robin Williams, I've suddenly realized that he is the main reason that I have wanted to touch others' lives with humor and wit.  When I was that awkward, strange-looking kid, Robin Williams helped me see that I could use even my awkwardness and strange-lookingness and quirkiness to bless others.

I just read a very touching Robin Williams tribute blog over at my friend Jay Mims' blog, and I was trying to write a comment without crying.  And no one should feel badly about crying for Robin Williams' death, or for the death of any entertainer, for that matter.  I think it's sometimes very appropriate to grieve for the entertainers and artists we've never met.  Even though we never knew them, we connected with them.  They have made us laugh and cry and feel and hope and dream.  They've been a vital part of our human experiences.

And sometimes I'm tempted to feel useless in what I do.  The childcare is definitely useful, and I love doing it, but I also want to do more with the other gifts I have been given.  I want to write.  I want to sing.  I want to continue making people laugh.  But the world seems to scream at artists that they're impractical.  There's so much emphasis on practical careers nowadays.  Science!  Math!  Technology!  Practical!  Practical!  Practical!  Go back to school and become a nurse!  Go back to school and become an engineer!  Go back to school and become a legal consultant. Go back to school, you dreaming adult who never got a practical job, and do something USEFUL with your life!

It's very discouraging.

But I thought about Robin Williams and how much joy he brought to my life, about how much joy he brought to so many others.  I thought about how appropriate it is to grieve for those artists and musicians and entertainers who have been part of our lives--how we've laughed and mourned and danced and dreamed alongside them--how we've taken their stories as part of our own.

I haven't talked to anyone who isn't just devastated that Robin Williams is dead.  Everyone is grieving.  It's because he made a difference in our lives.  And I remember now.  I remember now why I do what I do, why I want to encourage others to laugh and to dream.

The world needs a little impractical.

When I finally managed to comment on my friend's blog, a security window popped up asking me one of those annoying code questions to ensure I wasn't a spammer.  It read, "Please prove you're not a robot."

Well, I started crying again.  Why?  Because I'm not a robot.  I'm human.  I'm an entertainer.  I'm a writer and a songstress and a laugher and a weeper and a hoper and a dreamer.

I think sometimes we need the impractical, the nonsensical, the beautifully, wonderfully, hilariously brilliant dreamers of the world to remind us, to PROVE to us.  We are not robots.

So thanks, Robin Williams.  Thanks for all you gave us.  Thanks for all you gave me.

Impatient Patience

Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
But desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12 NASB

It is perhaps a mark of faith to have the audacity to pray for patience. It is definitely an act of stupidity to pray for patience a second time.

I know that from experience.

Because God rarely, if ever, just offers anyone something as complex as patience on a silver platter. God grows patience in us by giving us situations, often trials, that make us wait.

Despite my stupid requests for patience, I'm still not as patient as I'd like to be. I'm not about to pray for more patience, though. I don't think I'm ready for more painful situations that make me wait. In fact, I still think I'm still dealing with some waiting from the LAST time I prayed for patience. 

Which, for the record, was over ten years ago.

Ah. There. Now you're getting it.

About six or seven years ago, when I was definitely in the midst of a painful waiting period, I said something that made my friends roll their eyes. They thought I was being cute or stupid, but I was serious. I was very serious. And at the time, I couldn't find anyone who could understand what I meant.

This is what I said:

"It's not that I'm impatient; I've just gotten really tired of waiting."

I got some condescending head nods and, "Riiiiight"s in response, and I can understand why. In their experiences, impatience was just an unwillingness to wait. But when someone has been patiently waiting for something for awhile, is hard to persevere.

I couldn't find counsel. I just found people who thought I was being ridiculous-not worthy of being taken seriously. And, you know, that's okay, because even then I realized that being relatively alone in my struggle was part of the ordeal God wanted me to endure.

But in the middle of that waiting, I came up with a cheesy acronym. It helped me through the really hard times, and it has served as a reminder over the years.

W.A.I.T.

Waiting always involves trust.

It's never easy to wait, whatever it is we're waiting for. Whether it's one of my preschoolers waiting for me to give him a cracker or it's me waiting to get some direction career-wise. But if my preschooler knows I love him and want the best for him, then he should trust that I'll give him what he needs. And if I believe God loves me and wants the best for me, then I should trust Him to provide for me.

The thing is, it's one thing for me to say something like that in a blog. Readers can nod their heads and agree that God is good and we should trust Him. Hooray! Everything is wonderful.

Except...sometimes it's not.

Because sometimes saints pray, and results aren't easy or quick to see. Sometimes young women pray for God to bring them a husband and children, children they desperately want and don't feel quite complete without, and yet those women grow old without seeing dreams fulfilled. Sometimes young men pray that temptations will be taken from them, yet they still struggle. Sometimes single moms pray that God will provide jobs and living situations that will give their children some kind of stability, and yet things don't work out. Sometimes beautiful people want to get out and serve others, but their health won't allow them to, even after they have prayed and prayed for healing. Sometimes a mother earnestly prays for salvation for her prodigal child, enduring every act of rebellion with a new crashing wave of pain, and never sees any sign of change.

And the world, even the Christian world, sometimes ESPECIALLY the Christian world, looks at these people and say, "They must be doing something wrong. God must be punishing them," or "They must not have much faith."

Or they just ignore them completely.

The fact is, I know a lot of patient people who have grown tired of being patient. They aren't impatient; they're EXHAUSTED. And a pithy word of "encouragement" isn't going to bring healing. It seems that Christians just want to slap Spiritual band-aids on wounds that require extensive healing.

If a person has been praying, waiting for a fulfilled hope, a healed illness or injury, a solution to a serious problem, then believe me, a platitude or Scripture reference isn't going to do anything but frustrate. The person who has waited doesn't need you to tell him or her to be more patient or trusting or godly or whatever.

He or she needs rest.

And there is only so much that we can do for those who have been waiting. We can fill some practical needs, but we can't fix everything.

Sometimes we think we have to fix everything. So we say things to cheer people up, things that don't work and often have the opposite effect. We try to downplay problems. We try to act like everything will be okay, when we really don't have a clue what the other person is going through.

Honestly, sometimes there just isn't anything we can do. We can just pray. We can just wait. We can just let the person who has been waiting and praying that he or she isn't praying and waiting alone. We can let him or her know it's okay to hurt, it's okay to be angry sometimes, it's okay to even doubt a little.

Because patience is hard, and it's even harder when you have to go through it alone.

Sometimes all people need is a hand to hold in the darkness--not a hand that will lead them, but just to let them know they're not in the darkness alone . You don't have to have all the answers; you just have to be there.

And sometimes when you come beside someone in the darkness, God will show up, too. All the problems might not be solved, deep pain might continue.

But for that moment, there is rest. There is a chance for the waiting person to breathe, to remember in Whom he or she places trust...

And there is strength and grace to wait again.

Be slow to judge, quick to listen, eager to love.

And keep your Spiritual band-aids in your pocket. Chances are, they won't be needed.

Like  one who takes off a garment on a cold day,  or like  vinegar on soda,
Is he who sings songs to a troubled heart.
Proverbs 25:20 NASB

Monday Blahg: Let Me Sum Up

I'm going to try to make this quick.  I'm tired.  Here's how last week went.

-- Ran a little over 11 miles all at one time.  It was an amazing time of worship.  I think I finally hit my "runner's high."  I think my "runner's high" involves sobbing.  I have to work really hard to control my sobs because running and sobbing don't mix well.  Running and sobbing don't mix well because sobbing and breathing don't mix well.  Running and breathing?  They mix much more better, yes.

