It's a Story ~ Jaime Howsare

“this mind.”

 

“Someday, someone is going to choose you. You are worth someones love and attention. You are so worth it.”

I remember staring at the floor, almost unresponsive, while my sweet and exhausted mom tried to comfort me. I was 18 and totally convinced, deep down in my soul, that no one would ever want me.

It’s such a silly thing to assume so young. Most people don’t meet their person for years after that. But isn’t it the typical thing too? 18 and certain you’ll never find love?

College changed my perspective, as college tends to do. My first month at UF, several guys asked me out. My self-confidence went through the roof. But several months and one break up later, I realized that yay, lots of guys now noticed me, but not many guys stayed.

Guys were interested until they realized that the pretty blonde they’d noticed is also pretty awkward. She doesn’t do small talk, so huge parties aren’t her thing. She has zero rhythm or coordination so taking her dancing is out too. And she would much rather debate philosophical arguments than spend energy flirting with you.

There are guys–though few and far between–that do stay even with all of that. But through some lovely experiences with heart break, I’ve found that my mental illness and emotional unsteadiness is usually too much for them to handle.

I’m a lot of work. The summer I transferred to Wheaton I came to terms with this and decided that I’d be happy if no guy was ever interested again. I wasn’t sad. I was just certain I knew what the future held.

Then on my very first day this goofy guy with curly hair said, “Hey, welcome to Wheaton!” and I don’t think my life will ever be the same.

We had a nearly perfect year of dating, in which (among many other things):

• We sat until midnight in an abandoned art building, listening to spoken word & romantic music, eating deep dish pizza and talking about life.
• He told me he was crazy about me, (no matter how high maintenance I claimed to be), after being the first ever to ask me to a dance.
• He’d walk across campus just to walk with me 20 yards to my next class.
• On our first date we ate on a rooftop and then slow danced under Christmas lights in the middle of an empty street while he sang to me.
• He bought a plane ticket to Orlando two weeks after I agreed to be his girlfriend.
• He then flew in the day before New Year’s Eve–completely surprising me. (He hoped to redeem my favorite holiday for me after I’d been dumped that day the year before. He succeeded.)
• On New Year’s Eve he told me he loved me for the first time with a typewriter written letter.
• He told me a week later that he was going to marry me. (We’d been dating for less than 5 months.)

He is without a doubt the most wonderful, charming, hopeless romantic I have ever met.

But a few weeks after our anniversary (sometime this past September), my mental illnesses began to creep into my life like never before. The old dorm room I had been living in was making me sicker and sicker and sicker. My allergic reactions to my living situations snowballed into uncontrollable anxiety and severe depression.

For the next three months, almost every day meant multiple panic attacks. I hardly ate. I couldn’t attend classes or make deadlines for homework. By November I was almost completely unable to care for myself, so my dad flew into town and I stayed in a hotel room with him for two weeks. School, friendships, nothing else mattered other than trying to regain my strength.

I don’t know if it’s possible for me to have been more vulnerable or more frail than I was those few months. I was unable to function without triggering a panic attack. I’ve never felt so completely helpless.

 

This incredible man is the only reason I made it through that semester. Without his constant help, I know I would’ve had to drop out of school. Maybe I would’ve made it back eventually, maybe not.

He was the only thing that calmed my anxiety. So he would sit with me for hours at a time. He’d come running the moment I texted or called. Not just once or twice, but for weeks at a time.

Once he was late to class because I called him after almost passing out on campus–the medicine I was taking affected my blood sugar levels–and he had to half walk me, half carry me to the health center.

A typical day looked like sitting with me between classes, going to work in the evening for several hours, staying up very late doing homework, waking up early for rehearsal, sometimes going to work again after… and after all of that, he’d be back to sit with me again for however long I needed him.

Our entire semester looked like this.

Not once did he complain to me. Not once.

Not once did he ever make it seem like I was a burden or too much for him to handle.

And somehow, in the midst of all of this mess, he was still saving for an engagement ring. The fact that someone could see me at that level of helplessness and brokenness and still want to buy an engagement ring is beyond me.

