If you Read Nothing Else from me. Read this. ((On healing))

English: The healing of the paralytic : wall p... — Image via Wikipedia

So much to read, so little time. I know that. If you read nothing else from me in a long while, I hope you’ll read this post. It will not be long. (500+ words, a record.)

I have been writing (and living) out of a place of brokenness for so long that my story has become cliché and not honest – not dishonest exactly, but lacking the truth of my healing …. A fractured painful childhood, a tenuous if bullheaded short-lived career, accidental stay-at-home motherhood, and loss, depression and loneliness, even alcoholism. (And the biggest monster under my bed: being a feminist woman in the evangelical church.)

And now, this season that I cannot label because I am still living it.

Perhaps a place of abundance and healing, if only I would open my eyes and see.

When you are in pain, you tie experiences together to find truth and your story all too easily becomes stuck. I know this. Today. Living the life of Jesus is one of constant transformation. Renewal. Healing.

It is time to live into that healing.

Be the truth that I have experienced. Stop being “the abused child.” Stop being the frantic workaholic archetype striving for meaning in my work and looking for personal value in everything others do and say about me.

Stop living so empty.

Allow the One who fills, to fill me up overflowing.

Will I continue to talk about injustice? You’re damn straight! But I want to do it differently, do it with hope, and grace and peace.

With every part of me, I have wanted to be useful and in my cavernous need to be important I have invalidated myself. My story. For that I seek forgiveness and will endeavor to live out of Jesus’ fullness!

Mine is a story of healing and of transformation. Not because of anything I have done but out of the grace of God and by receiving love from my husband , my children, and from my community of believers.

But by holding on…

to my anger about my upbringing,

to my disappointment with being born woman into a man’s world,

and to my fear that if “allowed to fly” I will flounder, fall, and I will fail. Well,

I have allowed fear to rule and this is the day that it stops.

I want to live like I believe that the One who began a good work in me is faithful to complete it!

I am going to step toward trust.

Trust the words that I wrote today in the poem Nothing and Everything.

The Holy One accepts you for everything you are today and sees who you are becoming. For this Creator God made you, even chose you and is the architect of your life. The Holy One heals, because we sure need a healing. Especially when confronted by the hideous ogre of our envy and pride. The Holy One guides and has a plan.“Even for me?” I cry, in the shadowy, nocturnal hours of fear, anger, twisted truths, ignorance, self-delusion and distrust?“YES, even you” whispers The Holy One.

I am going to step toward a life of abundance. Even for me, my soul quakes? Yes, even you.

MELODY

P.S. I am so grateful for my husband. And for the community of believers that I am a part of – it is a community of grace and abundance. And I am grateful for my online community which is becoming a rich source of love and support.

Strongest in the Broken Places: A Tale of Domestic Abuse

Watching this video I was a child again.

It validated experiences I had growing up. It made me sad. I grieve watching it for beyond my own experiences, as I know three women who are living right now in this sort of marriage.

One is married to an elder in my church. (Actually, he was an elder at the time that she talked to me. We were in a Bible study together.) He had anger and control issues, perpetrated in the name of “biblical submission.”
Another friend stays in an habitually abusive marriage out of love and commitment to her husband saying “Would you leave your husband if he had cancer? Then how could you leave if he has a mental illness?” I’m not saying that she should leave her marriage, but I grieve that she is so alone! And I am ill equipped to help, though I listen.
Another friend asks for prayer for friends whose marriage that is in trouble saying he “may be abusive” but likely she “may be making it all up.”

You never know when someone is a perpetrator of rage and control. I can tell you with assurance that is the most unlikely person.

I grew up in a home where my father was in ministry and was a generous, gracious loving God-fearing man. To this day when I write openly about my experiences growing up (here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and I only stop because the list is endless. He’s one of the reasons I started my blog.)

Here is the best example of what it felt like growing up.

To this day I have people who say to me “I knew your father…” implying that somehow perhaps I didn’t, though I lived in his home for nearly two decades and worked for him for many years. They imply by their statement that my experience and my mother’s and my sister’s didn’t happen. The man in this video could have been my father — except Dad had a lot more personality!

The video below is one of the best that I have ever seen that talked about raging in a home as a domestic violence. It made me feel “less alone” when it comes to domestic violence which is not always physical! It was not physical in my home, except one time when my parents were first married my father put my mother’s head through a wall. This was before I was born, but he put it in his book and that is how I heard about it. Even though he wrote about his anger he was unable to change. And it became the Achilles heal for him over and over again, hurting people around him. It was a significant factor in my spiritual life and my perceptions of God.

It is real and destructive and is painful for me to this day. I so wish that my father could have found this kind of help and felt it was safe to “come out” the way the brave heroes in this video have. I so wish the church was better equipped to help women who do suffer in this way and could create a context where it is safe to speak out. And I wish the church helped men who know they have a problem but don’t know how to get help.

“Statistics show that victims of domestic violence most often go to churches for help. Unfortunately, churches are often ill-equipped and not helpful. This clip tells the story of one couple’s search for help and also offers some advice for creating an environment conducive for recovery.”

