Importance

Last night I listened to two people talking, and realized we were practically from different planets. She was raised with nannies — the first was from a town of only 300 people, can you imagine? (yes. . .yes, I can). The rest were from England. Of course. Don’t worry, she then became an au pair herself in France, 45 minutes outside of Paris, for 2 years.  Mummy dearest has bright red nails and an accent, and can’t imagine living in a small town for even two weeks, is a bonafide work-a-holic, and is considering getting a second home in Hilton Head, or if her brother buys a boat, anyway.

It makes my brain cramp. Because our lives are so different, yet we’re still just people. It’s not that their lives are charmed. Tales of divorce, counseling, drinking, endless streams of intimate relationships ending in broken hearts, longing for reconciliation, loneliness, and endless activity to avoid accidental self-reflection.

It leaves you thinking a little, what do they have that I don’t? Anything can happen in life. And then you realize, oh, yeah. What they have that I don’t have is money. I can’t just go home and buy a new car. I can’t just eat grass fed beef because it’s better for me.

It’s not that I’m without privilege. I do have privilege. I don’t have to start working the second I’m done with school, because I have family I can stay with, who will shelter and feed me. They have before, and likely will again, lend me the money to buy a car, which will be a far better deal than taking out a loan from traditional sources.

I just always wonder how far to push those resources. Because for a certain while, it makes sense, and after another certain while, it feels like taking advantage of someone. And it’s also a struggle, because it comes with a certain lack of identity. And both of those things eat at me.

I’m not saying I have to pull myself up by my own boot straps in order to be legitimate, although certainly there are temptations to be that way. But you don’t take things without giving things, and the more “support” you take, the more “autonomy” you give away. You have less and less control over living situation and environment, what you eat, who visits and when. It is further complicated by the thing about being alone vs being around people who care about you.

So this morning I started thinking about things like, how much money saved up is enough money? Is it better to rent or buy? How terrifying to buy. And things like, good glory, the amount of debt I have for my schooling could buy me 3 great American dreams. And that opens up the whole struggle I have about the school debt: when you know you will likely never pay it off, do you try? The pull-yourself-up-by-your-boot-straps says yes, but it’s hard to convince yourself that in light of canceling any other aspirations for life.

I like life binary. I like right and wrong. Be simple and clear cut. It makes me so highly annoyed when I find out life is complex and confusing, and without straightforward answers. You might not get a diagnosis; you might just be stuck managing your symptoms. You might not get your dream lifestyle, but wind up living 15 different versions of making do, longing, and scheming to try again. You might get your education, but always wonder if it was worth it, or if it should have been went about in another way. (Right now I don’t think that, but ask me when I’m confronted with making payments.)

When it all comes down to it, I sometimes think I just want to stop being confused by life. I want someone to say, “this choice is the right choice, this choice is the wrong choice.” Armed with irrefutable conviction, I could then accept the consequences and carry on. But there is a niggling part of me I keep fighting with, the part of me that says, you can do a lot of the things you want, if only you had the guts to take the risks. And the risk adverse part of me says, “risk is stupid.”

I’m sick of doing what I’m supposed to do, and want to be reckless and do my own thing. But that is at war with the part of me that says conventional wisdom is both conventional and wise for a reason. There’s no good reason to not work for 2 to 3 years.

But I want to be in control. I don’t want to be riding on the waves of societies expectations and  social systems. I want to be busy being me. And when I talk about it as a defiance of society and the world, I feel so holy and I think I should find courage to make risky decisions. Other times, I wonder if I’m just fighting God. I want to be in control. I don’t want to be told what to do with my life. I don’t want to do those hard things, I want to do MY hard things.

I mean, just for supposing. . .suppose I turned down lucrative full time employment, in hopes of finding something part time? That’s a luxury only achievable by support of others. If I took full advantage of that support, and defiant risk in the face of all that’s responsible adulthood, I could do that. But I feel like I owe my support better than that. I feel like I owe my support a faster pay back than a part time job, too. And I’m not sure which is worse, feeling like your life is being ruled by money or emotions, but having it ruled by both at once sure does stink.

So while I try to resign myself to the idea of seeking full time employment. . .I also find myself looking for the silver lining. How fast could I save it up if I stayed with the support system? Could I outright buy a place I would want to own, and skip renting or mortgages? Would I feel too guilty not spending more toward school loans? Would I be able to save that much while paying back borrowed money for a vehicle? Could I manage the relative lack of autonomy for another two or three years?

And behind it all is the persistent longing that my life could be defined by more than my job. The one area where I feel like I have no control at all. I pray about it a lot. But I still have so little idea of what God has planned or why He has it planned. I don’t know why we wander, and I don’t know why we so often have to wander alone. I feel sad about where I am, but also certain, in some part of me, that God is good and gives good things.

Is that enough? I don’t know. But I think it’s the most important.

