i sat there, in the yard, praying. reflecting. silently mouthing the words to "Your Love is Strong," and realizing that God probably honors our open-eyed prayers even more than our bowed-heads one, because we're able to recognize and confess gratitude for the beauty before us.
i smiled as i remembered back to a very similar, yet strikingly different experience. i was in nashville, on the porch of my adorable sylvan park cottage, when a rainstorm struck out of nowhere. grabbing a towel and ditching my jeans and overshirt, i sat in the yard, beneath the early summer rain, and i sang praises. i giggled, and felt like a child. unafraid of the elements, no-- rather, in harmony with them.
this time, i sat there, my arms hanging around my bent knees, remembering those moments in the rain. those moments on the porch. those moments in summer. those moments of peace and joy and freedom.
this time, i was bundled in tights and snow pants, in shirts and vests and ski jackets and scarves. but, i sat and watched as the snow fell violently all around me, all over me, and i didn't feel the cold. while rolling the snow into a head for our giant snowman, the beauty around me overwhelmed me, and for a moment, i forgot about the freezing temperatures and my rear-end sitting in a foot of snow.
the wind picked up with the crescendo of the chorus, and i felt like it was the Lord whispering His promises to me once again:
"... So why do I worry? Why do I freak out? God knows what I need. You know what I need ... Two things You told me: You are strong, and You love me. Yes, You love me..."
i sit in a very different spot than in that summer place in my yard in Tennessee beneath the rain. but that's the beauty of the Lord. He's with us always, and He loves us indefinitely, regardless of the season of life we are in. because, it's not always summer. and just like those open-eyed prayers, i can't help but think that he rejoices with us more in our winter season revelations.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
because, it's not always summer. part I.
i'd love to say winter lulls me to sleep, like the hibernating bear that can't be bothered by the lack or want or cold, but that would be an outright lie. winter causes panic, anxiety, tears, and fears to arise like no other season can. seasonal depression is a real thing, and for some reason, the quasi-nostalgia-inducing weather turns my head and my heart into something i truly know that i am not.
i fight it. with heat, and baking, and warm socks. i wear leg warmers and paint my nails and even do my makeup in an effort to pretend i'm warm and entice myself to girly and frilly in order to falsify external beauty when the insides feel cold and dull.
but some days, it's hard to fight. some days, the tears well for no other reason than it's cold and my body is vitamin d deficient and my hormones are wacky. for no logical reason, to fight means to cry. because crying is my body's natural reaction when facing fear. yet, it signifies i am doing just that: facing it.
fear is real, every day, for me. i don't know when i started being so afraid, i just know that a lot of days i wake up or go to bed just feeling that way. afraid of loss, of failure, of not being enough. afraid of losing love, or not feeling it, or not giving it. afraid that i'll face anxiety and fear and sadness for much longer than i can handle. that it will ruin me, or steal my joy, or ruin my relationship because it steals my joy. i'm afraid of being a burden, of being a downer, of having to hide behind a happy i don't always feel. i'm afraid to be honest about it sometimes, because everyone always thinks there must be a reason you're sad or that happy is what you make of it. then, i'm sad and afraid, and furthermore sad because i'm afraid.
standing up to these fears may look like wallowing. but tears often times signify courage. that even though i'm fearful, i'm choosing to fight. by confessing my fears. by asking for help. by discussing my anxiety. those things are scary enough, and walking through those things my body undergoes physical stress that causes the tears to rush and exhausts my body once it's over.
truthfully, i fight back tears in composing this. there's fear in releasing honest thoughts that leave you vulnerable as you confess the very fears that keep you feeling weak. but sometimes crying doesn't show weakness. sometimes it means i'm doing it afraid. afraid, yes. but i am doing it anyway. because, it's not always summer. sometimes its winter, and its cold, and you just have to go about life honestly while you wait for the sun.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
find your snow.