Please watch. If the video doesn’t work you will have to follow the link prior.

This is a hard post for me to write. By even talking about this others could be at risk and yet that is the great irony.

Carrying depression around is like being punished for a crime I cannot identify

Coming home after a day of chauffeuring that completely disrupts my day I do enough chores to make it look like I do enough chores.

Driving all over town is enough to make anyone get down; needing to go to the bathroom when you’re late somewhere; nearly running out of gas, running into my husband’s employees in my front yard in my pajamas this morning; hitting the curb and scraping the front of my newish car. Last night I dented my husband’s fender. Yesterday, I was unable to make decisions on Christmas lights at the hardware store. After twenty minutes of indecision I walked out empty handed and overwhelmed by my muddled head.

I feel it in my bones – I am still carrying depression around. It feels like a punishment for a crime I cannot identify. This is wrong.

The skies are not even gray, rather white and as usual it gets me down.

The road on the southeast side of town is bumpy and uncared for, the neighborhood’s buildings are depressed and rundown. I tell my daughter clearly how wrong this is that this area of town is so neglected, oppressively so. They don’t even fix the roads here and in our neighborhood in the same city the streets are quite literally washed and swept. This is wrong.

I think about the economy and the need for jobs. Perhaps I need a job. I would do almost anything, I think. I could do any job. I’m college educated. I notice the crossing guard isn’t a retired person like I usually see, but a man about my husband’s age. What unimaginable difficulties would drive a middle-aged man to be a crossing guard? I mean I would take that job for something to do, but to need to do so? This is wrong.

I actually napped this afternoon – an anathema, I can barely live with the shame. I just couldn’t get my body to do anything else but sneak inside the house like a criminal, so the dog wouldn’t hear me. I skulked up the stairs with my coat still on, flipped on the alarm so I wouldn’t miss my daughter’s need for a ride, and fell slowly into sleep. Although my mind and body cannot figure anything else to do, I feel ashamed of sleeping middle of the day. This is wrong.

I consider cancelling my appointment tomorrow. Two times I open up my phone to send the email. Two times I question myself. Why exactly am I cancelling? It would be easier to convince her than myself that I have a good reason. Honestly I think that I just cannot bear it and know that this is just when I need to go. I still do not know if I will end up going.

I got tired of myself today. So many random chaotic thoughts. I am an agitator online and I don’t think that’s very Godly. I ask myself is it for agitation’s sake that you ask so many questions or is it that you actually want to make things better? Of course, make things better for women in the church I answer. How does all this idea slinging online accomplish that exactly? It makes people think. Yes, but does it actually change anything? I don’t know. All I know is I am tired of myself.

Exhausted by my dissatisfaction. I’m not sure where it comes from. When did I become so frustrated with the church? And how am I helping to be a positive force? But the last time I got agitated about something — how artists are encouraged in the church — I came away with two jobs to do for them that have nothing really to do with that. I keep thinking just do this good work so that I build some chips up so that people will listen to me. Make change that way. Perhaps, or perhaps I’m just busy doing a bunch of church activities for other’s agenda’s that I don’t even really feel that strongly about? This is wrong.

I am tired. What is the root of my frustration about the way that women are perceived in the church? I cannot clearly identify it. I flip on my “Happy” lamp, and begin to write. I am hoping to find some answer in my own grasping for words.

In your Highs and your Lows, God is satisfied

Many, many times after I write, I think I’m too emotional in my writing. I woke up this morning thinking only of regret. Too out there (sometimes.) Too vulnerable (definitely.) Too emotional and effusive. It is not always easy for me to put myself so far out there.

I got to thinking of the Psalms and how much they reach me because of their free, outpouring or flowing emotions toward God not unlike what I often do. And I was thinking more specifically King David after reading something written by an internet friend.

David was such a mess, at times such a coward and a failure, definitely a letch, but at other times very brave and strong. What he did well was lament and cry out to God!

I just get embarrassed at myself at times. And disappointed that I can’t just “be happy” like so many of my friends, who have crazy joy in the simplest of things. I have written before that I regret not being happy. And others I see who model a raucous family life, full of delight and fun. (I secretly want to be adopted in.) Or even those that know their place is “home” whether that is their own or with their children, because it is so satisfyingly good to be together.

I have such longing for normalcy, but I don’t think it will ever come nor do I know how to create it, most days I’m stumbling around in the dark unsure how to be an adult child much less a Mother. I believe at times might find a kind of peace and contentment, but I doubt I’ll ever find true joy. King David’s life, reflected in scripture shows his highs and lows.

I hope God is honored or at least pleased by our highs and lows. If our faith is deep and genuine, I think we are strong even in our weakness; in our days hounded by our pain and in the days when it is enough just to hold on and to be thankful.

But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. — 1 Timothy 6:6-7 (NIV)

In this season of Advent, of active waiting, I hope that you find, in your high and your low moments, that God is satisfied with you for simply being you. He knows you — made you — loves you and is deeply pleased with you. No, you are not perfect. May you learn this advent season how much our God just wants you to be — to ABIDE with him which means progressively to “await,” “remain,” “lodge,” “sojourn,” “dwell,” “continue,” “endure” with Him.