--Ran in the Quintiles Girls on the Run 10th Annual 5K.  Last year's race was the first 5K I'd ever run (I'd walked one other one before that).  It was the one I originally started training for, the race that eventually caused me to enjoy running.  I thought about wearing my Second Wind shirt, but since my race registration was free because Right Time Kids (one of my employers) was sponsoring the race, I thought it best to represent them.  But just because my shirt didn't have Isaiah 40:31 posted on the back, that doesn't mean my hope wasn't in the Lord.  The Lord has worked all these circumstances together to shape me into who I am now.  I'm still very much in awe of all that He's done to change me physically, mentally, and Spiritually in the past year--and running has been a HUGE part of that transformation.  I'm not a fast runner.  I ran this 5K in 32:38--which was my fastest 5K time yet.  And that's not a fast time.  Little girls were passing me like I was barely even moving (I'm like a turtle--slow, but cute).  But running isn't a time for me to display my awesome athletic ability, because I don't happen to have any of that.  Every time I run, the Lord is revealing His strength in my weakness, giving strength to the powerless, renewing my strength.  My hope is in Him, and I can boast in my weakness because He is my strength.

--I received three pairs of new socks this week.  New socks are a pretty big deal to me.  One pair was even argyle!

--Played the guitar.  Twice.  Realize how horribly I stink at it.  I enjoy it anyway.  Good worship.

--Finished reading a book.  Not sure what I'm going to read next.  I need to reread a book for a review, so maybe that.  ...or Blue Like Jazz, since the movie is out and everyone is talking about it again.  I tried reading it once and never got into it, but I still own it.  It's been sitting on my bookshelf shooting me plaintive looks for over three years....

--I ate way too much food.  I was feeling really convicted about it Saturday night, but then I pigged out again on Sunday.  Hopefully I'll stop being a glutton this week.  It seems like something so minor--especially when I'm burning off so many calories with my half marathon training, but it's not a calorie issue.  I'm eating junk food when I'm not at all hungry, and it's gotten out of control.  And the Lord is good enough to have convicted me about it.  It seems so small, but God is too holy to allow even seemingly small things to slip by.  I've been using food for fulfillment--even if just a little.  And when I'm seeking fulfillment in ANYTHING besides God, that thing is my idol.  And that's just not good enough.  So I'll be trying to get back on track this week--reminding myself that my hope is ONLY in the Lord.  I'm grateful the Lord is good enough to show me even the failures that seem innocent.

This week:

--Hopefully will eat better--in ways that nourish my body and fuel it....

--...because I'm aiming for another 11 mile run this week.

--Yeah...I'd better reread that book I need to review so I have something to blog about on Fiction Friday.  Lol.

--Figure out some financial/job/grown up type stuff.  I'm a slacker.

--Really try to put my hope in the Lord (and only in the Lord) in all circumstances.  It's hard. 

I'm glad He gives us grace. 
Happy Monday!

Fiction Friday: Writing Towards

I know.  I know.  I blog a lot about running.  I don't see this trend ending anytime soon--at least not till after May 19, the quickly-approaching day of my first (and perhaps only--but I am starting to highly doubt that) half-marathon.  Now if only I can make it through the rest of this post without any more parenthetical comments....

When people post about running on Facebook or other places, there's always some Smart Alec who asks the question, "What exactly are you running from?"  It's a bad joke, of course, meaning that no one in their right mind would be running unless something ghastly was chasing them.  And honestly, I used to rely on an imagined monster when I first started running.  I guess I was still in my right mind at that point, because I didn't like running, at first.  I started imagining monsters that were chasing me, giving me an incentive to keep going.  Only, I hated running so much that I couldn't think of a scary enough monster.  If given the choice between getting eaten by something and continuing to run, I would have chosen getting eaten by something.   Every monster I thought of wasn't scary enough.

So eventually I was clever enough to invent a monster that gave me adequate motivation.  I imagined a Giant Treadmill Monster was chasing me, promising that if it caught me, it would make me run on it forever and ever.  That got me through the first few months of running--until I figured out that the longer I went on each run, the easier it got.  The first two miles are usually two of the hardest, but once I get through them, my body figures out that I'm not going to die, and it's a lot easier to find a rhythm and keep going.

And I'm sure at this point all three of my regular readers are wondering what all of this has to do with fiction.  I'm getting there.  Like with the first couple miles of running, sometimes I have to get through a few paragraphs before I figure out what's going on.

There are still times when I am running away from things when I'm running.  Last week, when I ran my first ten miles, it wasn't that hard.  My legs went numb for a while, and of course I was tired, but it really was one of my better runs.  I think it was because I had just gone through a really long and stressful week at work, and I just needed to run away from the noise and chaos that comes with working with large numbers of children.  In that instance, I was running away from something.  There was nothing wrong with that.

But most of the time, I'm not running away from anything.  In fact, I'm running towards something.  I'm running towards the goals I've set for myself.  I'm running towards getting that 13.1 sticker/magnet for the back of my car.  I'm running towards just the feel of the wind on my face and the rhythm of my shoes on the pavement.  Sometimes I just set one foot in front of the other, knowing that with every step I take, I'm one step closer to the One who has created me for His pleasure and glory.

The other day I had to take the middle girl I watch, "The Diva," to her indoor soccer practice.  I always bring a book with me, because even though I'm immensely proud of the girls' soccer accomplishments, I really just don't get soccer.  If it doesn't involve bases and a bat, I don't get it.  In fact, I don't really get baseball either, but I get it better than most sports.  So for soccer practices, I bring a book to entertain my brain for an hour, occasionally looking up just in time to see "The Diva" score a goal. 

Well, I didn't plan very well the other day, and I finished the book about halfway through soccer practice.  So I tried to watch soccer for half an hour, but my mind started wandering.  I was watching "The Diva," thinking about how much fun she and her sisters are.  I was thinking about all the people in my life, all the things I love about my life.  And my mind drifted back to the book I had been reading, and I realized that while the book was good, it didn't hold a candle to my life.  Now, right now, I don't know if I'd say that I'm the happiest I've ever been, but I think I'm the most joyful that I've ever been.  I feel more beautiful than I've ever felt.  I feel more like me.  And I realized that none of the stories that I write, as much as I love them, aren't nearly as important to me as the life God has given me.

And I realized that there might be a reason why I'm not writing as much as I used to write.  I don't have as much time, obviously, but there is more to it than that.  When I was younger, I used to write to escape life.  I suppose that's one of the reasons fiction exists.  Yes, there's the entertainment factor, but sometimes fiction is a form of escapism.  We want to forget our own world and our own troubles for awhile and get inside the world of fictional characters.  We want to read the book, watch the play or movie or television show, just to experience something other than reality. 

That's one of the reasons I used to write.  Reality was either too painful or too boring, so I invented my own worlds and characters.  I was using writing to run away from the real world.  I'm not sure when I stopped doing that.  I'm not sure when I stopped "writing away from" reality, when I started investing more in the life I'm actually living instead of the fantasies I sometimes wish I could be living.  But the fact that I no longer have that particular motivation might be one of the reasons why I don't write as often as I did in the past.

The desire to write still exists, of course.  I am a writer.  I wouldn't be me if I didn't write.  But I don't make as much time for it as I used to.  And maybe I need to reevaluate the things I'm writing towards.  There are dreams and goals and visions I have for my writing.  There is simply joy to be found in the act of writing, of putting pen to paper or allowing my fingers to freely type across the keyboard.  There's also the ultimate reason of writing because the One who has made me for His pleasure has graciously given me the pleasure of writing.  The Creator has breathed into me creativity, giving me the chance to experience just the smallest idea of how it feels to create something.  And if I'm not writing for His glory, then all the other reasons seem...well, sort of silly.

I don't believe that the Lord has given me the ability and desires to write or run or sing or do anything I do without a reason.  With this belief, with this knowledge, I gain the freedom to try just about anything--whether I succeed or fail--knowing that all things work together for good for those who love God and who are called according to His purpose. 

