step one: unpack.

You may not have noticed my absence,  but trust me, it's been intentional.  I've been ignoring you in worse ways than I used to find any menial thing to do before writing a paper in college (hey, at least then that meant my house was spotless and my kitchen full of every baked good you could ever crave!)

I'm not sure why I've not been ale to write.  Even when I haven't had the time, I've still had moments where I really could've done it.  I've opened up this page half a dozen times, but the words never came, or they came too many at once, and it's a million times easier to click that little "x" at the top of the page than it is to sort through any of them.

I've been home from Haiti for over a month now.  Back in Nashville for four weeks already.  For the better part of that time, I've been dealing with an enslaught of emotion from reentry.  Knowing it wasn't as long of a time, nor was it as dramatic of a change this second time around, I really didn't anticipate being so depressed coming back.  But I was, perhaps still am, and it's been really hard to shake if we're being honest. Which, by God's good grace, I've been able to be real honest. To just about anyone that asks. #sorryboutit.

This post alone is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions mixed together, and unable to separate, like two colors of playdoh that have been forever swirled into one.  You can thank my kinders for that illustration.  Perhaps I haven't written, because the thought of sorting through my thoughts and feelings and the sources of them is too overwhelming on its own.  Much like just about every part of life I've been dealing with.  Much of my wardrobe is till strewn about the house.  Tubs still remain in the attic, my dresser remains half-empty, and the clothes I spent 10 weeks in this summer are still piled not-so-neatly in the living room.

Facing reality has been overwhelming.  I'm literally only able to do it one baby-step at a time.  It seems that I make huge advances, only to be followed by a wall of obstacles the next day that remind me that this is a war, and each day is only a battle.  Last weekend, I ventured up to the attic, at the God-sent-request of a friend to host a yard sale.  I went through a majority of my storage tubs into the wee-hours of Saturday morning, accompanied by a pot of coffee and Ferngully (both consumed in full).  After sorting through tub after tub of my belongings, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of clothes I had procured over the years.  There is no way these all fit in my room, as they are barely contained in their space in the attic!  I must've purged half of what I own, knocking my pants and jeans in half.  That thought of the initial cost and value of everything I carelessly tossed in the take-it-out-of-my-life pile made me nauseous.

Cleaning up after the garage sale was another huge task to unveil.  After getting everything out of my house, I now had a surplus of stuff that didn't sell that I didn't want to return back in, for fear it might never leave again.  (reminded of that verse about casting out demons and cleaning house, only for them to return seven-fold, and how it would've just been better to never cast out the one in the first place. Well that's encouraging.).  Even though I had sorted through and purged the excess, I couldn't find the strength to actually return the rest of it to my room.  To actually un-pack it and deal with it.  I'm so cognizant of the physical-spiritual-emotional manifestation of parallels in this situation.

i've been avoiding writing like the plague.  i've had enough to deal with, that dealing with thoughts that weren't already presenting themselves has seemed like waking a sleeping bear while you're on the dead-end-side of his cave.  waking scary, negative things when real life has been admittedly scary and negative, is, well, scary.  but writing somehow proves to be an antidote to many of life's problems; sort of like an IV as its pricked into your hand, releasing the flow from the drip bag of just what your body needs.

i'm realizing there is a fine line between laziness and apathy, and being so overwhelmed that you literally can't deal with it.  healthiness does not reside with either of those; however, sometimes you just have to do what you can to survive.  and that is what i am doing.  what i can.

i don't want this to come off super debbie-downer.  i don't want you to worry about my soul (saved by His grace), my mental state (i know when i need help), or my ability to discern between enduring the storm and succumbing to the seas. but i don't think we talk about it enough when we are in the midst of the battle, and can't confidently proclaim the hope that you know in the stillest, smallest places in your heart still exists.  we hide in depression and anxiety.  we go to bed on it at 6 p.m. and pretend like all is well to the outside world.  but the Bible tells us to walk in light, that whatever we put in to the light is no longer in darkness.  and praise Him, because i used to be super private.  i hid the secrets of my heart like a secret stash of dark chocolate.  i hid my struggles for fear of rejection.  all until one day, that i realized to live as if i truly have been redeemed, i needed to walk redeemed.  i needed to walk in my identity as a redeemed daughter of God.