 

 

 

Music That Rings True

Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted,
See him dying on the tree
‘Tis the Christ by man rejected,
yes, my soul, ’tis He, ’tis He
Tis the long Expected prophet
David’s Son, yet David’s Lord
By His Son God has now spoken
Tis the true and faithful Word

Sometimes we have to say things. Out loud. We might all know them, we might all think we believe them, but it is almost in the saying of them that they become real.

Tell me, ye who hear Him groaning,
Was there ever grief like His?
Friends through fear His cause disowning,
Foes insulting His distress;
Many hands were raised to wound Him,
None would interpose to save;
But the deepest stroke that pierced Him
Was the stroke that Justice gave.

And so often I catch myself thinking, “It’s not fair!” But I don’t think that phrase means what I think it means.

Ye who think of sin but lightly
Nor suppose the evil great
Here may view its nature rightly,
Here its guilt may estimate.
Mark the Sacrifice appointed,
See who bears the awful load;
‘Tis the WORD, the LORD’S ANOINTED,
Son of Man and Son of God.

We were speaking of sin and righteousness this afternoon–the excuses we make for sin, and the severity of God’s righteousness. It is one thing to feel offended that God’s righteousness is too much for us to bear; it’s another to consider what that means for God.

Here we have a firm foundation;
Here the refuge of the lost;
Christ’s the Rock of our salvation,
His the name of which we boast.
Lamb of God, for sinners wounded,
Sacrifice to cancel guilt!
None shall ever be confounded
Who on Him their hope have built.

But I feel confounded. I feel confounded all the time.

While singing is often when I am most meditating on and speaking the truth. This comes as a bit of a surprise to me, as people tend to hold up as “godly examples” spending much time in prayer or reading the Bible. And those things are important. But it is one thing for me to read that He is a Good, Good Father, and it is another thing for me to affirm it out loud.

I’m scared, sometimes by the smallest and silliest of things. I’m scared when it seems like I’ve lost my voice for writing. I’m scared, when I see my own bars I’ve set that I just can’t clear. I’m scared by relationships that seem to be drifting further and further apart. I’m scared by my perceived inability to make a real difference in anything, and that fear is invincible to the comments of others. I’m scared of my apparent invisibility as I move through life.

But those things don’t really matter. I mean, of course they do; but they don’t. They’re so fleeting. Their relative weight is so small. What do I have to offer? Nothing, really. What does He have to offer? Everything, really.

Next, I find out

Once upon a time, I had time to think and time to write what I was thinking. I look forward to getting back to that place, but I also wonder how my thinking and writing has changed since then. Even when I’m not writing in the expected sense of “somewhat visibly,” I am writing, all the time. Some people wake up to a cup of coffee; I wake up to writing two pages in a spiral bound notebook.

It’s not great literature. It reads like you might expect from someone who is still waking up. Half the time it’s probably a rehashing of all the swirling to-do lists in my head. Always, the same themes get visited and re-visited and done to death. And growth is slow. I never felt different between one birthday and another, and yet in five years time can barely recognize the person I used to be.

The last seven years have been an incredible catalyst of change and growth, in big ways and small ways, and as I see — on the horizon — some sort of chance for the dust to settle a little bit, I think I am also scared. Scared, a little, to see who I am now. I was too busy changing and growing to understand what kind of changing and growing was happening, and so now, when things start to settle, I feel like I will be rediscovering who I am.

That sounds stupid. Not to you, maybe. To me. Because I’ve always felt like “not knowing who you are” is more (to my intellectual mind) a problem with not have the courage to own who you are. How can you not know who you are? You are who you are. You are you. What are you expecting to find?

I don’t know exactly how my thinking on this has changed, and by that I mean, I’m not sure what my current conclusions are. One of the most bizarre things from being sick, really sick, is this strange feeling I have now of only “inhabiting” my body, and not being “one” with my body. Previously, my body and me were pretty much inseparable. Me and it, it and me, you don’t get one without getting the other. But when I was at my most sick, things became more and more surreal, and I felt more and more often like I was watching my body in the third person. “Me” is still me, and yet this body thing, it’s very peculiar; it’s malfunctioning. “Me” isn’t malfunctioning, but the body I drive around is. How odd. How strange.

It lingers a little. And I begin to realize other ways in which I have been rather indiscriminatory between “me” and just the things really close to “me.” I like to characterize myself as a bossy older sister, but as I come back home again and again, I find that “thing” to be slipping away. We’re all older. And I don’t want to boss. And half the time it seems like my younger siblings know better than I do, anyhow.