I'm not "writing away from" anything anymore.  I'm not escaping.  I'm not trying to find some relief from the real world.  Rather, God has given me such great joy in the real world, and I'm suddenly struck with the awareness that I can't keep the gifts He has given me to myself. 

So I write.  I write towards the hope that He will do more than I could ever ask or imagine through my writing, through me.  I keep saying how much of a weak fool I am, and I keep saying that because it's true.  The only hope for me is that the Lord has chosen the weak to shame the strong, the foolish to shame the wise. 

But that's a great hope, friends.

Monday Blahg: Sunday Came!

Last week was Spring Break for the main school system around here, which meant my schedule was both 1) different and 2) busy.  The preschool where I work was closed; the kids I nanny for were out of town.  With two out of my four jobs out of the picture, you'd think I'd be less busy.  Well, at times I was.  I still managed to work every day last week (except for Sunday, of course).  And when I was at work, it was INSANE.  I couldn't WAIT for Sunday to come.

But I found some nice pockets of time where I was able to take care of some things. 

--I finished reading a book I need to review, but I think I'm going to reread it before getting to that.

--I actually found a little time to edit my second book.  It wasn't much, but it was something--which is way better than nothing.  I'm a little discouraged at how bad the beginning of this book still is, and I have a feeling I'm going to have to send the first several chapters through the "editing mill" a few more times before I'm even close to being happy.  But honestly, this is part of the writing gig.  I've got to put on my big girl pants and get used to the idea.  Praying for a breakthrough though...it needs something....

--I finally found time to run ten miles!  What with work and unexpected rain delays, I didn't know if I'd have the time, much less the energy, to do it.  But Friday, after work, God provided both the time and the energy and the strength (and beautiful, nearly perfect 60ish degree weather).  I can't describe the feeling, when I put my foot down on that concrete at the end of the sidewalk, realizing I, pansy girl Ruth Campbell, had just run ten miles.  I know I keep repeating myself, but I'm still in total shock that God has allowed me to run and allowed me to enjoy it.  For me, running has become an act of worship, like writing, singing, etc.--and really, everything I do is supposed to be an act of worship.  But unlike writing, singing, etc., running doesn't come easily or naturally for me.  I have to hope in the Lord to give me strength (and renew my strength) with every step that I take.  It has been quite an adventure, and I can't shut up about it.  I'm not sure that I'm supposed to shut up about it.  The running, etc. group (http://www.thesecondwind.net/) I run with has just started up a new spring season, and I'm excited about what God is doing.  If you're in the Raleigh, NC area, come join us! 

--I drank tea.  And sat in the rocking chair on my front porch.  And read a book.  That's a big deal.
--I watched a movie for fun because I wanted to.  The Muppets.  Really good.  I laughed SO hard. 

--I had to buy a new tire.  Saturday morning, I had planned to help out with an Easter Egg hunt at my church, but when I tried to drive there, I found that my tire was flat.  So, I spent the morning at the tire shop instead.  Turns out there was a hole in the side of the tire, where they could not repair it.  Two of my tires were under warranty, but of course, the damaged one was not one of them.  So, after an oil change, a new tire, a warranty plan on said new tire, and some other stuff, I put a lot of money on the credit card I'm actually trying to pay off.  So, my debt is growing instead of shrinking.  But--it's really not a big deal.  Unexpected stuff happens.  I have far too much to be thankful for to get stressed over money.

Honestly, with all the various work issues and tire issues and life issues of last week, I was really ready for a break.  I was ready for Easter to come.  And it came.  It didn't just come yesterday, but it came 2000 years ago.  Jesus didn't stay in the grave.  Death could not hold Him.  And so no matter what else happens, I have hope.  My hope isn't in me.  My hope isn't in my finances or my jobs.  My hope isn't in my abilities, as if I could claim credit for even the ones that come easily.  Everything I have is a gift, and sometimes gifts are hard to accept.  Sometimes it's hard to accept that I'm a weak sinner and that I can't do anything to save myself.  Sometimes it's hard to accept the grace of God--but Jesus died so that I could have that grace.  My hope is in Him.

And this week:

--I want to run another ten miles.
--I want to get back to the old work routine.  I miss my preschool kids and the girls I watch!
--I want to edit my book some more.
--I want to start reading Slide by Jill Hathaway.  Amazon finally delivered it, and I finally finished the other book so I can start it!
--I want to play my guitar for more than just a few minutes.  Something tells me it's time to write another song soon.
--I so need to work on a job application.

Yeah.  There's lots of things I want to do.  I don't know if I'll do them.  Unexpected things (like flat tires) happen.  And that's okay.  Everything that comes my way is allowed by grace.  Everything that comes my way is an opportunity to trust God and love others.  And I don't have any reason to worry about any battles I face, because Christ has already won this war.

And this is still my song for 2012.  May it be a blessing as you start this week.  Hopeful Monday!

How God Ruined (and Keeps Ruining) My Life

Sometimes, I inadvertently make good Southern Baptists really nervous.  It's because I'm not a good Southern Baptist, or really a Southern Baptist at all, though I've always gone to Southern Baptist churches.  I'm a Christian, and I hope to be a good one, but that's as far as I like to be labeled about such things.  People have argued with me that if I don't have a denominational label, like "Southern Baptist," then people aren't going to know what I believe.  Well, I argue back that if I call myself a "Southern Baptist," people STILL won't know what I believe.  I do believe most of the things that good Southern Baptists would claim to believe, but I'm a Christian.  If you want to know more about what I believe, a label isn't going to tell you.  I could call myself a "Southern Baptist" and believe that pink monkeys in sailor suits grant my wishes every time I pray.  The only thing that will help you know what I believe is asking me questions and getting to know me--or reading my blog, since I explain myself better in writing than I do in speech.

One thing I don't think I've ever really liked about good Southern Baptists is that most of them stress the importance of having a "personal testimony."  I understand what the point and purpose is, and I know that a lot of people will respond to a personal experience more easily than they would respond to Scripture.  My problem isn't that I don't think "personal testimonies" are important, but I never really understood what they were supposed to be. 

Some people have really awesome "personal testimonies" that are easy to tell.  "I was a drug addict for seventeen years, lost my job and custody of my four kids, was at the end of my rope and ready to just give up on life...BUT THEN I FOUND JESUS!  Now I have an awesome job, contact with my kids, and I haven't touched drugs or alcohol in years.  But most importantly, Jesus has saved my soul and I have hope of living with Him forever!"

I'm not making light of those testimonies.  They're amazing.  I've heard of so many wonderful stories of how God has changed lives, and God is using those changed lives to change the lives of others.  It's a beautiful thing.

Far too often, though, I hear a testimony that is a lot like I think mine is supposed to sound.  "I was raised in church every time the doors were open.  I was 'saved' as a child.  I fell away in my teenage years, but God got a hold of me.  Now I'm living every day for Him."

There's also nothing wrong with those testimonies.  God uses them, too.  I just think they're boring.  And they kind of make me feel like salvation is a thing of the past.

You wanna know something that will make good Southern Baptists shudder?  I don't know when I became a Christian.  I "walked forward" the day after my ninth birthday and told a minister that I'd accepted Christ.  I was baptized a week later, on Easter Sunday.

I didn't become a Christian at the age of nine.  It was before then, though I'm not exactly sure when.  I remember being afraid of hell and of demons.  I remember lying awake in bed at night and knowing I wasn't alone.  I remember wanting with all my heart to believe in God.  And I don't think there was some kind of "sinner's prayer" or grand change in my life.  I think that my salvation was something as simple as slipping my hand into the Hand that was extended towards me.  The action was so simple that I don't remember when it happened.