It is no surprise that I practically abhor the winter
season. I grew up with “White Christmas”
defined by the color of the sand on the gulf shores and the caps to the
waves. I have about a 15 degree
threshold for temperature variance. Somewhere between 75 and 90. I’m a staunch believer that Christmas does
not begin until after Thanksgiving is
over. I live in the same two pair of
black riding pants from November through March. I slept in my boot socks. I cried at the first snowfall (and subsequent
iced-over-windshield-scraping) of the season.
I don’t take my coat off when entering a building. I don’t handle cold mornings with much
grace.
But then, something magical happens. This white, semi-solid, uniquely and
individually designed particles start falling from the sky. But that’s not even the magical part; what’s
most miraculous is how it immediately causes my heart to react. It’s as if, suddenly, I’ve forgotten my limbs
have lost sensation, and I begin to lose all reason. Maybe snow in general is still enough of a
spontaneous rarity that I’ve not yet become familiarly acquainted with its
negative properties.
I stand. I stare. I gawk. I watch, as the flurries float
effortlessly towards the ground, often detouring and giving shape to the unseen
gusts blowing them every-which-way and back again. And as the flakes seem
momentarily suspended, it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to time standing still.
Winter itself, and perhaps it’s the holiday season
specifically, conjures up feelings of nostalgia for something that never
was. There’s a romantic notion about
white skies and bare trees. It’s a paradox of sorts. Snow is the culmination of every frigid
little thing I detest about winter, yet, it’s the one saving grace for the
season.
Whatever season you’re in in life: transition. waiting.
grief. rebuilding. winter. Find your snow.
Find the one thing that brings out the beauty amidst the barren. Seek the solace that causes you to forget how
cold it is. And rejoice that the Lord
has provided grace for even the most difficult of seasons.
***
Tuesday Typing Tunes: “Hazy” - Rosi Golan | “It Is Well With
My Soul” - Daniel Martin Moore | “Such Great Heights” (cover) – Iron and Wine |
“Deep In Your Eyes” – Jon Foreman | “Brand New Day” – Joshua Radin | “Jesus
Paid it All” – Fernando Ortega | “Photographs and Memories” – Jason Reeves |
“Still” – Matt Nathanson | “Down” – Jason Walker | “Trees and Flowers” – Enter
the Worship Circle
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
a bulemic at a buffet
just about any of us post-collegiate's can relate. you're at a social gathering, a meeting with colleagues, volunteering in your community or at your child's school. next to introducing yourself, the most commonly asked and answered question is, "so, what do you do?"
our identity is so stooped in our vocation, that next to our name, we are known as or even referred to by our job title. i'm a teacher. i'm a student. i'm a doctor. i'm a musician. to an extent, it's much easier to answer the question with "i teach kindergarten," simply because I spend between 50 and 60 hours a week devoting my life to just that.
if afforded the opportunity to expound, and granted the interest in the answer is beyond surface level asking-to-be-nice, i might share what my day looks like, the things i enjoy about it, or the challenges it presents, daily. and chances are, i will offer the courteous follow-up, "and what about you?"
to a certain point, simply stating our vocation depicts a fairly accurate description of our identity and character, but it's also strangely limiting. i am much more than a teacher. and during many parts of my day, i dream about those parts of me that are starving for the same attention i devote to teaching. granted, it might come off fairly odd to respond to that question with "i'm a dreamer. a writer. a traveler. a do-er. a child of God. an extrovert stuck in the season of introverted-ness. a server." i'm sure that would elicit a few sets of rolled eyes and potentially the end of the conversation.
i went to school for teaching. teaching is what pays the bills. education is a passion of mine, and on most days, i feel like it's where i am supposed to be.
but regardless of what our calendars or wardrobe may suggest, we can not be reduced simply to what we do as a career.
so why then, do we spend so much time and effort into developing that part of our identity, and so little to the other parts; the other parts that often make us feel more alive and like "ourselves" than our job?