My stories are more grounded. I don’t mean I don’t still tell myself stories, but it’s getting harder and harder to find the romance in them. At one point in my life, I could make being a college student sound glamorous to myself. I’ve seen enough of school to make me puke, and I just can’t squeeze any glamor out of it. The less you know about things, the more softly you paint them, and in more gentle colors. Traveling half across the country is both easier than you think, and also, less adventuresome. Not because I did adventure, but because, what do you know, you have to respond to your car breaking down on a one way road up mountainside, with wildfires raging through the state, the exact same way that you, well, respond to a broken faucet. There is a good deal less romance than you might think, and even a good deal less adrenaline, and a good deal more of trying to figure out the next reasonable little step to take.

It makes life somehow a good deal more accessible and also a good deal more boring. Before you get out there and muddle around, you can pretend how interesting and exciting it must be. After you muddled for a bit, you realize that where ever you go, you still bring you. And that shapes your experiences about as much or more as your experiences shape you.

But going through a lot of stuff that you just have to grit your teeth and wade through, because that is what you have to do, because that is life, also leaves you with much more defined ideas of what you do and do not like. The imaginative brush has been hardened, and there’s less of a fantasizing about what you might liked to and how you suppose something would be marvelous. When the dreaminess starts to get stripped away, you’re left with more of a concrete list of Wants and DO NOT WANTS.

Yet the clearing away of the ambiguity starts to also unveil another problem: it’s harder to just take what comes, or to just “go along.” And then I begin to discover that things that I thought were “me” were really just things that were happening in close proximity around “me” and I was just “going along.” And if that’s not really “me” then where do I go now? What do I do now? There is less ambiguity about me, but more ambiguity about where I really belong in the world. Where’s my place?

And some of the frustration is realizing that I have been through a lot, and it has changed me, and I’m not quite sure how yet. I’m still unpacking, literally and figuratively. Part of it is realizing, rather suddenly, really, how the people I’ve been the closest to haven’t been on this journey. Hardly at all. Not only have a grown in ways that they haven’t come along with, but they have quite likely grown in other directions. Unbridgeable? No. But it doesn’t mean we fit together the way we have before, or that we ever will again. Sometimes this is good growth, but it doesn’t make it any less scary.

People ask me what comes next, and I’m kind of afraid to talk about what I hope does come next. Because I don’t want to “go along;” that’s a brutal kind of hard. What I want is something that would undoubtedly still be hard, but it would be “Me.” And that makes it better, even if it doesn’t make it easier. But you kind of get two choices: Go Along or Fight Against. And fighting against is hard. It’s hard to swim against the subtle and pervasive expectations of All The Reasonable People, in their various camps. But it’s also hard to choke out the parts of you that have survived the crucible, the things that are now known to be Me.

That might seem straight forward enough, but it’s not. Because woven and tangled into that is realization that some of the Wants are just tendrils of trying to escape the Don’t Wants, and those two are not in actuality the same thing. There is a certain aspect of wanting to live honestly, and in that sense I mean not trying to be something you’re not. But there’s also a certain aspect of, I don’t like This; what is Not This? It’s hard to sort out.

Life Takes Courage. Always.

Also, vulnerability, honesty, humility, compassion, discernment, integrity. And these things seem like cliché, because everyone says them, but unfortunately people mostly act like they would be “good” accessories to have. Not basic necessities needed for day to day survival. Yes, I did say survival. Without those things, we self-destruct. Where ever I go, whatever I do, it never seems like I have enough of those things.

And I leave that there as the ending, not because it’s an answer to the question. But it is a truth that co-exists with the uncertainty, and sometimes that is where you have to start.

 

 

Duty to Hope

It’s curious to me how we–or at least, I–so rapidly get sucked into the idea that it’s “responsible” to be afraid.

Afraid of missing deadlines. Afraid of making the wrong choices. Afraid of cars breaking. Afraid of old age. Afraid of regrets.

Because only stupid people aren’t prepared for replacing cars or retirement, right? Because only irresponsible people miss deadlines. Because you only get one shot at decisions, and they’re so weighty.

But if we plug our ears, for just a moment, to the world (and sing la-la-la really loudly), God never said “be afraid.” He said “trust Me.” He never said “fill your barns and prepare for your future,” He said “don’t you worry about that stuff–take care of people and look to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Ugh. Find a job. How long will my loans be in deferment? If my car is 12 years old, how much time do I have before it dies? I don’t want to think about these things; I want to think about things like starting a food ministry. I want to think about how to reach out to the community I move in to. I want to think about where to find to find a choir to sing with. I want to learn how to build shelter for those who need it and see the awesome handiworks of God.

And while I’m lamenting the things I can’t think about, for all of the things I think I ought to be thinking about, I suddenly catch myself. The things I am saying “I can’t” pursue sound suspiciously like seeking the Kingdom of Heaven, and the things I feel like I “ought” to be preoccupied with sound suspiciously like “the worries of the world” we’re told to leave behind.

Why are we afraid of joy? Why are we afraid of dreaming? Why are afraid of the idea that the fire inside of us would be the truth?