God had been pursuing me all my life, in a way I couldn't ignore.  Though I was a little hellion as a toddler (okay, and after I was a toddler, too...and okay, when I was a teenager...and right now), I can't remember my life without Christ.  He's always been a major part of it.  So, as uncomfortable as it makes good Southern Baptists to hear this, I kind of believe that, in a way, I've always been a Christian.  I wasn't born free of the curse of sin.  I wasn't sinless.  I didn't come out of the womb professing my faith in Christ.  But God has had His hand on me all my life.  I can't ignore that fact, or what it means...but more about that in just a bit.

What I just wrote is not my "personal testimony."  See, I've learned that my testimony isn't so much about how I've become a Christian.  I can't remember that.  I can't remember the moment when I slipped my hand into God's Hand.  All I know is that He's never let go.

Did I fall away from faith?  I don't know.  I guess so, but not really.  In my early teenage years, I certainly worried more about my own image than I did about representing Christ.  I was slightly more solid in my faith in my middle teenage years.  But then, when I was nineteen, I became an atheist for 10 minutes.

I couldn't feel God.  I was suffering from my first real bout of seasonal depression (but I didn't know what it was then--I just thought I was literally going crazy).  My friends at the time were not the best influences or encouragers, though I'm not blaming them.  It was a season God wanted me to walk through, but He didn't leave me there. 

I was in the tree house in my backyard, praying.  And I had just had enough of everything.  So I told God, "I just can't believe in You anymore."  And I sat there, wondering what to do in my new found lack of faith.  The funny thing was, I wanted to pray about it, and I had to remind myself that I didn't believe I had anyone to pray to.  I had no idea how not to believe in God.  After a few minutes, my eyes fell upon one of my journals.  I opened it up to a random page.  There was a poem I'd written while watching the sunset a few nights before.  I recognized my handwriting.  I remembered the occasion when I wrote down the words.  But I didn't recognize a single word from the poem.  And the Holy Spirit said, "I wrote this.  Read the words, because I wrote them through you."  It was a simple poem of praise.  I hadn't written it.  The One who wrote it was the God whose Hand was still heavy upon me.

Having God's Hand upon me is a curious thing.  It means I'm protected.  It means I'm guided.  It means I belong to God.

It also means that my life doesn't belong to me, anymore.  Not that it ever really did....

I was such a horrid little toddler because I always wanted my way.  I was a horrid child because I wanted my way.  I was a horrid teenager because I wanted my way.  And sometimes I really am a horrid adult because all I really want is to have my own way.

But I can't.  I can't because God isn't really all that interested in giving me what I want--especially not right when I want it.  God fulfills my needs.  God gives me more than I deserve.  But God doesn't cater to me and my demands, but He demands that I regard Him as holy.  And sometimes that's really hard to do, but I have to--because His hand is upon me.

And because His hand is upon me, because I'm dependent upon His guidance, I'm in a fearful place.  I have all the blessings of Christ, but it as C. S. Lewis wrote "...He's not a tame lion..."  It's hard to trust in God's provision and strength in the darkness.  Because even if God is able, that doesn't mean He has to give me what I want.  Because even if God is good, that doesn't mean He won't lead me to something that is incredibly difficult.  Because even if God is merciful, that doesn't mean He won't lead me to something that hurts me immensely.  Because even if God is strong, that doesn't mean He won't lead me to something that might even cost me my life. 

...not that my life was ever mine anyway.  That's such a hard lesson to learn.  Thankfully, I have a patient, loving Teacher who has experienced all the beauty and strife of humanity (yet was without sin).

But that's my testimony, isn't it?  It's not that "one big moment" where I chose to give my life over to Christ.  It's the thousands of little moments where I still choose to give my life over to Christ.  It's when I'm still the child in the darkness, afraid of demons, afraid of the unknown, but still knowing I'm not alone.  It's when I have all the things I want to do and I want to have and I want to be, but I hear the still small Voice telling me that I belong to Him.  It's when I still make the choice and reach up to take the Hand that's been extended to me--and walk, one step at a time, into whatever He leads me to.

God loves me, but He's not interested in my way.  And I'm pretty sure that my way leads to destruction anyway.  His way, the only way, leads to life.  I might have to lose my life in order to find it in Him, I might have to lose the world in order to gain my soul.  It's not a bad trade off, in theory, though it hurts like crazy in practice. 

But at the end of the day, all I can do is be thankful that God wants my ruined life for His glory.  All I can do is be in awe and wonder of a God who can take someone as selfish and simple as me and give me a purpose beyond anything I could ask or imagine.  All I can do is worship the God whose grace is so complete that it not only provides a way out of the monotony of working on things that I think will bring me glory, but allows me to come alongside God in the work that He is doing to bring Himself glory.  All I can do is be amazed that the Creator of the universe loves and wants me.  It's unbelievable.

Yet I am not able to not believe it.
I've never been not able to believe it.

And the One who reached His hand to me in my childhood--He's still holding on. 

That's where my true, my only Hope rests.  My ruined life?  It belongs to the One who has redeemed it.

That's my testimony.

Hoping in the One Who Renews My Strength

A year ago, I could not run half a mile without feeling like I was going to die.  I know it was a year ago, because I just looked it up.  I posted this blog on March 10, 2011, in which I stated, and I quote, "I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to physically run a 5K."

That reminds me of all those times when I told people that I didn't want to even bother trying to lose weight because with my body structure, I'd never be able to fit in anything smaller than a size ten.  I currently wear a size six.

And I have run a 5K.  Two of them (actual races, not just the distance...I've run that distance LOTS of times).

I've also run a 10K.

Yesterday, I ran 8.1 miles.  I'm 5 miles away from running a half-marathon.  And today I bit the bullet and finally registered for one in mid-to-late May.  The race is taking place where my sister lives, which means I can visit family and run my legs off all in one fun-filled weekend! 

Anyway, I'm not saying any of that to brag on myself.  I was happy being a speed-walker who thought running was for the crazies.  Now, I am one of the crazies!   My introduction for running was seemingly (but not at all) by random coincidence.  I just wanted to run a 5K that my boss was sponsoring (meaning I had free registration).  I never meant to actually become a runner.  I never meant to actually enjoy running.  If you had told me a year and a half ago that I would be training for a half-marathon, I'd have laughed at you.  Now, I'm the one who's laughing.

I'm laughing because God has the greatest sense of humor, and because He's very gracious to me.  Just as I was starting to get really into running, a sports ministry (http://www.thesecondwind.net/) was starting up through some triathletes at my church.  I, Ruth Campbell, the most uncoordinated, non-athletic person alive (a bit of an exaggeration, but not that much of one), found myself involved in a SPORTS ministry.  It's hilarious.  It's a hilarious, wonderful, awesome, beautiful, crazy example of how God proves me wrong all the time.  I don't think I'll ever be a fast runner (but I'm learning to never say never), but the fact that God has brought me from where I was to where I am now is extraordinary.  My God is extraordinary!

Yesterday, as I was running my 8(.1) miles, there were several moments where I just lifted my head up towards the blue, blue sky and raised my hands in the air.  I was at a public park, but I didn't care who saw me.  Yesterday was more than just a workout, and it was more than just training.  It was worship.  My hope was in the Lord, and He was renewing my strength.  And I don't know how well I'll do in this half-marathon I've signed up for, but I plan on finishing with my heart and lips full of praise for the God who is able to do more than I could ever ask or imagine through me. 

It kind of makes me bold enough to try to do other things that are difficult or even, from my perception, impossible for me to do.  I'm not strong.  I'm not wise.  I'm not all the things the world says I'm going to have to be if I'm to accomplish my dreams.  "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will mount up with wings as eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31  All things are possible with God.

When Moses Takes Too Long

Moses had been gone a long time.

It had been over a month since the leader of the newly freed Israelites had gone up the mountain, disappearing behind the cloud that appeared as a consuming fire. The Israelites had said, in unison, that they would do everything that the Lord said to do.  And why not?  Hadn't God promised to go before them?  But now, God wasn't leading them anywhere.  Moses was up in that fiery cloud, and they were waiting.  Right now, the command was to wait.  The command was to wait for Moses to come back down.