and walking in that identity means i have to be honest.  i have to get out all the thoughts that are eating my brain.  and it means that i don't walk in anxiety or depression as who i am, not at all.  the enemy wants me to believe this is who i am, that it is inescapable.  but my Daddy tells me different.  the victory on the Cross tells me otherwise.  my identity is a redeemed daughter of the King.  and even the redeem walk through seasons of battles against their mind and circumstance.  but what a powerful army we have walking with us.  prayer warriors and angels, guardsmen of God.

step one: unpack.  don't keep everything boxed up in the attic. shed some light.  dust off the cobwebs.  open up each storage tub carefully.  beware of spiders, but don't be paralyzed by the fear that they are there.  ask for help; you can't carry some of those things down the stairs by yourself.  sit down when it becomes too much, but get back to it.  don't give up.  don't give in.  set small goals.  like, putting away your tank-tops.  you can do this, by the grace of God, you can do this.  but you can never do this without Him.  lean on Him for your strength.  crawl in His lap when the afternoons are hard, instead of just in your bed.  unpacking doesn't mean putting away quite yet; sometimes you just need to survey everything all at once.

shepherd's pie

the next few posts will be a bit like shepherd's pie.  a little bit of this, a little bit of that.  all your thanksgiving feast left-overs thrown in a casserole dish and baked again.

unfortunately, these leftovers have been sitting, fermenting rather, in the fridge for, like, a month now.  they've lost a lot of original flavor.  i promise i'm not a bad cook.  it just takes me a while to grow my motivation to try my hand at a new recipe.

i've managed to start and quit this post 4 times now.  now that it's 11:35, and my eyelids are about as heavy as my stomach after consuming that pumpkin nutella bread i whipped up instead of writing, i've decided to try to attack it just one more time.

the problem is, there are so many left-overs in the fridge.  tupperwares cascade down the shelves when i even begin to crack the door to peer inside. most of it doesn't look the same, and everything has developed a slightly funny smell as you peel back the lid.

but it's time.  it's time to clean out the fridge.  to organize the mess.  to see whats still edible, and to make a new grocery list based on everything thats purged.  and once i throw it all out, it's probably best to wipe it down with a thick layer of lysol disinfecting spray.

guess it looks like i have some writing to do tomorrow after church.  that, and legitimate unpacking and cleaning, and cleaning out the fridge.  the literal one.

so, this happened:

Anyen pa ka detwi kado ak plan Bondye gen pou ou. -Rom 11.29
(for the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable)

and i LOVE it.  i am actually quite obsessed with it, and not ashamed to show it off to the world.  Even my lovely Haitian mama, Lucita, who chided me in Creole not to do it told me today it was pa plis mal.

Since returning from Haiti this summer, I've been enduring a pretty hard struggle against the enemy, myself, and anxiety/depression.  It has not been easy to defeat the lies that the devil has tried to get me to believe, even when hanging on His truths and breathing by His spirit.  There have been moments of breakthrough, but seemingly wrapped in straight-jackets restraining them from the full freedom they were intended on being shrouded in.

In moments when despair seemed darker than the hope is light, this verse resonated in my heart as a reminder that whatever the Lord hath laid out for me was not hanging in the balance of possibility. My destiny in Christ is certain; independent of circumstance or the seemingly loss of joy.  The life of light, the gifts of grace and mercy, none of this depended on my ability to *feel* their tangibility.  They are my inheritance and no lie is bigger than the truth that they are irrevocable.   When I felt tormented by my inability to discern His voice, I rested in the fact that no wrong choice could separate me from His love; could negate the call He has placed on my life, the call to love Him and love like Him.