Or me, anyhow. Because I am. I’m afraid of entertaining my dreams and hopes and passion as Truth.

Oh, I have them.

With my husband, that I don’t have. With my children, that I don’t have. With my land, that I don’t have. With my heart on fire for compassion, for hospitality, for showing the love of God to the people around me, with my delight in the creation of God and His gift of music–things that I do have.

But why do I think that that cars failing are more important than the things on my heart?

I don’t really know. There is a temptation to blame my upbringing. The bitterness and hopeless I saw in my father, and my grandfather before him. Or the small, inside facing circles that I perceived in my mother. But I really hesitate to do that, because, in my experience, well over 96% of what we want to blame on our childhood overlaps squarely with stuff other people do without even a slightly similar raising. So I am greatly inclined to see human nature as the cause of it all, not my own individual experience.

So I am only guessing. I am only feeling in the dark, trying to find the riggings. And I think. . .I think the more important the task, the more we are truly terrified–not just scared or worried or fussing over–we are of failure. If I fail to get a car I want, really, life will still be okay. But the hopes and dreams that seem to almost define the very meaning of life? The idea of “failing” at that hurts and haunts so badly that I don’t want to think about it. That I shouldn’t get my hopes up, and you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment, because life is not really like that. That I should content myself with — blandness, because that is really all my lot in life will ever be.

But do I trust God? Because it doesn’t take trust to live a disheartened life of bitterness and blandness. And I think if you do trust God, you have to fight to throw that off, no matter how impossible that seems. It’s not faith if looks rosy. It’s faith when it looks like a raging nightmare, and you get off the boat anyhow.

But really I still don’t understand why it takes so much bravery to chose hope. You’d think that would be the easy path. Not the road less traveled. But it is hard for me to travel it. To say, “here I come!” to the light, even when it seems like the darkness pushes in so close.

The thing is, this is not the first time I’ve written an anthem like this. Not the first time by a long shot. I keep going under the waters, and every time I come back up, I seem to re-write this, as though, this time, it will stick. This time, I won’t slip back into fear. This time, I will remember my duty to faith, and through that, to hope. Sometimes, these Sunday even proclamations even make it till Wednesday. How can it feel like so much certain truth some days, and a far away theory others?

I don’t understand.

 

 

Comprehendeth Not

After the last series of complaining  was tried, wondering if I was sick and wondering if I was depressed– well, I was sick. After the antibiotics, I went back to wondering if I was just tired, or maybe some depressed, or maybe the antibiotics weren’t enough.

Well, maybe. Maybe any of those things. Maybe none of those things. Maybe all of those things together. But I was suddenly struck with an epiphany that regardless of ANY of those things, problem numero uno was: I was believing lies.

Believing lies doesn’t make them true, any more than “knowing” the truth means you are always believing it.

More often than not, I find that looking to actual children helps me to understand my own situation. A child may “know” that there aren’t monsters in the corner of the room. But in the darkness, the child may see what looks scary. . .and it feels scary. . .and believes it to be scary. And maybe the adult tells the child not to be afraid, and the child knows the adult is telling the truth, but maybe it’s still hard to believe. Maybe it takes the light coming on in the room to see the monster is just a sweater over a chair for the child to believe the truth, but the truth was always the truth, no matter what the child was believing. And maybe, once the light is off again–even though the child has seen the truth–it’s hard for the child to keep believing the truth. Because, there it is, looking scary, feeling scary, and seeming to lead to nothing but scary conclusions.

And looking at my future, short-, medium-, or long-term, has looked pretty scary. It’s felt pretty scary. I’ve believed it to be scary. But that doesn’t actually mean that it is scary.

I grew up with the Bible. I grew up hearing the very word of God. I know those words, and not only do I know them–I’ve never known not knowing it. And it’s very easy to take for granted the things you’ve always known, like that the earth is round or like when you jump up you’ll always land on the ground. It’s very easy to take for granted the people who have always been there, like an annoying older brother. And sometimes, I wonder if the fact that I have always had a Bible at easy reach, always heard the promises of God read aloud, has lulled me into taking them lightly.

Yes, yes, I know everything will be okay–but right now I feel frightened, I feel hopeless, I feel. . . and then I stop, suddenly struck but the realization that a lot of people can’t say, with true certainty, “everything will be okay.” A lot of people can’t say “the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed within us.”

Having the promises of God are, truly, a precious thing. Because that means we have something to cling to. We have an adult, even if at the moment in another room, speaking the truth. We’re not left alone in our terror, and the truth of the situation has been revealed to us for us to believe it. Although we see, or hear, or feel, or reason, or logic out scary things – we don’t have to believe those terrifying things, because we’ve already been given the truth by the One who actually understands what is going on, and the truth that He speaks is: Fear Not.

And just because we’re screaming in the darkness, seeing and feeling frightening things. . .does not negate the truth.