we starve our passions, and we call ourselves committed to excellence in our job. we don't nourish the parts of us that refresh us, and we wonder why we are exhausted at the end of our work day. we flex our corporate muscles when what lies under the suit and tie is suffering from atrophy. we give all of ourselves to a career that leaves us feeling worn, unhappy, under appreciated, or insignificant. we get home from work, only to continue to send emails, work on projects, lesson plan, or think about nothing more than work.
exercising more than one part of the body brings your body into balance. focusing on just the arms will leave you top-heavy. focusing on just the legs would leave you weak. at risk of sounding nameste-esque, we need to bring our lives into the zen we were created to have.
you have been given unique talents and abilities and gifts and passions. maybe you're not even good at them, but you love doing them when no one is looking. dear one, exercise those things! allow yourself time (longevity) to grow into them. but first, allot yourself time (schedule-wise) to spend on them.
yesterday morning, i had a moment of peace in my busy day in which i felt joy from teaching. to be incredibly transparent, i don't feel that often each week. and at the same time when i felt a love for teaching, i simultaneously wanted to quit my job and be a starving artist or writer, holed up in a corner coffee shop, scribbling notes and ideas that allow my creative side to flourish.
I realized since the start of the school year, I have only fed and poured into the part of my identity labeled teacher. my other identities were starved for attention, and i felt the hunger pangs that were drawing me into feeding my creative side. i could hardly wait to get these words out of my mind and onto a page. not that they are ground breaking or new, but for the simple sake of writing. for the act of artistically and systematically stringing together sentences of alliterations. of expressing feelings that aren't neccessarily coupled with linguistic expression until the words trickle onto the page at the mercy of my finger tips.
American writer and essayist, Flannery O'Connor once said, "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." Selfishly, I write to make sense of the mess that is going on inside my heart and mind. Writing brings unity to the chaos. Words on the page are the universal language to the multitude of dialetcs being spoken and (mis)interpreted in the silent space between my ears.
Secondarily, I write in hopes that it brings sense to those that read it as well. for those yes! moments in which we feel as if someone relates. in hopes that my experiences will help reveal the mystery of the metaphors life often speaks to us.
i've never run a marathon, but i volunteered at the finish line once (and that pretty much counts). i imagine that crossing that line is like hitting "publish" on a post. it may not have been pretty. it may have taken a lot longer than you anticipated. and you may have done it just for you. but the feeling when you get when you're finished, the satisfaction of having done it, knowing that you had it in you all along: these things make the investment worth it.
so, feed yourself. and well. not the junky, fast-food version that does nothing more than make you not-hungry. indulge, even if it means making extra time to add the extra ingredients to make it extra savory. it's good for you. it makes you healthier. a healthier you is a happier you. whether that you is a dreamer, a dancer, a doctor, or a do-er. feast on, friend! i'll be right behind ya in line at the buffet!
to callings beyond careers,
xo
our identity is so stooped in our vocation, that next to our name, we are known as or even referred to by our job title. i'm a teacher. i'm a student. i'm a doctor. i'm a musician. to an extent, it's much easier to answer the question with "i teach kindergarten," simply because I spend between 50 and 60 hours a week devoting my life to just that.
if afforded the opportunity to expound, and granted the interest in the answer is beyond surface level asking-to-be-nice, i might share what my day looks like, the things i enjoy about it, or the challenges it presents, daily. and chances are, i will offer the courteous follow-up, "and what about you?"
to a certain point, simply stating our vocation depicts a fairly accurate description of our identity and character, but it's also strangely limiting. i am much more than a teacher. and during many parts of my day, i dream about those parts of me that are starving for the same attention i devote to teaching. granted, it might come off fairly odd to respond to that question with "i'm a dreamer. a writer. a traveler. a do-er. a child of God. an extrovert stuck in the season of introverted-ness. a server." i'm sure that would elicit a few sets of rolled eyes and potentially the end of the conversation.
i went to school for teaching. teaching is what pays the bills. education is a passion of mine, and on most days, i feel like it's where i am supposed to be.
but regardless of what our calendars or wardrobe may suggest, we can not be reduced simply to what we do as a career.