Praise God that by the end of the semester I was finally recovering. Two weeks into our winter break and I was back to normal. I flew to Colorado for the last half of break, refreshed and ready to try another semester at Wheaton.

On New Year’s Day, the whole family went to the Denver Zoo and then on a scavenger hunt through their beautiful Christmas light set up. We went off separately from his family, and once we’d gotten through the whole hunt, we kept on exploring. He grabbed my hand and said, “Hey come over here!”

Pretty sure he was just pulling me aside to make out with me, I walked over with no thought of anything other than the soft pretzel I was eating.

When he took the pretzel out of my hand and set it down, he had my attention.

I heard our song playing from the bushes and watched him pull a ring out of his coat pocket. I stood in shock while this man I love so deeply and who has loved me so well, got down on one knee and told me how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

“Someday, someone is going to choose you. You are worth someones love and attention. You are so worth it.”

I can’t believe that I found my person at 20 years old. I can’t believe that I get to marry him at 22. I can’t believe that it’s possible to love another human being this much.

So there’s our story.

There’s the story of how this amazing, goofy man came bounding into my life and never left.

“They need to stop being such whiny babies.”

I swear I’ve read those words in ten different places on my Facebook feed alone since Donald Trump was elected.

The whiny millennials. The ones with zero social skills who stare at their phones all day. The ones who don’t understand reality and only voted for Bernie because they wanted free stuff.

Is it really so hard to see that his support came from how much we care? How much we want our peers to be loved and accepted?

These stereotypes of millennials that you’ve accepted are not accurate.

As a little baby freshman at the University of Florida, I experienced a culture outside conservative Christianity for the first time. What I remember the most is how deeply everyone cared about the environment and social justice–far more than my Christian community from back home seemed to care.

I remember sitting in a little classroom in Turlington Hall with the most random group of students. It was a Gen Ed that everyone kind of despised, so we all seemed to bond over our mutual boredom.

There was one girl who always showed up to class looking absolutely stunning. Four or five guys, (football players included), sat around her each day and vied for her attention.

On the day we were discussing women’s right to drive in Saudi Arabia, she spoke up for the first time.

“I mean, like, why should I care about this? Like, god, can’t they just walk? It’s not that big of a deal.”

Every single guy that had flirted with her visibly leaned away in their chairs as if to make it clear to the rest of us that they were not associated.

To millennials–spoiled and self-centered as people claim we are–it is an atrocity if you do not care about social justice issues.

I think for most of us it feels like Evangelical Christians are the kind of people who don’t care. Even more feel like Christians lived out that insensitivity through this election.

So to the Evangelical community in particular? You need to sit down and listen without mocking.

I can only speak from my own experience and place in time–I get that. But from where I stand, I see Christians who voted for Trump because they felt convicted over the issue of abortion. They were disgusted by him, but they held that issue higher than his other failures. Maybe that was the right decision, maybe it wasn’t.

You just need to recognize how many people feel like you’ve chosen the unborn over them.

Because even though you stayed true to your convictions, you did it by voting for a man who mocked them, wounded them–and even if he does no other harm–will do nothing to defend them.

I don’t think you intended to wound anyone.

Now go prove it.

Get up and defend those who could be at risk right now. Try to calm the fears of those who feel betrayed. Remind them that they matter just as much as that unborn child does.

Christians cannot claim to be pro-life if they discard those who are LGBT, minorities, immigrants, muslims, women, disabled, or anyone else who is marginalized in our world.

There will be plenty of Christians reading this who are truly pro-life. They defend the rights of the unborn and are also deeply devoted to loving and defending others who have been marginalized.

Thank you. Please keep loving and speaking out.

But for those who aren’t?

You need to know that taking a wound and smothering it in Evangelical phrases does not help anyone. We need more than a Southern “God bless it” to heal the deep wounds American Christianity and culture have caused.

Do not mock those who are outraged. Do not tell them to sit down and stop pouting because they “lost.”

This isn’t some child whining because they lost a game of Monopoly to an overly competitive relative.