What it means is that we’re being lied to. And, for the moment, believing it.

And oh, there is such freedom in that, do you know? When you suddenly realize the horrible things you think you are seeing aren’t the truth, and you don’t have to believe them? It is a bit like waking up from a bad dream. You might still feel jittery, and in some ways  it might still feel real — but you know it’s not really the truth. Not really.

And there’s another way that it’s freeing. You have to respect the truth, no matter how painful or uncomfortable it might be. But you don’t have to respect lies. There’s no need for “well, maybe. . .” or, “I guess I should see how it goes. . .”No. Wholesale, out-right, complete rejection. That’s a lie. That. Is. A. Lie. And the truth, the certain, unchanging, unrelenting truth is: Fear Not.

Hallelujah.

How shall we then live?

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the future. I know I have, and I know no matter how much I think about it, it doesn’t really give me any more control. Not really. People say to make plans, to lead yourself first, that you have to be proactive if you want to achieve “success.” But I think we almost might accomplish just as much to study where we’ve been, which is to say, not much. I’ve made and unmade plans countless times, and each time, I feel more frustrated. How do I know what is from me, delusion, and what is the truth and real?

Delusional self-assurance might be all that separates the guy who thinks he’s planning, from me, who thinks I’m scheming and dreaming. They like their sense of control, and I can’t blame them, but I can’t pass such a strong spell over myself. It always ends with, yeah, right. I can paint the pretty picture all right, but I just can’t quite believe it. Life never goes as you expect to, and I know that for a certainty. The things that make the biggest changes to the course of your life are rarely things you could plan for, anticipate, or sometimes even be able to make any sort of decision out of anyhow.

I was looking at my tagline right before I sat down to write again. . .the words of a woman. I wrote that as a way of throwing down the gauntlet to myself. Ever since I finished high school, I’ve felt like I’ve been living in some kind of dream. Not like “Cinderella goes to the ball” kind of dream; the kind of dream you dream at night. Where nothing quite seems to make sense and one scene shifts into another without quite connecting and where your sense of time all slides together and apart at the same time, and where you have this abiding sense that things aren’t quite real but you can’t quite put your finger on why. And that’s just a small symptom of that–when do you know when you’ve slid over the line from and older child to a young adult? When do you know you’ve really become a woman? Especially if being a woman doesn’t actually look like you thought it did.

What did I think it looked like? Honestly, I think it looked like self-assurance. That however you ended up, you ended up that way because you meant to. And that even if you felt a little bittersweet or perhaps had to remind yourself sometimes that this was real life and you couldn’t have everything you wanted, that you were settled–content?–because who you were was who you were and you had no doubts about that, and wore it confidently like a favorite pair of jeans.

That I look around me and see almost no one who feels that way does not make me feel any more a woman. It just makes me feel sad, like we’re all lost children pretending we’re adults. And when I see how woman – and men – are portrayed in movies or on TV, I just see us all pathetically reaching for some sense of confidence that we’re playing the role we’re supposed to, in the manner in which we’re supposed to. If we can adopt a persona — it doesn’t matter which one, as long as we can own it — if we can adopt a persona, then maybe we can more confidently say, “yes, this is me.”

And it’s tempting, it’s really tempting. Isn’t that part of what couples go through, when they select their registry? “This is Us.” It’s new, we aren’t quite sure, and this is part of figuring it out. But it’s also, I’ve realized, the more tempting the more uncertain and unconfident I feel. If I am confident, I am busy doing, and I waste relatively few brain cells on what it looks like to anyone, including myself. If I am feeling vulnerable and uncertain, I start doing my hair differently and considering if maybe nail polish is for me, and if I bought kitchen dishes, what kind would I get?

I suppose this is where platitudes about times of growth and change being uncomfortable and making us feel uncertain only to make us stronger are supposed to be applied. But I feel a bit like maybe that’s missing the point. Like perhaps the point is, we never really grow and change and get stronger in the stuff we thought we would. All our plans are blown out of the water while we messily mature in an area we’d never considered. We only consider the things we’re already large enough to grasp, and growth is, by definition, pushing us into things we aren’t already capable of grasping.

So what’s the point of planning? About nail polish or future employment or mythological families or the spring bulbs you’ll plant when you finally own a patch of dirt in your own name?

If that sounds fatalistic, please realize it’s not. It’s an honest question. Is thinking about these things a necessary part of the process of growing, or is it a silly waste of time? Does it help us seek what God is leading us to do, or does it cloud over the whole process? Where is it a dutiful function of using one talent to make many talents, and when is it vanity of vanities?

I honestly don’t know, and I keep careening between “live in the moment, God only knows what is coming next” to falling asleep writing outlines in my head. I can’t seem to find any rational balance between the two, and it’s confounding and disheartening.