so why then, do we spend so much time and effort into developing that part of our identity, and so little to the other parts; the other parts that often make us feel more alive and like "ourselves" than our job?
we starve our passions, and we call ourselves committed to excellence in our job. we don't nourish the parts of us that refresh us, and we wonder why we are exhausted at the end of our work day. we flex our corporate muscles when what lies under the suit and tie is suffering from atrophy. we give all of ourselves to a career that leaves us feeling worn, unhappy, under appreciated, or insignificant. we get home from work, only to continue to send emails, work on projects, lesson plan, or think about nothing more than work.
exercising more than one part of the body brings your body into balance. focusing on just the arms will leave you top-heavy. focusing on just the legs would leave you weak. at risk of sounding nameste-esque, we need to bring our lives into the zen we were created to have.
you have been given unique talents and abilities and gifts and passions. maybe you're not even good at them, but you love doing them when no one is looking. dear one, exercise those things! allow yourself time (longevity) to grow into them. but first, allot yourself time (schedule-wise) to spend on them.
yesterday morning, i had a moment of peace in my busy day in which i felt joy from teaching. to be incredibly transparent, i don't feel that often each week. and at the same time when i felt a love for teaching, i simultaneously wanted to quit my job and be a starving artist or writer, holed up in a corner coffee shop, scribbling notes and ideas that allow my creative side to flourish.
I realized since the start of the school year, I have only fed and poured into the part of my identity labeled teacher. my other identities were starved for attention, and i felt the hunger pangs that were drawing me into feeding my creative side. i could hardly wait to get these words out of my mind and onto a page. not that they are ground breaking or new, but for the simple sake of writing. for the act of artistically and systematically stringing together sentences of alliterations. of expressing feelings that aren't neccessarily coupled with linguistic expression until the words trickle onto the page at the mercy of my finger tips.
American writer and essayist, Flannery O'Connor once said, "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." Selfishly, I write to make sense of the mess that is going on inside my heart and mind. Writing brings unity to the chaos. Words on the page are the universal language to the multitude of dialetcs being spoken and (mis)interpreted in the silent space between my ears.
Secondarily, I write in hopes that it brings sense to those that read it as well. for those yes! moments in which we feel as if someone relates. in hopes that my experiences will help reveal the mystery of the metaphors life often speaks to us.
i've never run a marathon, but i volunteered at the finish line once (and that pretty much counts). i imagine that crossing that line is like hitting "publish" on a post. it may not have been pretty. it may have taken a lot longer than you anticipated. and you may have done it just for you. but the feeling when you get when you're finished, the satisfaction of having done it, knowing that you had it in you all along: these things make the investment worth it.
so, feed yourself. and well. not the junky, fast-food version that does nothing more than make you not-hungry. indulge, even if it means making extra time to add the extra ingredients to make it extra savory. it's good for you. it makes you healthier. a healthier you is a happier you. whether that you is a dreamer, a dancer, a doctor, or a do-er. feast on, friend! i'll be right behind ya in line at the buffet!
to callings beyond careers,
xo
new-ances.
you and i both know it, so there's little reason to spend a ton of time discussing my absence here. i could lie and say i've been busy, but that's not really the case. i could say that i haven't felt much like talking, or that i wouldn't know what to say; but those two would be fallacies.
living in Indianapolis has not been Nashville. this fall has not been last fall, and this year has not been last year. this move was not like my move to Tennessee a short six-and-a-half years ago. this coffee shop i'm sitting in is more Taking Back Sunday than Sufjan; this Mexican Hot Chocolate is definitely not a Mayan Mocha from The Well (which definitely is not in Indy, either).
so, i'm adjusting. i've been slow to write, because i've been slow to acclimate. embarrassingly slow. like, an i-thought-i'd-be-good-at-this-by-now, but-i-was-wrong sort of pace.
and that's okay. Indy was not meant to be Nashville. and this year was not meant to resemble the one prior, or any others for that matter. nothing here is meant to replace that which came before it. nothing here can take away that which already exists.