But when the Israelites saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, they gathered around Aaron and said, “Come and make us a god to go before us. As for this Moses fellow, who brought us up out of Egypt, we do not know what has happened to him.”

Moses had been gone a long time. Something might have happened to him. He might have even died. They might be waiting in vain for him to return and tell them what to do.

Forty days.  Forty nights.  That was too long for the Israelites to wait.  They decided it was time for them to take matters into their own hands.  If Moses wasn’t coming back with instructions from the God who was supposed to go before them, they would have Aaron make them another god to lead them.

So Aaron took their jewelry, melted it, and made it into the image of a golden calf.  The Israelites forgot their promise to follow the Lord’s commands.  They bowed down to an image that was not God.  They worshipped something made out of their discarded jewelry, something made from human hands, something that didn’t ask them to wait.

Their god was something they could understand.  Their god was something they could control.  Their god was an easy god to follow.

The Israelites didn’t know all of the things the Lord had to tell Moses, about the precise details involved in the building of His temple, about the instructions in making all the various items that went inside His temple, about the rituals involved when a sinful people approach a holy God.  Had they known, they might have been more willing to wait.  God had much to say to Moses, and that took time.  Forty days and nights, that was a more than reasonable amount of time.  But their understanding of the situation wasn’t important; God wanted their trust.

And waiting always involves trust.

And trust is hard, just as waiting is hard.  Even after God had parted the seas and led His people out of captivity, even after He had fed them manna and quail in the wilderness, the Israelites found it hard to trust.  They found it hard to wait.  And they succumbed to their fears--the fears of not being in control, the fears of not knowing and understanding, the fears that following God just wasn't supposed to be easy.

 And the Israelites sinned.

And when Moses did come down from that mountain, he burned the golden calf. He crushed the ashes into powder. He sprinkled the powder on the water. He made the Israelites drink it. They had to drink their sin.

Now, I’ve never made an idol out of gold.  I’ve never taken off my jewelry, melted it down, and made a cow out of it.  I’ve never worshipped a piece of wood or a statue.  I’ve never been foolish enough to believe that a figurine could be worthy of my worship.

But there have been many times when I’ve grown tired of waiting for the Lord to move in my life.  There have been times when I’ve grown tired of trusting when He has said to trust, waiting when He’s said to wait.  There have been times when I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands and try to do things myself.  There have been times when I’ve tried to make myself into a god, tricking myself into believing that I have control.

There have been times when I’ve made gods out of my friends, unreasonably expecting them to understand me or be able to help me in ways that only God can.  And I frustrate those friendships.

There have been times when I’ve tried to use my own efforts to force a situation to work in the way I want it to, instead of waiting for God to move in His way and time.  And I frustrate the situation.

There have been times when I’ve tried to manipulate God by throwing a tantrum, instead of trusting, obeying, waiting…and ultimately resting in Him.  And I’m just grateful I can’t really frustrate God, just myself.

But, oh, there have been times when I’ve had to drink up those ashes of my sin.

Waiting isn’t easy.  Trust isn't easy.

Following a God whose ways are not our ways--that's also not easy.

But Moses is going to come down from that mountain.

God is going to come through.

We don’t need to fashion gods for ourselves.  We don’t need to try to gain control.

Because the Lord is the God who goes before us.

Sometimes we just have to wait a little while for Him to move…

…and sometimes we have to trust.

All

"The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?" Jeremiah 17:9

I've been a Christian for around two and a half decades, give or take a few years.  I'm not one of those people who can pinpoint an exact moment when I accepted Christ.  I was young; it felt like He had been pursuing me my entire life.  There wasn't any big moment of salvation that I can remember; I just remember Him.  For me, knowing Christ was a gradual thing.

And I don't think that has changed.  Christ is still pursuing me, and I'm still trying to get to know Him.  I figure I will be getting to know Him until the imperfect glass is shattered and I can see Him face to face.  And recently, I was reminded of how poor of a reflection I really do see....

Even after all this time of being a Christian, I still sometimes get caught in the snare of believing that I have to be perfect before I can be accepted.  Some people claim they don't want to become Christians because all of Jesus' supposed followers are hypocrites.  And I am definitely guilty of hypocrisy.  I'm a sinner.  I sin.  I sin rebelliously.  I sin knowingly.  But I don't see any point in hiding my imperfections from people who think Christians are supposed to be perfect.  If Christians were perfect, then there would be no need for Christ.   That's kind of the point of Christianity.  But I forget that sometimes....

Like Eve, who wanted to be like God--who basically wanted to be her own god, I want things my own way, too.  And with one sin, one act of rebellion, I feel that separation between myself and the God who I've been gradually getting to know my entire life.  It's worse when I find myself repeating the same sin again.  And again. 

And when enough time passes and I can trick myself into believing that I'm not caught up in that pattern of sin anymore, I start feeling pretty good about myself.  Then, when I inevitably mess up again, I feel worthless.  I pray for forgiveness, but I don't believe God will listen to me in my sinful state.  And I try to make it all right again, wait till more time passes, wait until I feel like a good enough Christian to come fully to God with a clean heart.

But my heart isn't clean.  My heart is deceptive.  It is desperately sick, as the NASB puts it.  I like the NIV (1984)  version a little better: It's beyond all cure.  That helps me understand the hopelessness of my situation.

The reality of my situation is that I can never be good enough for the mighty, holy God who appeared in a cloud of fire to Moses and the Israelites, causing the very mountains to tremble.  The reality of my situation is that I can never be good enough for the God who appeared in human flesh and took the form of a servant, obeying unto death.  And my feeble brain can't wrap itself around the fact that this God, the cloud of fire that demanded reverence, came down to earth in the form of a humble human in order to die to atone for my sin, for my rebellion. 

I can believe that God is powerful.  I can believe that God defeated death and hell.  I can believe that God conquered sin.

So why am I foolish enough to think that my sinfulness is stronger than God? 

The verses before Jeremiah 17:9 show a contrast.  Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who depends in his own strength (Jeremiah 17:5).  That's where I live a lot of the time.  I want a clean heart.  I want an honest heart.  But there's no hope for me when I trust in my own strength.  My heart is deceptive, beyond all cure.

But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him (Jeremiah 17:7). 

There's the hope.  There's the only hope. 

And when I trust in myself, I miss it.

My heart is indeed deceptive.  My heart is desperately, desperately sick. 

But the Lord searches it.

There's our hope.

"O LORD, the hope of Israel,

all who forsake you will be put to shame.
Those who turn away from you will be written in the dust
because they have forsaken the LORD,
the spring of living water.
Heal me, O LORD, and I will be healed;
save me and I will be saved,
for you are the one I praise." -Jeremiah 17:13-14
It occurred to me recently, this supposedly mature Christian, that God doesn't just want the pretty and nice and orderly stuff in our lives.  And that's good, because there's not really that much in me that's pretty and nice and orderly.  God doesn't want just the stuff I feel good about, the successes and the victories and the happy times.  God wants me.  He wants all of me. 

Like Eve, I have chosen to rebel.  I've tried to make myself into my own personal god and savior.  I've sought first my own kingdom and my own righteousness.  But all I've done is earned the wages of death, of hopelessness, of a deceitful, desperately sick heart.  I wanted everything; I got nothing.  And that's exactly what I deserve.

The thing is, Christ died to redeem us to Himself, to restore our relationship with Him.  His death and conquering of death makes it possible for me to be His again.  He is the Living Water, offered to all who are thirsty.  In a manner of speaking, it's not sin that causes people to die and go to hell; it's the rejection of the One who can save them from sin and death.