What I do know

The thing is. . .I don’t want to live in other peoples houses any more. I don’t want to, even while I feel so privileged to be able to. I don’t want to, even while I’m terrified of being utterly alone.

I could make lists of things I don’t like about being in other peoples’ houses. I could make lists of things I like about being in a place where it’s “mine.” But the point isn’t to complain what I have. The point isn’t to pine for what I don’t have. The point is, I’m still scared of the future.

What do I have to go on? Logic, feelings, all is unreliable. What I want, what don’t want, what else do I know? These things don’t give me direction, but what else do I know?

I sat outside eating my lunch, and I heard my own thoughts: I’m scared by how much I like this place I’m working. That thought startled me. I’m holding so hard to the thought that once this is over, once I graduate, then I’m done. Done. I can go back to the place I call home. Only I can’t. Because I don’t want to live in other peoples houses anymore. Only I’m terrified of being utterly alone. Of turning my back–that’s what it feels like–on my family. Of a home of my own, but only my own, empty of family.

I run through all the pictures I can paint in my head, and none of them make sense. None of them resound. None of them sing, the way they sing when you have the frequencies tuned. Any little piece that seems to say “yes” makes all the other pieces scream “no!” Nothing lines up. Nothing goes together. Nothing gives me the slightest shred of “what comes next.”

And it seems to me that the harder and harder I strain to see what what comes next, the less and less I know. And the less and less I know, the more it feels like I’m living in a dream. I don’t know what to do when I get up in the morning. I have a long list of things I could do, or even would enjoy doing. But, as with those dreams, it feels sort of like moving through water. Scene to scene doesn’t seem to line up. I hear the words but it’s not really clear if they’re real. I sleep because I’m tired, but then when I wake up it seems less real then when I’m asleep.

Do the next thing, they say. Do the next thing. Doing the next thing seems like just riding that train of the cliff. That’s okay. It’s a leap of faith, right? But what if there’s not a whole lot of faith there? Maybe you just fall to the bottom and get bashed up a bit, maybe crushed real good, and that’s where the rebuilding happens. And you’re still supposed to say that’s okay, and maybe it is.

But maybe — and this is where I keep getting stuck — maybe the problem is the not enough faith. Maybe the problem is the dour pessimism that says things can’t go well, that learning can’t happen without pain, that no one ever really gets what they want in life, that wanting and not having is our lot as long as we’re here. That those beliefs are stronger to me than the belief that God hears and answers and is good and has beautiful plans. That I’m so busy bracing for the bottom of the canyon that I’m not even bothering to asking to fly. Because I’ve just already decided that God doesn’t answer requests like that.

Just pray. But the words die on my lips. I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said. It seems to be getting harder and harder to say the things I’ve already said. Because the human in me says, “If He isn’t answering, the answer is no.” The human in me says, “Sometimes you have to let go of your wants and deal with what is.” But what “is” is the wants, and I’m lost again.

I wake up every morning looking for some hint of clarity. I go to bed expecting clarity in the morning. It never happens, and the queer feeling in the pit of my stomach gets a little more hollow and a little more deep. But some morning, one or the other is going to have to happen. Either I’m going to shatter. . .or I’m going to learn to fly.

Blessedness

Today is a gift for me to receive, not a burden for me to bear.

I kept telling myself this as I got ready to leave the house, because, naturally, the whole day feels like a burden. I thought maybe I had convinced myself of the truth of the statement, but nearly feel into tears twice during casual conversation while talking about the things I needed to accomplish in the next two weeks.

I know I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I know that’s a big part of it. And I know I’m primed now to catastrophsize at the slightest provocation. But I also know that part of the problem is that I truly have not learned the truth of what I’m repeating to myself.

Today is a gift. For me to receive. NOT a burden for me to bear.

I don’t like it when I start getting frustrated or worried about the future or counting off the things to do, and people tell me, “But you’re here right now, and it’s a gorgeous day, and. . .” Don’t minimize to me what I’m going through, people! It feels patronizing. This new “mantra” feels different to me, because it doesn’t argue with any of the things I’m saying. It says, “regardless of how uncomfortable or unpleasant this may feel, it really is a gift. And you would do well to consider why the One who loves you saw fit to give it to you. And if the only thing that is unpleasant right now is all that you have to do, you should remember you’re trying to lift a load that someone else is already carrying.”

There are a lot of things of nearly every moment of the day that are privileges. Some people like to list them, but I don’t. Count your blessings, they say. But that makes it seem like they’re finite, and CAN be counted. Express your gratitude! they say. But that makes it sound like we really have any idea what is good for us, what we should be grateful for. We’re like two-year-old children throwing fits because we can’t drink windshield-washer fluid. We grateful for being able to eat the unripe fruit that will only make our stomach hurt, and would have been so much better if we’d just waited, just a little. We resent rebuke, chastisement, and the challenge and correction that makes us grow. How can any “counting” make things better? Sometimes, you look and you look and you look, and it all just looks like CRAP.