there's a deep tension in life of what we have and what we are missing. contentment happens when we focus on what we have. resentment happens when we focus on what we are missing.
when I first moved, it was difficult to see past all the life I have just given up to transplant myself in a new city. all the changes at once: new city, new job (and the initial lack of one), new district with new curriculum and a new demographic and new administration, a new church, a new house; and all of the things missing: friendships that have surpassed a decade, or even longer than 10 minutes, being roommateless for the first time ever, those local spots that felt like second homes (second reference of The Well, in case you missed it), my yoga class from 4 blocks away, faith friendships that i could call on with a moment's notice, even just knowing where to get the best taco (the perma-parked truck on Charlotte) or good felafel (Farmer's Market). I felt the tangible absence of each and everyone of these things.
And, even in the presence of the goodness of why I moved (my own personal McDreamy), it was hard not to feel the withdrawal pains of all I chose to leave behind. it was much less of a battle against resentment than it was a fight for contentment.
i expected carbon-copies of friendships and churches and coffeehouses. and the reality is, not only is that unrealistic, it is also limiting and mildly insulting that those things could ever be replaced.
i'm finding a rhythm to life. the cadence to this new song is different than that i've danced to before. but different is not bad. how often are you afforded the chance to start anew? to build a life from scratch, and share in that new life with the one you love? to fall face-first into new experiences and treasure them as unique and valuable and shaping?
in the same way i expected to replicate life from Nashville in Indianapolis, i've expected my walk with the Lord to be duplicitous to how I've experienced Him in prior seasons of change.
I'm learning that the ways I've experienced the Lord, or looked to Him, or grown to know Him in the past, are not the ways I'm experiencing Him, looking to Him, or growing with Him here, in the present. At first, I thought that meant I was doing it all wrong. But after the tides have settled from the drastic ebbs and flows of change, I've been able to see that in this new season, I need Him in new ways. and a good friend reminded me during a quick meet-up in Nashville that is the way it is supposed to be.
He says I am, because, He is. all things. any thing. every thing. exactly what I need. even when I don't see it, don't notice it.
in this new season, I need a fresh facet of His face. where i've latched on in faith before, I may need His hands to hold me in my doubts. where i've walked in confidence, I've forgotten my identity in Him, and desire Him to patch up the places of my life that have been riddled with the holes of insecurity. the aspects of His character that I've gotten to know intimately have suddenly felt foreign. and for a time, it left me feeling that i was holding onto the tattered rags of what once was, but is no longer. it was a scary place to be.
but i can't help but think of the tabernacle from the Old Testament. it had to be torn down, and reconstructed to a set of standards each time it moved on to a new place among the people. God has been hard at work rebuilding my tabernacle, and although it's a life-long journey, I think this phase of the project has just met completion.
as scary as that can be, it has been beautiful. although we're in the throws of fall, my heart seems to be on the verge of spring. and what's prettier than Paris in the spring?
living in Indianapolis has not been Nashville. this fall has not been last fall, and this year has not been last year. this move was not like my move to Tennessee a short six-and-a-half years ago. this coffee shop i'm sitting in is more Taking Back Sunday than Sufjan; this Mexican Hot Chocolate is definitely not a Mayan Mocha from The Well (which definitely is not in Indy, either).
so, i'm adjusting. i've been slow to write, because i've been slow to acclimate. embarrassingly slow. like, an i-thought-i'd-be-good-at-this-by-now, but-i-was-wrong sort of pace.
and that's okay. Indy was not meant to be Nashville. and this year was not meant to resemble the one prior, or any others for that matter. nothing here is meant to replace that which came before it. nothing here can take away that which already exists.
there's a deep tension in life of what we have and what we are missing. contentment happens when we focus on what we have. resentment happens when we focus on what we are missing.
when I first moved, it was difficult to see past all the life I have just given up to transplant myself in a new city. all the changes at once: new city, new job (and the initial lack of one), new district with new curriculum and a new demographic and new administration, a new church, a new house; and all of the things missing: friendships that have surpassed a decade, or even longer than 10 minutes, being roommateless for the first time ever, those local spots that felt like second homes (second reference of The Well, in case you missed it), my yoga class from 4 blocks away, faith friendships that i could call on with a moment's notice, even just knowing where to get the best taco (the perma-parked truck on Charlotte) or good felafel (Farmer's Market). I felt the tangible absence of each and everyone of these things.