I'm not saying that sin is to be taken lightly.  Christ died to set us free from sin, and sometimes I forget that I'm a new creation.  I do desire brokenness for my sin, and I ask for that, because I know I'm not even strong enough to muster up that brokenness in myself. 

But my sin, my failure, my victory, my success, none of it ultimately matters.  What ultimately matters is the work that Jesus did on the cross for me, for you, for His own Name's sake.  And because I've put my trust in Him, I, the rebel, I the sinner, I get something I can't deserve.  I get it all.  I become a joint heir to the Kingdom I should have been seeking first all along.

It's hard for me to see God as a fiery cloud, as a living and active Spirit, a sharp double-edged sword, that cuts down deep to judge my deceptive heart.  It's hard for me to see this same God as a sympathetic High Priest who was tempted in every way, yet without sin.  It's hard for me to believe that I can boldly approach the throne of grace without trying to justify myself. 

But God isn't just one or the other.  God is both the holy, powerful cloud and the suffering servant who can sympathize with my weakness.  God is.  And just as God wants all of me, He also gives me all of Himself.  The same Power that raised Jesus from the dead has given Himself to me.  I'm not holy, could never be holy, in my own strength.  I'm holy because He's given me His holiness.

And my deceitful heart, which is beyond all cure?  When He, for which nothing is impossible, heals me, I am healed. When He saves me, I am saved.  Because blessed is the One who trusts in the Lord. 

And He is the One I praise.

Who can understand my heart?
The Lord.
The Lord searches it.
He knows me.

And one day, the dark glass will shatter.

I'll see Him, too.  All of Him.  Face to face.

And I'll know Him fully, just as I am fully known.

Caring Hope

I've been hearing/reading a particular Bible story a lot lately, and I've learned that if a Scripture passage or theme keeps popping up, then I'd better pay attention.  The story I've repeatedly read/heard is about a man named Jairus, a twelve year old dead girl, a woman who has been sick for twelve years, and a Healer.

This story appears in all three of the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), but the story is the same:

As Jesus was being welcomed by a large crowd, a desperate man named Jairus, an official in the synagogue, came to Jesus, falling at his feet, begging him to come to his home.  His only daughter was dying, and he believed Jesus could heal her.  Jesus went with him, but the crowds followed, pressing around Him. 

In the midst of the crowd was a desperate woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.  She reached out and touched the edge of Jesus' robe, believing that would heal her.  And she was healed.

Jesus stopped and asked of the crowd, "Who touched me?"  His disciples didn't understand, and they replied, "The crowd is pressing against you."  Jesus said, "Someone touched me.  I felt the power go out of me."  The woman confessed, falling at Jesus' feet, explaining why she'd touched him, proclaiming that she had indeed been healed.  Jesus said, "Daughter.  Your faith has made you well.  Go in peace."

Before Jesus even finished speaking, someone from Jarius' house came and said, "Your daughter is dead.  Don't trouble the Teacher anymore."

But...  (I love the "buts" of the Bible...they usually mean grace is coming)

Jesus said, "Don't be afraid.  Just believe."

When they came to Jairus' house, there were people weeping and wailing.  Jesus said, "Why are you weeping?  The child is not dead, but asleep."  The people laughed at him.  Jesus sent them out, taking only James, John, Peter, Jairus and the child's mother into the room with the girl.  He took the child's hand and said, "Talitha kum.  I say to you, little girl.  Get up!"  She rose and began walking.  Jesus told her parents to give her something to eat.


I'm not sure why I've heard this story so much lately.  I've heard it so many times throughout my life, heard so much said on it, yet I believe I'm meant to say more. 

Twelve years.  For the "main characters" of this story, those twelve years were significant.  It was a whole lifetime to the girl, the happy/stressful/wonderful years of being a father to Jairus, the years of suffering for the woman, and probably not much more than the shadow of a vaporous breath to Jesus, God in the flesh.  Yet He was also human, also limited within the bonds of time.  He knew that within these suits of skin we wear, twelve years can seem a really long time.  He knew what twelve years meant to all of these people.  He knew their experiences weren't something trivial, nor were they trivial.

And yet this story has several "minor characters" who didn't see things as Jesus did.  I see one attitude repeated in this story, once by the disciples, and once by a group of mourners. 

When the woman touched Jesus, he knew it, and he knew her.  In fact, I'm not so sure that he didn't just ask "Who touched me?" for the sake of those around him, and for the sake of us who would be reading about it later (us).  He might have already known exactly who she was, and why she had done it.  But when he asked "Who touched me?" the disciples response is interesting.  I can imagine Peter pulling Jesus aside saying, "Um, Jesus...we're kind of in a crowd here.  Who hasn't been touching you?  By the way, with all these people touching you, you might want to take a bath next chance you get."  It's an attitude that shows that the disciples simply weren't on the same wavelength as Jesus.  They were seeing the crowd as a crowd, a group of people that didn't really matter. 

But Jesus knew every face in that crowd.  He knew each person in that crowd, in every crowd he ever encountered, more intimately than they could imagine.  And when that woman reached out in her desperate hope and touched him, he felt it.  He knew it wasn't just another hand grasping at him in the pressing crowd.  He knew that this touch was something important, and it came from a person He deemed important.  And he called out to her, wanting her to show herself, wanting her to tell what had happened to her.  When she finally did, he blessed her.  He called her daughter, his child. 

I can't imagine being as desperate as this woman.  I've never been sick for more than a few weeks (and that was just once when I was seven and had third degree sunburn all over my back).  I can't imagine being sick for twelve years.  We don't know how old this woman was or what her station in life was.  She might have been old and widowed, or she might have been younger.  Her illness might have prevented her from marrying, from having the life she had dreamed of.  At the very least, she was probably in a great deal of pain and weakness, and she was poor (having spent all her money on doctors who couldn't help her).  She was quite probably an outcast, considered unclean due to her consistent bleeding. 

I don't understand the kind of desperation it would take to reach out to Jesus in a crowd, daring to believe in the one last hope that could make her well....

When the man came to tell Jairus that his daughter was dead, we don't see Jairus' response.  We see Jesus' response.  "Don't be afraid.  Just believe."  I'm not 100% sure on this, but if I had been Jairus, and if I had just witnessed Jesus' healing of that desperate woman, it might have been a lot easier to stop being afraid.  It might have been a lot easier to just believe. 

Because Jairus was desperate, too.  When Jairus came to Jesus, Jesus went with him.  He could have turned to the crowds and said, "Ya'll go home now.  Jairus is an important synagogue official, and I must go and heal his daughter.  You aren't as important as he is, so leave me alone."  Jesus didn't say that.  He didn't send the crowds away--if he had, that desperate woman might have never found her hope and healing...but he deemed her twelve years as important as Jairus' twelve years, and his daughter's twelve years.  The woman was HIS daughter, every bit as valuable as Jairus' daughter.  Jesus did go with Jairus, because Jairus was important to him--just not more important than the others in that crowd.  Jesus went with Jairus because, like the woman, Jairus was desperate.

But when they came to Jairus' house, they were met by this group of mourners, of wailers and weepers.  Yet their grief was a facade.  They were probably just professional mourners, and there was no depth to their sorrow.  For when Jesus said, "The child isn't dead, but asleep," they laughed easily enough.  They laughed because they weren't on the same wavelength as Jesus.  They saw the world as they understood it.  Dead people were dead, which called for some loud wailing.  Sleeping people, on the other hand, don't typically want to be wailed at.  And Jesus, they assumed, was a mad man and/or a fool.  Jairus?  His wife?  His daughter?  Yeah, it was sad that she had just died, but the mourners didn't really care.  They were just people.  People died every day, and one couldn't be expected to really care about them ALL.

But Jesus did.

And Jesus does.

And Jesus told that little twelve year old girl to get up, and not even death could keep her from obeying.