I don’t think looking or counting or saying the right words is what it really takes. I think what it really takes is faith. That EVEN THOUGH everything looks like crap, it isn’t. That EVEN THOUGH it might look like dreams are crushed or hopes are dashed, God is good. That EVEN THOUGH grief and suffering at times become suffocating, God does love our own particular self. That EVEN THOUGH the blessings just don’t seem to be there, they are, because God never stops giving good gifts, even when we can’t recognize them..

We’re not fit to weigh our existence in the balance. Our balance is exceedingly far out of collaboration and has “NOT FOR LEGAL TRADE!!!” all over it in red letters. Only God actually has the capability, the “equipment,” to take the real weight of anything, the real sum of any whole.

Sometimes, we think about our own self worth. We know we aren’t to overvalue ourselves. But we forgot that we’re just as wrong to under-value ourselves. Sometimes it feels like every accusation is true and that we’re right to blame ourselves, and that we do only make every thing worse, and we deserve nothing better. And it’s hard to stop these lines of thoughts, because we know that we aren’t like God.

Only, in a way, we are. Because on God’s scale, on God’s balance, on the sum of our whole, is the blood of Jesus, the holy and righteous and sufficient sacrifice. And to do away with ourselves is drastically undervalue the redeeming work of the only Son of God. And to stop to consider what Christ accomplished is to realize that He is on those scales with us. So how can we not be loved?

In the darkness and the suffering and the grief and the complete pointlessness of it all, Jesus our Lord is with us. Are we not filling up His sufferings and grief until the times are full? It is a cursed world. But He is with us.

In our frustration and our hurt and our fears — things we can’t find any way to count as blessings — He is with us. And for that reason, and that reason alone, we are blessed.

I am NOT losing my freaking mind

I’ve decided I’m not very good at describing my emotions or my situation. I think I am tired, yes (for good reasons, like: pushing myself in my physical rehabilitation). And I haven’t been creative in far too long, which is a bad thing, and shows up in strange ways, like feeling inhuman.

But I’m not actually losing my mind. And a casual reader might think, “Yeah, whatever. I knew that. Hyperbole.” But it does matter, because it matters to me. “Losing a freaking mind” is an actual state that actually can occur. Is that or is that not what is going on? Actually, it is not what is going on. Despite the sometimes rocky road, the truth is, I am a little better every day.

There’s a sign I read that says, “Be careful what you say, because you are listening.” We tend to think we’ll feel better if we vent, and maybe for a brief moment, we do. It’s a little visceral to yell, even if just in a metaphorical sense. But we are kind of listening. I’m losing my freaking mind becomes the title of the chapter we’re living.

Now, I’m not going to suggest that we change the chapter of the title and, voila!, life gets better. But I think we are responsible for being honest, even to ourselves. I’m not losing my freaking mind. I made it through the last three weeks. I will likely make it through the next three weeks. I’m not in acute danger. My mind is actually relatively at ease, which is why I can worry about the future 365 days in advance instead of the next 5 minutes of “how am I going to wash dishes/take a shower/remain upright?”

Being honest with yourself is hard, but that’s no reason to let yourself off the hook.

Someone told me over the weekend that I had anxiety. Not as in “the emotion that humans have” but as in a title, like “ADHD.” My first response was to get mad inside, just like the LAST time several years ago someone told me that. Because just because I’m anxious most of the time doesn’t mean I “have” anxiety, it means I’m in circumstances that would make anyone anxious, that’s all!

It didn’t help that the person who was suggesting I had a condition had just absolutely lost her bananas in anxious-land on account of getting a puppy she’s been wanting for years. Whereas I had been in a clearly more valid state of anxiety over unknown rehabilitating illness, uncertain future, uprooted vagrant with no clear path to even the next step.

See the self-justification, the defense, the condemnation of others? Maybe I do “have Anxiety,” I don’t know. What would that change, really? I just don’t want (pride) the stigma (and vanity) associated with being A Person With Anxiety. I’m not an anxious person. I got my stuff together. It’s just sometimes life gets hard, that’s all.

Well, maybe you don’t have your stuff together. How about that, hm? I wonder why it is so hard for me to accept that. I suppose, if you were one who believed we were shaped by our upbringing, it would be because I’m so often bailing everyone else out that some part of me feels like I have to be able to count on me, because who else can I count on?

But if you don’t like theories like that — I don’t; they make me feel uncomfortably lot like I am trying to blame anything but myself for my character short-comings — there’s the plain fact that, as usual, there’s a lack of trust in God and a defiance of being dependent on Him. Period.