This is about real lives. This is about the rights of every person Donald Trump has ever mocked or belittled.

Maybe it isn’t that millennials are easily offended. Maybe we’re just finally refusing to put up with the sexism, racism, and bigotry many (but of course, not all) in previous generations accepted.

Maybe we’re the ones that are finally saying enough is enough.

We are a generation that was raised to believe that everything we said should be taken into account. Some people call that being spoiled. But you know what? The generation of “participation ribbons” may have plenty of flaws, but we know that we have a voice.

And we’re going to use it.

So if you’re a Christian–a defender of the weak, a follower of the God who loved the most marginalized and used members of society–prove it.

My prayer is that a Trump presidency will not be what we fear. I pray that he will end up stunning us all with tolerance and improvements in our corrupt government.

But whatever this presidency looks like, there are many people who feel even more distant from the Church than before. So whether people’s fears come true or not, Christians need to stand up, speak out, and love in their daily lives like never before. They need to use the voice that they have to defend those who are afraid.

(You know, kind of like those whiny millennials do.)

This week:

I cried in several different women’s restrooms.

I cried in the middle of Lower Beamer.

I cried in Stupe.

I had a full on panic attack outside of SAGA.

I called a professor while sobbing.

I cried in my car.

I cried in the Disability Services office.

I cried at numerous restaurants and scared some waitresses.

And I’ve just generally gotten used to the looks you get when you cry on the way to class.

Admittedly, me crying is a fairly normal thing. I cry over everything–happy, sad, embarrassing, exciting–but I don’t cry in public.

There are plenty of friends who’ve seen me cry, but strangers? Look weak in front of acquaintances and people who don’t know anything else about me? I don’t think so.

But not recently.

I feel like most people here have watched me fall apart in the past few days. This past week has been one of the shittiest I can remember and the tears came too frequently to hide.

I’ve been raised in a pretty Christian-ese world, so I don’t know a strong enough string of curse words to describe what having an anxiety disorder feels like. (I’m open to suggestions.)

There are few things quite so humiliating as mental illness. Being someone who’s perfectly confident and in control one hour but then curled up in a ball and shaking in fear the next was never a dream of mine.

There is nothing quite like when the anxiety hits and you can hardly think through the fog. Waves of terror pound through your entire being, leaving you shaking and sobbing and so, so fragile. All you want is to be somewhere that feels safe, but there’s no where to go because the thing terrorizing you is your own mind.

In many of those moments this week, my boyfriend has had to wrap me up in a hug so I can cling to him like my life depends upon it. Later, when the anxiety has passed, I feel humiliated that I was so “emotional” and “needy.” I can’t help but wonder at what point he’ll start to get tired of me and this illness he can’t see.

But in the moment it’s a matter of survival, and his arms are one of the few places that feel somewhat safe.

The shame and self-hatred that comes along with a mental illness is very real.

I hate needing help. I despise the moments when my boyfriend or friends have to hold me while I shake and cry and fight my own mind. Even well intentioned words of encouragement often feel like a slap in the face. Anything more than “I love you” feels like sympathy.

This week has been humiliating. I’ve cried with and been comforted by more friends than my pride would ever want to admit. I’ve been given legitimate excuses from Disability Services, allowing me to postpone exams and homework assignments when my brain won’t cooperate.

This week has been terrifying. There’s the fear from the anxiety itself, but even more, there’s a deep fear that the anxiety won’t go away. What if I’m like this forever? What kind of a woman will I make? What kind of wife? What kind of mother? What kind of employee?

This week God has forced me to be absolutely still and simply work through the here and now.

Supplements, medication, therapy, doctors, rest, self-care… that’s all I can focus on right now. And in the moments without anxiety, (which have been more frequent the past two days, praise God), I’ll focus on the people I love.

All of this to say, while I’ve dealt with an anxiety disorder for most of my life, my anxiety this semester and this week has been almost unbearable.

~ ~ ~

Please don’t read this and think I’m in the depths of despair.