This verse offers comfort that even in this season of desolation, I am His and He is mine, that my life is still entrusted to His faithful hands, and that they would never pull the rug from beneath me, no matter how far it seemed my heart could fall from Him.

I had wanted to get another tattoo on my foot, and I couldn't think of anything quite as meaningful as this verse, especially in Creole.  I'm not as fond of the creole translation, as irrevocable doesn't exactly translate, but I know how intricately the Lord has woven Haiti into my heart, and using this translation was just a not-so-subtle reminder of how Haiti is part of those gifts and call that will also remain unchanged.

As I left the tattoo parlor Tuesday evening I felt a sense of completion, as if this literally and permanently sealed this season as it became branded to me for life.  Nothing, no not even this battle as hard as it may seem, nothing can destroy what God has for me.  I will stand, literally, on that truth for life.

pruning

it was my first drive back to school at the end of summer.  the commute is about 25 minutes/miles each way, but i don't mind it.  i particularly enjoy the stretch of country road that leads back in the hills to my school after i leave the interstate far behind me.

my favorite part of that straightaway is this large, empty yard that is dotted with a bradford-pear-tree-boundry.  they line the shoulder in lieu of the picket fence that would seem equally appropriate out here in the country.  no matter what day, what part of the year, or how much i am dreading being awake at an ungodly hour, i absolutely love driving past these trees.  springtime brings bright greens and white buds, nearly enveloping the entire tree in a cocoon of palest-pink cotton.  the petals drop, and usher in the fullest of full, summer foliage.  in the fall, they are rich in reds and golds and yellows; before too long, the leaves collect at its base, begging nostalgia to trust-fall back into its inviting, crunchy pile.  giving way to winter, even the barest of branches stand as a stoic reminder of all the beauty they once grasped.

sometime just before spring,  they pruned back the branches on these larger-than-life trees.  what was once full and blossoming, looked anemic and short and stout.  although it still got spring blossoms, it wasn't nearly as epic as it looked every other season in the past.

but driving by it last week, i noticed that even though it had been trimmed back, the foliage was thick and lush and green.  it was all very close to the trunk, as if the branches had reached out, and welcomed the leaves in a tight embrace.

as i pulled up to the school, i saw more of the bradford pears.  as i parked beneath one, i noticed how scorched the leaves were, winkley signs of their dehydration spread throughout.  some were brown, others wilted, from the record-setting Tennessee heat.  a few branches lay prostrate, paying homage to the mid-summer storm that brought them to their final resting place beneath the shade.

you see why pruning is necessary, Rhiannon? i felt the Lord whisper.

"Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. ³ Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. ⁴ Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. ⁵ I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. ⁶ If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers;and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. ⁷ If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. ⁸  By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. ⁹  As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. ¹⁰  If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.¹¹ These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. --John 15:2-11

I do this because I love you, He says.  I want your joy to be full, and your fruit to be plenty.  pruning is not punishment.  it's protection and provision.  as the vinedresser, i take away what's necessary for growth.  i don't come through, carelessly pulling down branches at random, leaving them at your feet as kindling for a dangerous fire.  there's a plan and a purpose.  yes, you look like you've had to shrink back.  but wait until you can see the fullness of what that looks like.  apart from this, apart from Me, your blossoms will never bloom.  just wait until you see the fruit, this beautiful fruit.  wait for me.  wait with me.  you'll see this is all in love. 

Whispers

I'm hanging onto the whispers I hear in my heart.

Stay with me, He says. Just stay with me; hold on just a little while longer.

Admittedly, I'm struggling a lot with that right now.  I'm fighting anxiety that I've never known, and a huge lack in confidence of my ability to hear and discern His voice.

So I hang onto the whisper that begs me to just stay with Him.  That He's not yet done.  I hold on a little while longer, in wait for Him.