And, even in the presence of the goodness of why I moved (my own personal McDreamy), it was hard not to feel the withdrawal pains of all I chose to leave behind. it was much less of a battle against resentment than it was a fight for contentment.
i expected carbon-copies of friendships and churches and coffeehouses. and the reality is, not only is that unrealistic, it is also limiting and mildly insulting that those things could ever be replaced.
i'm finding a rhythm to life. the cadence to this new song is different than that i've danced to before. but different is not bad. how often are you afforded the chance to start anew? to build a life from scratch, and share in that new life with the one you love? to fall face-first into new experiences and treasure them as unique and valuable and shaping?
in the same way i expected to replicate life from Nashville in Indianapolis, i've expected my walk with the Lord to be duplicitous to how I've experienced Him in prior seasons of change.
I'm learning that the ways I've experienced the Lord, or looked to Him, or grown to know Him in the past, are not the ways I'm experiencing Him, looking to Him, or growing with Him here, in the present. At first, I thought that meant I was doing it all wrong. But after the tides have settled from the drastic ebbs and flows of change, I've been able to see that in this new season, I need Him in new ways. and a good friend reminded me during a quick meet-up in Nashville that is the way it is supposed to be.
He says I am, because, He is. all things. any thing. every thing. exactly what I need. even when I don't see it, don't notice it.
in this new season, I need a fresh facet of His face. where i've latched on in faith before, I may need His hands to hold me in my doubts. where i've walked in confidence, I've forgotten my identity in Him, and desire Him to patch up the places of my life that have been riddled with the holes of insecurity. the aspects of His character that I've gotten to know intimately have suddenly felt foreign. and for a time, it left me feeling that i was holding onto the tattered rags of what once was, but is no longer. it was a scary place to be.
but i can't help but think of the tabernacle from the Old Testament. it had to be torn down, and reconstructed to a set of standards each time it moved on to a new place among the people. God has been hard at work rebuilding my tabernacle, and although it's a life-long journey, I think this phase of the project has just met completion.
as scary as that can be, it has been beautiful. although we're in the throws of fall, my heart seems to be on the verge of spring. and what's prettier than Paris in the spring?
Monday, August 19, 2013
thoughts + questions on provision
i sat and watched on through the spotless glass as the chipmunks lapped up refreshment from the tiny creek. the hummingbirds, suspended in mid-air, fluttered and flitted to and fro, from one feeder to the next. two robins took their turns at the feeder, one repeatedly trying to fly through the glass that separated us.
i sat and looked out, but i came to this room to reflect. within moments, my cheeks were wet with tears. and then, the full-on silent sob came. fortunately, i had just hiked, and the mid-august heat had my face already "glistening" with beads of sweat, so the tears didn't seem so apparent.
i thought about these birds, that don't have to work for their food. these chipmunks that don't have to hunt. they've all been provided for. but what about the ones in the field that couldn't make it? or didn't know? or were just too far away? what happens to them? and who gets to choose? certainly these birds and beasts didn't *earn* the right to this never ending smorgasbord. and certainly, the others didn't do enough bad-bird-stuff to get themselves banned from the buffet.