I don't understand Jairus' desperation.  I haven't had a child.  I haven't had to face the fact that my only child was dying. 

I'm not sure how to word this, but I think there's this point of desperation that both Jairus and the sick woman had reached.  It was a desperation so great that they couldn't help but believe.  They placed all their hopes on Jesus, knowing that he was the only one who could help them.  And their belief led to the fulfillment of their hope.  The woman was given her healing, her life back, and so was the little girl.

And I don't understand their desperation, but I understand a few things.  I do know what it's like to be desperate, to have great need.  I know what it's like to be dying in my sin, hopeless on my own, and I know what it's like to reach out in wild desperation for the One Hope that can save me.  And I know what it's like to believe in all the things that One Hope has promised, and I know what it's like to be called His daughter, and I know what it's like to receive peace.

And I believe that I'm sadly ignorant to the world of others.  Far too often, I am not on the same wavelength as Jesus.  I see people as faceless, nameless, and therefore...when you really get down to it, trivial.  Worthless.  I get so wrapped up in my own life, my own circle of friends, my own agenda.  And in the end, I'm missing out.

I've got great Hope, and I claim to want to share that Hope with others.  The thing is, I can't give Hope to someone without caring for them.  Superficial caring doesn't work; weeping and wailing can't be in the same breath as laughter.  Seeing everyone as just an extra in the cast of life isn't going to cut it.  People matter, and I miss opportunities because I miss them.  I miss the people. 

If you've actually read all this, please leave me a comment, if you're able to do so.  I want to hear your story, your struggles.  I want to know more about you.  And I want to encourage you, as I am also encouraged, to look beyond ourselves.  Twelve years, twelve months, twelve weeks, twelve days, twelve hours, twelve minutes, twelve seconds...the things that have happened in these expanses of time matter to someone. 

People out there have stories that need to be heard...and maybe we're the ones who are meant to hear them.

Hopeful New Year

Sometimes, when I start writing a blog, I know exactly what I'm going to write about.  Sometimes I've already written a couple of different versions of the blog in my head, or maybe even written part/all of it down on paper.  Then there's other times that I come to a blog without even knowing what I'm going to say, and sometimes the spontaneous blogs turn out to be better than the ones I'd planned.

I started writing this blog, and the blankness of the "page" caught my attention.  It's a blank page, just waiting for someone to write on it.  Sometimes it seems a shame to write on something so clean, especially when I know my words are often far from perfect.  But there's great power in words, and clean pages are useless.  It's only when we write our words, our meanings on them, that they take meaning. 

Unless this is the first time you've actually read my blog (keep reading--that would be an EXCELLENT New Year's Resolution), then you have probably read that my "Word for the Year" is Hope.  I've been harping on about it for a while, because my calendar is a little different from the real calendar.  My new year starts at the beginning of the Christmas season, which on my calendar, starts somewhere near the middle-to-end of August.  I've known that 2012 was going to be a Hopeful year since mid-to-late August. 

I've already written a lot about Hope, but sometimes even I don't really understand it.  Hope still scares me, because Hope makes one vulnerable.  If you Hope for something, then you haven't received it yet.  True Hope isn't the same as hoping for nice weather or hoping you'll find a good job.  We have no promise of those things.  True Hope is believing that something that God has promised will come. 

The tricky thing is, most of the things that God has promised don't even pertain to this life.  He hasn't promised that I'm going to get a cushy job with health insurance benefits.  He hasn't promised that I'm going to find a literary agent or land a book contract.  He hasn't promised that I'm going to amass a huge, successful following on my blogs, or that I'm going to pay off all my debt this year, or that I'm going to meet some rich guitarist with a Scottish accent to sweep me off my feet.  He hasn't promised me good health or secure finances or a stress-free life.  I can hope for these things and be crushed every time.  That's what makes hope vulnerable. 

True Hope is also vulnerable, because it involves trusting Someone besides self.  It involves trusting God that no matter what happens, even if I lose my health, my job(s), my home, my friends, my family, or even my own life, He has still promised good to me. 

Jesus promised that if we seek God and His Kingdom first, all that we need will be added to us.  My problem is that I think I need a lot more than I actually do need.  Most of the things I need are actually just "in order tos."  I need a job in order to feel successful and financially secure.  I need writing in order to feel purposeful.  I need friends in order to feel loved.  I need a roof over my head in order to feel comfortable.  I need food in order to fill my hunger.  I need water in order to satisfy my thirst.  I need air in order to breathe.

I'm not making light of the fact that we all need some basic stuff in order to live.  It's just that when you strip away all the "in order tos," and get right down to what we need--not "in order to," but just because we need...

We need a Savior.   

One has been provided.  God Himself.

That's where my Hope lies. 

This is my song for 2012.



"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace, as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." --Romans 15:13

Hopeful New Year!

2011 No Shredding Zone

I was listening to KLOVE while beginning my loooong drive home from central KY-eastern NC (with a short detour in SC) Wednesday morning, and I heard one of their DJs, Amanda, talking about "shredding" things from 2011.  The things to be "shredded" could be things like bad situations, wrongful attitudes, poor habits, bad relationships, etc.  She was talking about how we should get rid of those negative things from 2011 and "shred" them so that they wouldn't be around to bother us in 2012. 

If I hadn't been driving down the interstate at 70(ish) miles an hour, I probably would have called in.  It's a good thing I didn't, because I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have come across very clearly.  KLOVE is a "positive and encouraging" radio station, so I'm pretty sure the lack of clearness in my communication would have sounded pretty discouraging and negative, even though that would not have been my intention.  I know what she was doing was a good thing.  Some people really need to get rid of bad habits, abusive relationships, negativity, etc.  It's just that I have a little different perspective.

I'm not one of those people who goes around saying, "No regrets."  Of course I have regrets.  I'm human.  I mess up all the time and screw up my own life as well as the lives of others.  Even when it's not my fault, this world is tainted with sin; situations arise that just don't go the way I want them to go.  Sometimes that's for my good; sometimes I just don't see why in the world things can't be different.  Sometimes there seems to be no reason for pain.  So, yes.  I have regrets.  I have a lot of them. 

But just because I've collected some regrets over 2011 doesn't mean I'm ready to go "shred" them.  The main thing the Lord has been teaching me over the past year is that HIS GRACE covers everything.  That means that every situation that arises in my life is something that He has allowed to happen.  Does that mean He's caused every bad situation?  No.  As I said before, sometimes bad stuff is the result of my own bad behavior or my own poor choices.  Other times, though, bad stuff just happens.  We live in a sinful world, and we have to deal with the results of sin.  God doesn't necessarily cause bad stuff to happen.  But I know that if I'm going through a situation, it's something that has already been filtered through God's grace.  He's allowed it, and sometimes for reasons I'll never understand. 

And if God has allowed something to happen, then it's something He wants me to walk through.  That doesn't mean it's going to be easy, but it leaves me with two amazing opportunities, opportunities that are only provided through His amazing grace.  I'm offered the opportunity to show love to others.  If someone sins against me, causing me pain, I have the opportunity to love them.  If someone does something to inconvenience me, I have the opportunity to show them grace--the same grace that I've been freely given. 

I also have the opportunity to trust God.  Sometimes the reason I have to hurt is clear; other times, it's not.  And I can sit and wallow in self-pity, or I can sit and allow myself to get bitter, or I can put on some kind of facade that makes everyone think I'm somehow strong enough to deal--when I'm really not.  Or, I can surrender the situation over to the Lord, trusting Him and His sufficient grace to be my perfect power in my weaknesses.

Everything that has happened in 2011 is something the Lord allowed me to walk through.  Everything before 2011 was something the Lord allowed me to walk through.  I can't "shred" my past; it's part of me, part of the person that the Lord is creating and recreating.  I learn from mistakes, I grow through my struggles.  The things that have happened to me, good and bad, are things that helped to shape me.  They don't define me, but then again, neither do my successes.  They're all just part of what the Lord has given me to help me know Him more. 