This week I have also seen with new eyes the incredible hearts of those I call my friends. They have held me and supported me and made every accommodation necessary to help me walk through this. My family sacrificed time and money to stay with me at my lowest points and help me find solutions. Despite the embarrassment that comes along with this illness, as I walk through it I feel more and more secure in my relationship with my boyfriend.

I have a newfound appreciation for this college. Wheaton pushes you and pushes you, often leaving you feeling like you’re not good enough. But when you’re struggling? These professors and staff are there for you. You are supported and loved.

I’m not writing because I need sympathy. Lord knows I don’t want that.

I’m writing because there are many, many people who struggle with mental illness.

Those illnesses are invisible, they’re humiliating, and they are real.

You are not alone. Reach out and be willing to cry in public. Be willing to be raw and vulnerable with those you trust.

I’m also writing to explain why I’ve dropped off the face of the earth recently. I haven’t posted on the blog in months.

Something about Wheaton has made me want to change the way I write. Something about this environment has made me think I need to write more polished, accomplished stories. You know, the “put together” Christian thing.

And if there’s one great thing that’s come of this illness, it’s that I’ve been reminded again that I am not a “put together” Christian.

I’m a falling-apart-at-the-seams, sometimes-use-the-word-fuck-when-I-pray, so-glad-it’s-all-about-grace kind of Christian.

Through the anxiety attacks and the “failures” that surround them, I’ve been continually brought back to a point of broken humility. The kind of humility that lets you sit alongside other broken people and through a mix of laughter and tears finally just say, “Well, I guess God’s got this. Even if I don’t.”

 

Sweet one,

I know a letter isn’t enough.  Words all sound the same to you right about now. Words of encouragement become white noise behind the pain you’re feeling.

I wish this letter could reach you as you finish your lunch in a bathroom stall. I know how deep your fear goes. Years later, I still hear echoes of your insecurities.

You’re still sorting through who you are and why your brain works the way it does. You still think that there’s something broken, something you’ve done that needs to be fixed.

Lift your head up, darling. Life doesn’t end here. Those lines of mascara on your face won’t last. Someday it will hit you–after years and years of slowly crumbling insecurities–that you are worth it.

Someday their laughter will fade in your memory. That boy who made you feel small will be long forgotten. You will realize that the voice and value you were always waiting for were there the whole time.

Just wait a little longer. I promise things will start to make sense. You’ll know what it means to believe that you are loved for all that you are. One day you’ll be sitting on your dorm room floor–your heart filled to the brim with a joy you can’t even put into words–because everyone you passed that day knew your name.

Whether you leave scars with a knife or with words–lay those weapons aside. There is joy ahead for you. There is more than the pain you are in. There is more than that tiny school bathroom.

Someday you will know the feeling of speaking and being heard.

I’m a few chapters ahead and I wish I could send this letter back to you. Someday your heart will feel safe. I wish I could show you everything you can’t see yet.

God does not forget about the girl crying in the bathroom.

Take a deep breath and walk to your next class, your next social event, your next trial, with your head held high. You might not believe me now, but someday you will.

Sweet one, if you’re reading this, your story isn’t over yet.

~ Jaime

~ ~ ~

a note to my dear readers: please feel free to like, share, subscribe, or join the conversation on any post that impacts you. Your voice is an encouragement to me and to others, and it’s as much a part of this story as mine.

I’ve been desperately wanting to talk on the blog about feminism and women who claim to be anti-feminists… or why John Piper is so totally wrong on what biblical womanhood means… or how much we need women to lead.

But three papers and numerous assignments seem to be getting in the way of that post.

Since I can’t complete a full blog post/rant, I decided to revise and post a complete version of my But I’m Here Now  series.

For those who haven’t seen them before, these photos are from a photography project in which I tried to capture several different archetypes of women in our society.

~ ~ ~

The Bitter Woman. She’s what people think they’re reacting to when they call themselves “anti-feminists.” She’s the woman who has chosen to internalize the words, “Bitches get stuff done.” She’s labeled and then brushed aside in our minds as being far too aggressive, but we miss the point. She has been wounded enough that she feels this way of being is the only way she’ll get the respect she deserves. I am very much a feminist, and I don’t think being one requires you to be the stereotypical bitter woman. It doesn’t require you to hate men. It doesn’t require any bra burning nonsense. Feminism is even compatible with being a happy stay-at-home mom.