***
i looked to my right. silently, a woman sat with an older, disabled child in a handicapped stroller. they watched the birds, and every now and then, the woman would whisper something to the child, who wasn't capable of verbally responding.
my heart broke for this child, for this woman. as they left, another dad came in, with yet again another older child, in a handicapped stroller, capable of only involuntary outburst and screams. i heard him speak with tenderness about his daughter to the woman he was with, presumably, a new date. i was broken for the difficulties that she would have to sacrifice for, and for the long, difficult, and somewhat unpredictable journey fatherhood must've been for him.
who got to choose that these children would have disabilities, when the ones in the other room are running and yelling, free as can be, with no assumption that it could, or should, be any different? why is this the path that God had for them and their families? certainly the Lord wouldn't punish a child for the sins of his parent; no more than he must grant bounty to some and bareness to others.
i sat and looked out, but i came to this room to reflect. within moments, my cheeks were wet with tears. and then, the full-on silent sob came. fortunately, i had just hiked, and the mid-august heat had my face already "glistening" with beads of sweat, so the tears didn't seem so apparent.
i thought about these birds, that don't have to work for their food. these chipmunks that don't have to hunt. they've all been provided for. but what about the ones in the field that couldn't make it? or didn't know? or were just too far away? what happens to them? and who gets to choose? certainly these birds and beasts didn't *earn* the right to this never ending smorgasbord. and certainly, the others didn't do enough bad-bird-stuff to get themselves banned from the buffet.
***
i looked to my right. silently, a woman sat with an older, disabled child in a handicapped stroller. they watched the birds, and every now and then, the woman would whisper something to the child, who wasn't capable of verbally responding.
my heart broke for this child, for this woman. as they left, another dad came in, with yet again another older child, in a handicapped stroller, capable of only involuntary outburst and screams. i heard him speak with tenderness about his daughter to the woman he was with, presumably, a new date. i was broken for the difficulties that she would have to sacrifice for, and for the long, difficult, and somewhat unpredictable journey fatherhood must've been for him.
who got to choose that these children would have disabilities, when the ones in the other room are running and yelling, free as can be, with no assumption that it could, or should, be any different? why is this the path that God had for them and their families? certainly the Lord wouldn't punish a child for the sins of his parent; no more than he must grant bounty to some and bareness to others.
***
i sat, and i cried, and i thought, and i cried some more.
i didn't have any answers. i didn't have any divine, spiritual wisdom revealed to me in some great epiphany. i thought about my own lack as of lately; when i've been trusting the Lord for provision, for a job namely, but for other spiritual fortitudes, and how I feel like neither my good work can earn it, nor could my failures of flesh do anything to diminish it. how i seem to be hanging in the balance, watching the birds find their food, yet being on the opposite side of the glass just peering out.
i read through Matthew 6 and continued to weep. knowing that the Lord promises provisions for each and every day, one at a time. also knowing that He uses others to be the answer to prayer; the Lord didn't drop manna for these mockingbirds-- He used humans to supply for their needs.
quite often we could be the answer to someone else's prayers, but we are too busy offering to pray for them, rather than offering to jump in and help meet their needs.
***
this post has been all over the place. i don't have answers, and i think that's okay. i wrestle with God often over the depravity of man and the difficult ways life presents itself. but He's a big God, and He will always win the wrestling match.
just some thoughts on provision, and the questions i have yet to find answers to.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Sometimes, there are things in life you don't necessarily enjoy or want to do, but you know they are good for you. Running, limiting sweets, drinking V-8. Things that sort of hurt in the process, but the benefits often outweigh the price, or no one would ever even consider them.
Today, for me, it's writing. Or, more specifically, writing about the anxiety that I've been dealing with for at least the better part of the past year.
I've prided myself on being the normal one in my family (forgive me of my self-righteousness). I've thanked the Lord that I've not had to deal with the enslaught of issues that have plagued those on the branches of my family tree. And, when things got hard, I knew the One to turn to.
Today, I stepped outside to head to the grocery when it brushed past me, it's touch lingering and recalling memories that for no apparent reason brought about a haunting nostalgia. The first crisp air of fall, a season we all long for as a reprieve from often unbearable, scorching summer heat that leaves us desparate for a change.