What does define me?  Grace.  Just grace.  That's why I can look towards 2012 as a year of Hope.

Thoughts on 2011

As Christmas and New Years get closer, I am thinking a lot about this past year.  I enjoy reading all those Christmas letters that people send, which talk about the accomplishments and events in the lives of their families.  I don't have a family--at least not one that doesn't live over 500 miles away--and somehow it seems lame to just write a Christmas letter about myself.  I did that last year--via facebook, because I'm too lazy to actually send out letters on actual paper.  This year, I'm a little too busy for a Christmas letter, but I do feel the need to write a little about 2011.  Here seems like a good place.

There are two things that stand out in my mind as I think about 2011.  I started running in February.  Part of me still can't believe that I'm a runner now, and that I actually enjoy it, and part of me can't believe there was ever a time that I didn't identify myself as a runner.  And really, by running, I mean jogging/waddling, but after living 30 years as a "I'll stick to power-walking, thank you" person, I'll take what I can get.  It's interesting that a few months after I began running, a running/swimming/bicycling group was started by a man at my church.  I don't think it's at all coincidence; the Lord prepared me at just the right time for this, and I think it's hilarious that I'm actually part of a sports ministry.  I never would have thought that.  It's definitely something the Lord has done in my life.  I ran two 5Ks and a 10K in 2011, and I'm just itching to do a half marathon.  I think that's probably going to happen in 2012.  I kinda sorta really want a 13.1 sticker on the back of my car. 

The second thing that really stands out to me about 2011 is the overwhelming grace and generosity shown to me by both God and other people.  There were so many times that people gave me significant financial gifts to help me through somewhat major financial crises, to help me travel to visit my family, or just to help me in general.  Beyond that, I have had people help me out by looking at my car when it was being a jerkface, or doing things for me when I was too busy to get them done, or just treating me to coffee when I was stressed out.  I've been overwhelmed by the amount of generosity shown by others, and the grace of the Lord who loves me far more than I deserve.

I know the Lord has been working in my heart to actually ask for help when I need it.  I've had to ask for financial help, but I've also been stretched to ask for help in other areas.  I've had to ask people to look at my writing when it wasn't exactly comfortable for me to do so.  I've asked someone to help me start a website.  I'm in the process of asking for some help in recording some music.  These seem like little things, but I'm a pretty independent person who doesn't like to bother people.  But sometimes I need help, and if I'm going to get that help, I have to ask for it.  Sometimes that's nothing more than an act of obedient faith.  I'm working on that one--and fortunately God is patient!

I've become aware that while there is nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it, I do need to do some major work towards being able to fully support myself financially.  I can't keep expecting others to get me out of trouble when it comes--and it always seems to come.  I might have to look for new work, which will mean even more changes in a 2012 that is promising a lot of change.  And I don't like change.

But, if you've read this blog recently, then you know that this season is all about hope for me.  I'm feeling very hopeful about what God has in store for me.  I know I can't do things on my own, and I'm still learning to ask for the help that I need--both from God and from other people.  Even though I'm definitely a little anxious, perhaps even scared about the change that's definitely coming, I'm looking forward to 2012 and what's going to come. 

Feliz Navidad! Friday: Christmas Decorations

One of my favorite things about Christmas is getting my Christmas ornaments and decorations out of storage.  This usually happens pretty soon after Thanksgiving (or sometimes even a little bit before).  I like opening the box, which has contained and concentrated the smells of the Christmas candles from years gone by.  A delightful smell greets me, reminding me of Christmas seasons from my childhood, as well as more recent Christmases.  I love opening little boxes where I've placed random decorations, getting that surprise when I find an ornament I'd forgotten I'd even had.  It's like Christmas morning, only the presents I receive are ones that I had packed away the previous January (or February...).  And each decoration has a memory--whether I received it as a gift from someone I love, or whether I bought it for myself because it somehow caught my attention.

Last year, I bought myself a decoration.  It's a blue glittery wooden word: "Peace."  I bought this because last year, starting near Christmas, "Peace" was a concept God was showing me, both through the Christmas story, and through Scripture and life in general.  God, through His goodness, came down to earth in the form of man in order to offer peace to rebellious mankind.  I wanted a reminder of that, and of the things the Lord has been teaching me (and is still teaching me). 

This year, I was tempted to look for an ornament or other decoration that says, "Hope," since that is the theme the Lord has been showing me for this Christmas (and the following year).  But when I took out my Christmas decorations, I found an ornament that I'd been given the year before.  I got this for teaching MOPS last year, and it's just perfect.  I have it hanging along side my "peace sign."

I have a few treasured childhood ornaments, as well as several newer ornaments from kids and families and friends whom I love.  Some of my favorite newer pieces are my nutcracker (that was given to me by a little boy who insisted that I needed a nutcracker--apparently everyone needs at least one of those), my nativity scene advent wreath, and my Santa hats for my lamp kitties.  That's right.  Lamp kitties.  With Santa hats. 

...this is probably why I'm single...

Of course, the centerpiece of all my Christmas decorating is my Christmas Beam.  You see, in my current apartment, I haven't bothered with an actual tree.  No, this 100+ year old apartment with 12 foot ceilings has come equipped with a large wooden beam in the middle of the living room.  Well, what better to do with a large wooden beam in the middle of the living room than to cover it in ghetto garland, mini taped-on ornaments, and lights?

What are some of your favorite Christmas decorations?  Do they remind you of anything or anyone special?

Love Always Hopes

I'm not an optimist.

But I'm not a pessimist, either.

Some people see the glass as half full.  Some see the glass as half empty.  All I know is that if it's 8 or 9 in the morning, and there's only half a cup of coffee, then somebody is most likely gonna get hurt...and it's probably going to be whoever drank half my coffee. 

I'm a realist, which some optimists like to say is the same thing as being a pessimist, but they're wrong.  A pessimist looks at the bad side of things, and while I do that sometimes, usually I try to see a situation as it really is.  And if you really start thinking about it, Jesus was probably a realist, too.

The difference between Jesus and me is that Jesus was focused on others, while I tend to be focused on myself.  I do think about others, but to be honest, it's in a way that reflects back on myself.  I count my blessings, thankful that I'm healthier than others or that I'm better off than others, or that, through grace, I was spared a lot of pain that others are having to experience.  And when I do think about others, it's limited by my own understanding, so I'm often not seeing people as people, but I'm seeing them as labels.  I'm not seeing a man who God loves, I'm seeing a homeless man who needs to be pitied.  I'm not seeing a woman whom God is using, I'm seeing a helpless widow.  And it's not bad to want to help people who need to be helped, but there seems something wrong about seeing labels where people should be.

Jesus saw people.  He saw a woman at a well.  He didn't overlook her sin, yet he didn't label her by it.  And because He saw her, she was changed.  Jesus saw a rich man.  He looked at him and loved him.  But this man defined himself by his riches, instead of seeing himself as he was--as Jesus saw him--a man in need of grace.  And he went away sad.

And right now I'm seeing friends who are seriously ill.  I'm seeing friends going through divorces.  I'm seeing friends who are going through financial problems and emotional turmoil.  I'm seeing friends who are without Christ, who are striving to find fulfillment in themselves.  And I pray for all of these people, asking for change and healing and grace.

Hope is a difficult thing sometimes.  Realistically, it seems as though I keep asking for the same things, the same healing, the same changes.  And honestly, I'm not sure if any of these things I'm hoping for in the lives of others are going to come to pass. 

But I've been reminded recently that love always hopes.  And if I'm to see people as they are, if I'm to love them, then part of that involves hope.  I'm not an optimist, but if I really care about people, then I'm going to keep hoping on their behalf.  And I'm going to believe that my prayers are heard.