But for her, she has been disrespected enough that she feels the need to prove herself. When you see her bitterness, don’t immediately respond with anger, take a moment to acknowledge the injustices that have made her so bitter.

The Silent Woman  shows a contrast between the woman (represented by the left side of the face) who endures abuse and the woman (represented by the right side) who shows the world a brave and collected face. She’s the woman whose suffering goes completely unseen and unheard. There are few things more sick than hearing others (specifically young college males) joke about sexual assault or any sort of violence against women. It is not a joke. The stats say that 1 in 5 women will be sexually assaulted during their college career. That is absolutely sickening and is nothing to laugh about.

The Used Woman  is the one who has been judged on her physical appearance only. She’s the woman who has learned that she must play a certain role in order to get what she wants. Instead of being seen for her heart and soul, she’s shamed by Christians and non-Christians alike. My hope is that the title would make you stop for a moment and remember that she is more than the rating on some Evangelical’s scale of what is “sexually pure.” When I say she has been used, I don’t mean by those in her past, I mean by those who think they can use her as nothing more than a slut shaming joke or some sort of moral lesson.

The Forgotten Woman  could be any woman in almost any situation, and her image sheds some light on the stereotypical female response, “I’m fine.” Her image shows the raw heartbreak that she wishes she could express without being considered weak. It is the pain that is normally masked with a pretty smile and perfect makeup. She is someone who as been wounded, but feels that by showing weakness she’s giving others license to judge her as too “girly” or too emotional.

The Real Woman  is the one with a bare soul and no reservations about who she is. She’s the woman who is defying what society has taught her to believe, the woman who is ignoring the belief that something about her must be altered in order for her to be beautiful. Both secular and Christian culture communicates to women that they are objects. Secular culture says she should use her physical appearance to get what she wants while Christian culture says that her physical appearance is something to be ashamed of. The real woman is the one who defies both cultures and says that she has value beyond her body and sexuality but is not ashamed of either.

 The Hidden Woman  is the one who needs time for others to see past to the problem. At first glance she’s perhaps sad or tired, but it takes a closer look and dedication to see the pain she’s in. The picture was taken with this in mind and I hope it takes the viewer a moment or two to discover what’s wrong. The Hidden Woman slips through the cracks in our society without empathy and without acknowledgement, simply because we fail to see past her face. Maybe she feels like she wants this isolation, or that she deserves it, but in truth she deserves to be loved and seen and known. We must be the kind of people who show her that.

The Emotional Woman  is the opposite of the Bitter Woman. She is everything so utterly adored from female movie stars down to your favorite kindergarten teacher. She’s sweet, sensitive, and she cries an awful lot. The reason she is included in this series is because, so very often, women must choose between being the Emotional Woman or some variation of the Bitter Woman. The Emotional Woman is idolized as feminine in every day social circles, but when it comes down to it, she’s overlooked as a leader and as a thinker. She’s “too soft” or “too fragile.” Too womanly. Even I sometimes find myself criticizing female leaders who seem to be too feminine. So while this woman at first glance doesn’t seem forgotten, I think she’s actually the one we forget the most.

~ ~ ~

Being a feminist does not mean hating men or having to become a CEO or always being pro-choice. Being a feminist means supporting the rights of women and speaking up when those rights are threatened.

I found pieces of myself in all of these images. I may not identify fully, but I can relate to all of them.

My heart for these photos is that they would be a glimpse into the stereotypes most people have for different women. No one can be simplified to just one of these categories, but even so, they are a good way to show the wrong perceptions and treatment women so often endure.

~ ~ ~

note to my dear readers: please feel free to like, share, subscribe, or join the conversation on any post that impacts you. Your voice is an encouragement to me and to others, and it’s as much a part of this story as mine.