But the battles are too much for me to withstand on my own.  And althought I know with Christ, I have no reason to fear, I still feel as if even with Him, I'll collapse under the weight. 

The Lord Himself will fight for you. Just stay calm. -Ex. 14:14

Even when I don't have the strength Lord, I know that You will fight for me.  You will take up my cause with the angels. You will protect me from the scheme of the enemy.  When my heart is fragile, You will guard it.  When my rebukes are anemic and less than threatening, You remind me all I need to speak is Jesus' name.

I declare your strength in my weakness, and Your word reminds me that that's where it's perfected. 

So in my weakness, with brittle grasp onto Your truth, I hold tightly to your whisper.  I cling to you.

It feels like starting over

Empty.

My room sits, empty, as I move back in tonight.  Since Memorial weekend, I've slept in nine beds that were not my own. 9! In three countries, two time zones, and one suitcase. For ten weeks.  The suitcase still sits in the corner of our living room, like someone detonated a bomb at the bottom of it and the clothes are bursting at every seem begging to be worn, put away, or washed.

But my room (due to exhaustion, starting back to work, and the fact my sweet subleaser just left today), sits vacant of little more than my bed, dresser, night table, and a few dresses and shirts I've hung in the closet to bring a sense of normalcy.

It's stripped. Empty. Void. Bare. Simple.

Sort of like my heart.  Minus the simple part.

I sort of like it.  I dread the thought of unpacking years' of clothing from the attic and it returning to its border-line garment-hoarding state.

It's sort of like a fresh start; it remains pure, uncorrupted by the materialism that has ensnared its owner.

And just like my heart, guarded by Christ, nothing can return  in without first coming through m, being judged and deemed perfect, good, and pleasing. I can choose to clutter it up with baggage I don't need, or I can trust that the Lord is doing this cleansing work in my life both spiritually and phsyically, symbolically, to get rid of the junk I didn't know was shoved in the bottoms of drawers or hanging deep (as deep as a 36" closet can get, at least) in my wardrobe.

So, after hours of tears and combat with the enemy over lies he's been steadily feeding me, I return to my empty room, and my bed for the first time in months.  My heart, and tear ducts, are as empty as the shoe rack on the back of my door.  It feels like starting over, because, really, it is.  He's starting over with me, and I'll be the first to admit, that's a scary thought because I know what the assent and terrain look like.  But I know that I need this.  I know that I've had to be brought here, in order to be rebuilt.

So, I guess this is the beginning. Of relearning how to do life.  Not by my standards, but by His.  Of relearning to hear His voice, stand firm in His truth, to beat off lies like a cockroach in a corner.  To only fill the closet of my heart with garments of His glory and righteousness, with His truth, with thoughts of goodness and nobility and purity.

Empty is the best place to be, because it means you've been purged of everything, positive and negative, and left with nothing more than space for Him to do His work.

I still see you.

The jagged, grey stone jetted out into the ocean deep, and reached to the sky as if it longed to return to its home in outer space.  To my limited lunar knowledge, it looked as if it had spent a few million years orbiting earth, but the calcified stones and fossilized shells suggest it had been present on earth for quite some time.

The pink and grey tones of the volcanic cove were revealed at the base of the gigantic structure each time the ocean  pulled back like a slingshot to launch the next wave at the awe-invoking rocks.  It was a sight unlike anything I've ever seen, and with each pull of the tide, I found my chest empty of breath and word.  

I imagined this is what the world looked like at creation.  The land and the sea, the rock and the waves.  No sound aside from the violent crashing of water upon the enormous rocks protruding into the ocean.

As one of the waves crashed below me, it sprayed up the thirty-foot cliff and landed at the back of my feet. "I haven't forgotten you," whispered the Lord.  "I still see you. You're not out of my reach."

Without even anticipating it, the Lord's sweet words were more refreshing than the seaside breeze on a hot, Haitian afternoon.  He's so good to remember His children, always.