But for me, for some reason, that breeze wasn't the promise of a fresh season. It was the poignant reminder of a painful past. They say scent is the number one trigger of memories; I would argue that it's the first cool snap of fall. I don't know why it triggers so much anxiety (aside from fall being a gateway to winter cold and awful clothes and seasonal depression), but each time I felt the simultaneous warm sun on my skin and brisk breeze pass me by, it was a lurking reminder of the difficulties to come, again, in the new season.
I try to separate what I feel and what I know to be true. I had to begin this process at the end of last summer, and I honestly never expected to still be dealing with this. Where every decision is an opportunity to make the wrong, game-ending choice, and the fear of having to deal with anxiety is often worse than the anxiety itself. You fear talking about it because you fear being seen differently because of it. And you fear being seen differently because you fear that no one could truly want to try to understand it, deal with it, or even put the effort into loving you because of it.
I know these things to not *be* true, but the problem with anxiety is that it warps your emotions to manipulate your truths into doubts. And the sinking feeling you get about sharing your emotions and truths and fears, and actually being right about them, prevents you from dealing with the anxiety the way we are called to deal with anything: in the light.
Today, I'm refusing to call lights-out at bedtime. I'm taking a stand because I know I am strong enough to be transparent, even if our most common misconception of transparent items is that they are extremely fragile. And tomorrow, I will turn and fight the lies again, as much as I have to, with as much strength I can muster. I'm thankful that even in the hard things, even when the anxiety makes it harder, I can still turn to the Lord and trust that He is bigger, stronger, and more powerful than I feel or realize.
***
I didn't realize this at time of posting, but I'm not the only one wrapped in the shroud of anxiety today. Nor am I the only one taking courage and fighting. Read below.
Today, for me, it's writing. Or, more specifically, writing about the anxiety that I've been dealing with for at least the better part of the past year.
I've prided myself on being the normal one in my family (forgive me of my self-righteousness). I've thanked the Lord that I've not had to deal with the enslaught of issues that have plagued those on the branches of my family tree. And, when things got hard, I knew the One to turn to.
Today, I stepped outside to head to the grocery when it brushed past me, it's touch lingering and recalling memories that for no apparent reason brought about a haunting nostalgia. The first crisp air of fall, a season we all long for as a reprieve from often unbearable, scorching summer heat that leaves us desparate for a change.
But for me, for some reason, that breeze wasn't the promise of a fresh season. It was the poignant reminder of a painful past. They say scent is the number one trigger of memories; I would argue that it's the first cool snap of fall. I don't know why it triggers so much anxiety (aside from fall being a gateway to winter cold and awful clothes and seasonal depression), but each time I felt the simultaneous warm sun on my skin and brisk breeze pass me by, it was a lurking reminder of the difficulties to come, again, in the new season.
I try to separate what I feel and what I know to be true. I had to begin this process at the end of last summer, and I honestly never expected to still be dealing with this. Where every decision is an opportunity to make the wrong, game-ending choice, and the fear of having to deal with anxiety is often worse than the anxiety itself. You fear talking about it because you fear being seen differently because of it. And you fear being seen differently because you fear that no one could truly want to try to understand it, deal with it, or even put the effort into loving you because of it.
I know these things to not *be* true, but the problem with anxiety is that it warps your emotions to manipulate your truths into doubts. And the sinking feeling you get about sharing your emotions and truths and fears, and actually being right about them, prevents you from dealing with the anxiety the way we are called to deal with anything: in the light.
Today, I'm refusing to call lights-out at bedtime. I'm taking a stand because I know I am strong enough to be transparent, even if our most common misconception of transparent items is that they are extremely fragile. And tomorrow, I will turn and fight the lies again, as much as I have to, with as much strength I can muster. I'm thankful that even in the hard things, even when the anxiety makes it harder, I can still turn to the Lord and trust that He is bigger, stronger, and more powerful than I feel or realize.
***
I didn't realize this at time of posting, but I'm not the only one wrapped in the shroud of anxiety today. Nor am I the only one taking courage and fighting. Read below.
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