The room had the mismatched coziness any good college apartment should have. The walls were bare except for three stunning paintings hung above the couch. On one canvas was a painting of Christ’s crucified hands, another a painting of his feet, and the third a painting of his face.

The women lounging around on blow up mattresses and couches were already rolling with laughter by the time I walked in. These were women who loved the Lord with a sweetness and a depth that couldn’t help but leave an impact on you. They radiated a kind of joy I had never seen before, even after 19 years of living alongside Christians.

I was terribly lonely that first semester, but those women welcomed me in with open arms. An invitation to spend an entire sleepover laughing and talking with them was a dream come true. So that was how I found myself in that tiny apartment, a blonde haired and blue eyed girl, sitting alongside women of all different backgrounds, but all with skin much darker than mine.

“Do you remember the time…” Bryanna’s voice faded into the mixed sounds of laughter and someone offering me dessert and another girl yelling from the back room that she still hadn’t finished her homework assignment.

At the tail end of the story, I heard, “And if I got my hair wet, you know I was upset.” The girls around me burst into laughter. I grinned and attempted a chuckle, but my fake laugh has never sounded real. Bryanna took notice of my confusion and smiled. She patiently explained the effect of rain on newly done black hair to my ignorant, blonde-haired self.

They just laughed with me and moved on from my clueless moment. The evening carried on through more huge fits of laughter to deep discussions of theology to attractive actors to what was happening on campus.

And then to Ferguson.

The shooting was all anyone had talked about since the riots had started, but I’d never heard it discussed with such emotion before. My aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, all of them discussed it over brunch and sweet tea. But I realized as I listened to the women around me—this was personal. It had never been personal to me.

I curled myself up next to the couch, tucked away in a corner on the fringes of the discussion. And that night I listened to a conversation that changed everything I’ve ever thought.

They began to tell their stories. A cruel comment here, an obvious insult there, and time after time in which they had been pushed down and out of sight. Just a few stories in and I wanted to melt into the ground. I felt so ashamed of the jokes and videos and conversations I had passively sat through, even laughed at occasionally. So many things I simply tolerated, when I could’ve been the one to say, “Enough.”

As I listened, my hands gripping the shag carpet, even their most minor stories captured my full attention. My blind eyes were being opened to what racism looks like in the 21st century. This racism doesn’t look like it did 40 years ago, but it is cruel and horrifically unjust all the same.

Now racism looks like police violence. It looks like “harmless” stereotypes circulated through social groups and media. It looks like segregated cities and unfair justice systems. It looks like spoiled white men and women complaining about their “suffering” at the hands of the Black Lives Matter movement. It looks like, “Oh, well I can say that because I have a black friend.”

Racism looks like this and a thousand other things. Things that had slipped right past me.

When the conversation finally died down, I was in a daze. “Hey Jaime, what do you think of all this? I’ve actually never talked to a white person about this stuff,” Bryanna asked as they all turned to me.

There were no words. Or maybe words came out of my mouth, but they sounded more like an apology than an opinion.

In that moment, I made a mistake. I made the mistake of believing I had no right to speak.

If I had known then how rare it was to be in such a safe environment for that conversation, maybe I would’ve been bolder. Maybe I would have asked questions. Maybe I would have asked how I could change my society.

Why didn’t I speak up? The question echoes in my head each time I see another subtle act of racism played out around me. A casual joke spoken in an all white, Illinois church. Fellow students who say, “They should stop complaining, things aren’t that bad anymore.”

I don’t claim to understand the issue in all of it’s complexity. That conversation, or any one conversation for that matter, would never be enough to make me understand. I regret my silence, but just in the listening, my eyes were opened. Once I knew it was there, I couldn’t stop seeing the injustice around me.

My prayer is that you and I, no matter our background, will have the courage to keep asking questions while others try to brush it under the rug. That you and I will stand up in whatever way we can to heal this brokenness.

I will be forever thankful for those women who included me and who opened my eyes to a world right outside my door. One that, perhaps, I would never have seen on my own.

~ ~ ~

note to my dear readers: please feel free to like, share, subscribe, or join the conversation on any post that impacts you. Your voice is an encouragement to me and to others, and it’s as much a part of this story as mine.