I don’t like that answer either, because it seems to leave very little room for encouragement or grace. Your fault. Did it wrong again. Still not enough faith.FAIL. I guess the only thing I can really come up with is that the focus is still me, me, me; I, I, I. Maybe the point is, stop thinking about you. Your anxiety. And start thinking more about God, who, quite frankly, you ignore on a regular basis.

Paul says, “It is not troublesome for me to remind you again. . .” Maybe the point isn’t in learning new things, but in remembering the steady, constant things. God is good. God is near. God is faithful. God is in control. Maybe I need to just stop fixating on me, and consciously practice fixating on Him.

I am losing my freaking mind

Ugh. Between my car breaking down and my cousins stopping in to visit for a few days, I got totally, totally derailed. I have managed, barely, to hang on to diet and exercise, but sleep, mindfulness, writing and more have gone totally out the window. I struggle to find a balance between “the expectation is. . .” and “show yourself grace.”

Tonight, I’ve got a boatload of homework to do, and I’m trying to keep up with my social circle since my remaining time with them is rapidly shrinking. I’m tried, but my mind is racing too much to sleep. Everything is a disaster, and I can’t cope.

So I’m writing. Because it only makes sense to apply the treatment before attempting to function. But so much inside of me is screaming out, “I don’t have time for this right now! Can’t it wait until I’m at least back on an even keel?” But “waiting” until life is right just means we never do it. It’s time to drop the cortisol, and trust God that everything will be okay, because no matter how I cut it, it’s not going to be okay.

There’s this girl in our class who is determined to be very involved in our profession’s professional organization. Honestly, it makes me feel sad for her. She’s purchased the wardrobe, the plane tickets, you name it. She’s campaigned for a position, and raves about the networking, of constantly shaking hands. She posts pictures of herself standing next to people “high up” in the organization. She makes no bones that she came from a “disadvantaged” background (which to me, the fact that one “claims” that title is almost more meaningful than what background they did come from, as perspective is almost all it takes to change the title), and she appears like she has decided to make it her life mission to leave it behind.

But it makes me feel sad, because I feel like she’s alienating herself from the people in our class, and is defining herself by association with people with prestige and power. I don’t get the feeling that it’s genuine; that she genuinely wants to advocate for our profession. Just that it makes her feel very special to go to assemblies in fancy hotels, and she really wants to feel special. She says it’s great, but it’s hard for me to believe her. It seems like a life built around pretension.

I know that I don’t want that. I know that I really want authenticity in my own life, which first above all else requires that you stop lying to yourself. I saw a post on facebook, about someone I don’t know who, “coming out of the closet” and claiming God want him to most be himself, and someone else tearing him apart about how God wants us to die to ourselves. And there’s a part of me that feels like, wait a minute guys, you’re both getting it wrong. There is hedonism, which says “if it makes me happy, it must be right” and there’s honesty, which confesses even sins and doesn’t hide in the garden. You can’t put both of those things under the title of authenticity, when they mean such totally different things.

People nowadays are saying “you do you!” You know, stop giving in to peer pressure. Be in charge of yourself. But it makes me cringe every time. For me, authenticity is not about not giving a damn what anyone else thinks. It’s about being honest about who you are, not about being rude. It’s about not lying to yourself, not about flaunting everyone else’s protocols. It’s not about defiance, it’s about vulnerability. It’s not about being the center of your own little universe; it’s about seeing yourself, in all your flaws and glory, and not trying to shamefully deny either one. And for some of us, we’re as shy about our “glories” as we are our faults, and find it easier to be public in our self-humiliation than our God-given strengths.

This is a struggle for me, a very real one, because I want outside affirmation so very badly. Someone to tell me I made the right choice. Someone to tell me I did a good job. Or not even someone, just bars that I feel I have to clear in order to be ‘sufficient.’ And I know that’s stupid. I know it, because when I clear the bars and and when people say so, I still feel dissatisfied and uneasy. That’s what you say; why should I believe you? It must be because the course was so easy; if it were really, truly hard, I wouldn’t have done so well. Comparison dominates. Am I as smart, as kind, as personable, as brave, as hardworking, as. . . and then you pick whoever you know who is at the top of their field for each category, and of course you don’t measure up to your ideal of the perfect person, a composite of a thousand peoples’ strengths.

And it scares me, because it still seems to have power over me. I have to . . .I must. . .I couldn’t. . . Or even holding back parts of myself because I daren’t have them critiqued. So much of my writing and creative efforts, I hide as much as I can. Because it’s not good enough to clear bars. It’s not good enough to see the light of day. Even as I mourn my grandfather burning most of his paintings because he determined they weren’t worth keeping.

What can be said? There but the grace of God go I? I’m not sure that I’m not there, just in a more stealthy, insidious manner. What do I want to say? God, have mercy on me, and save me from my own darkness, the one that keeps trying to be enough. I am not enough. Only You are, and I can’t seem to keep my attention on you longer than a sneeze. Come rescue me.