I don’t know if I’m ready yet to write about this bitterness.

I’m not sure how deep this pain goes or how infected this wound has become. When I  don’t even know what I’ll find, I’m hesitant to rip off the bandages and expose it for others to see.

But I have a hunch that things are pretty serious now. The pain is growing—you can see the sickness spreading through my veins.

Sometimes I really wish light was not the only solution for darkness. I wish I could hide and heal at the same time. But I can’t.

Two Sundays ago I found myself painfully aware of how no matter the church, no matter the speaker… if I’m sitting in a church congregation, I feel angry. Each word and prayer spoken leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Heartbroken, I have asked the Lord to heal me.

As I write, I’m still desperately praying for the healing and wholeness I know will take some time to surface. I’ve found yet another church that I don’t like, but I’ve felt my heart slowly begin to give up the anger. To sit in the middle of a service, (and to disagree entirely), but not feel personally hurt, is a milestone I never thought I’d reach so soon.

The Lord does not fail. He feels so far away from my soul lately, but I’m inspired by the faith of the loved ones around me and the support they’ve given me to keep pressing through. The Lord has never abandoned me before in my doubts and my stubbornness. I know he won’t abandon me now. 

My mind is telling me to back away from church, but my soul is aching for my Savior. Aching to feel his presence again. To be reminded of the only thing that has ever fully satisfied my heart. The one who does not call my anxiety or my sensitivity flaws, but uses them to draw me closer.

I haven’t been able to write for a month. As I sit here contemplating how much he has blessed me and weeping over how much I miss him, I wouldn’t be surprised if my writer’s block has to do with the distance I feel.

This post isn’t my best writing. There are no beautiful images woven throughout and no snarky comments in just the right places. No gentle rhythm among the sentences and paragraphs. This post is simply me showing up again. The first step in practicing what Sarah Bessey calls, “the radical, spiritual act of staying put.”

This is me being honest about how the Lord feels far away and yet somehow not far at all. This is me admitting that the church has wounded me the same way it has wounded others.

But this is me pointing out the hope on the horizon. There is healing and wholeness just ahead. The Lord is holding onto us even when we don’t have the strength to hold onto him. 

— Drawing Near —

{ a poem from the lovely Jan Richardson’s book Circle of Grace }

It is difficult to see it from here,

I know,

but trust me when I say

this blessing is inscribed

on the horizon.

Is written on

that far point

you can hardly see.

Is etched into

a landscape

whose contours you cannot know

from here.

All you know

is that is calls you,

draws you,

pulls you toward

what you have perceived

only in pieces,

in fragments that came to you

in dreaming

or in prayer.

I cannot account for how,

as you draw near,

the blessing embedded in the horizon

begins to blossom

upon the soles of your feet,

shimmers in your two hands.

It is one of the mysteries

of the road,

how the blessing

you have traveled toward,

waited for,

ached for

suddenly appears,

as if it had been with you

all this time,

as if it simply

needed to know

how far you were willing

to walk

to find the lines

that were traced upon you

before the day

you were born.

~ ~ ~

note to my dear readers: please feel free to like, share, subscribe, or join the conversation on any post that impacts you. Your voice is an encouragement to me and to others, and it’s as much a part of this story as mine.

Did I ever tell you, my dear, that I’m both a lion and a mouse?

Some nights my heart is strong, and my confidence prevails. Not many have come and gone with a soul as fierce or certain. Nothing in this world can stop me when I choose to be brave.

But then the nights do come, they creep their way in, when I hide beneath the covers and cry out in fear. The shadows on the wall are enough to make me cower. My soul gasps for breath; and to even exist is victory enough.

I often wonder which one will be remembered: the fierce or the frail.

But let me tell you–right now while I am brave–with me it’s all the same. I have never been just one.

For as long as I have lived, I’ve been both a lion and a mouse.

~ ~ ~

note to my readers: please feel free to like, share, subscribe, or join the conversation on any post that impacts you. Your voice is an encouragement to me and to others, and it’s as much a part of this story as mine.