And of course I am preaching to myself.

The Thanksgiving Miracle

Being with my family is always something complex – rich and stark at the same time. My people are full of ancient pain. Mostly we have learned to carry on, but I the least of all. For some reason I live stuck.

“I’m sorry you’ve been sad” she said kindly, as I fingered my sweaty water glass. Standing there, more comfortable in the place just outside the kitchen, where Serbian is being spoken which I do not understand, than in the living room where I will be expected to be something. I know not what, except that I cannot do it today. And so I stand there listening to the beautiful Slavic sounds, watching the cooking. Bread is baking. Gravy slowly bubbles.

The sun peeks in through the window where a cacophony of herbs is growing, so unlikely in this stark Midwestern winter. But this kitchen is a place of miracles. I finger the sage, basil, mint, “Such a wonder, herbs growing.” I had whispered more to myself than anyone. My brother-in-law looks as me curiously, perhaps he is wondering at my wondering.

“It is not sadness” I quip sometime later. I immediately regret my correction if it is harsh or sounds mean when really I am only bone tired. I apologize, contrite, in the same breath. And this is the miracle moment I can only see looking back. It is an instant. A simple choice. She persists.

And doesn’t walk away as we have done to one another a thousand, even a hundred thousand times. We, my broken family, are quick to quit on each other in moments like this. Too afraid of the conflict, of anxiety, of misunderstanding. Of harsh even mean words, for which I am often guilty. We become weary of the simple effort of inquiry, wary of the risk and the liar tells us “It’s not worth it” the pushing through, the desire to understand, to heal; to change the ancient rules of misunderstanding. Persisting, she asks “What is it?” That moment is unbelievable to me and I know she really wants to know.

“Fractured.” The first word burst out of me for I was ready, longing for the question and I find myself wanting her to know. “Anxious. Fearful. Lacking hope.” The words tumble. Slowly at first, I persist through my shame. And she listens to me in those miraculous moments after our mother left choosing football alone over Us. We know where we stand. I don’t judge my mother. I feel her rejection sharp.

But as my sister stands there and listens, I talk about the deepest kind of despair. “From ancient wounds,” she asks? And I stare at her in wonderment. Has she read my blog or poetry, echoing words I have scribbled there? Or has she read my heart, my mind? She has never spoken to me of the words I put down there, a selfish scribbling down of the story of my shattered heart that I put on my blog lacking the courage to speak them in real life.

Feeling a little bit more known I stammer out the words, finally. I talk of this family we are a part of and how we don’t know how to be together. How I long for more. And it makes me so sad. And yet my husband has a theory that ultimately we all “do what we really want.” If you want more connection do something about it, is the implication. But we both know, my sister and I, that it is not so simple for us, having started from a place of broken with no capacity to build something good. I share that I really long to know her, know my brother-in-law, be a part of their lives. I share this place of hurt. Where I become stuck. These triggers to my depression, of fearing rejection that hasn’t actually happened.

Then I begin to speak of our Father, long dead and it is clear he is inside my head. “I cannot remember him kind” I sputter as tears begin to flow, the second miracle or third after the questions and the herbs, for I am the woman who cannot cry. I long to, but my frozen heart, cemented to its pain has been shut solidly closed. It may have been a decade since tears have flowed. And I stand there in the kitchen of miracles and weep ancient tears. And speak of the terror in my heart and head as I hear my father’s rage. “I am stuck there with him, terrifying and terrorizing me.” And she comforts me with her presence. And her tenacious probing attention. I shudder with the pain of speaking my genuine admiration for her achievements, of living. She has somehow been able to live. “The boxes we were put in as toddlers,” she says. This is a revelation, since we two girls were babes our father has said she was smart and I was somehow something other. Though he wasn’t particular as he raged about grades. But for some reason I was the recipient of his anxiety, disappointment and fear. That is when she voices their anxiety.

She speaks of a class she took on Anxiety and how it spreads in organizations and families and what a revelation that was to her! The anxiety of our parents was a constant presence and fueled his anger, her sadness and all the sickness in our home growing up. Even today, every word my mother expresses is laden with fear of rejection, misunderstanding. I wonder what she really thinks, feels but I will never know. And I know that I cannot talk to her about any of this, my ancient wounds, because she is too fragile. The threat all these years has been that she will fall apart.

Every time you feel in God’s creatures something pleasing and attractive, do not let your attention be arrested by them alone, but passing them by, transfer your thought to God and say: ‘O my God. If thy creations are so full of beauty, delight and joy, how infinitely more full of beauty, delight and joy art Thou Thyself, Creator of all? — Nicodemus of the Holy Mountain

We stay a long while, and laugh, and talk and simply be. We leave more connected. I am overwhelmed by the miracle. This tale is supernatural in that it happened. It is not the tears or the ancient pain spoken out loud though they are incredible. This is about the persistence of My Sister who gave a thanksgiving miracle to me. Yes in that I can say, thanks be to God.

He did this. She did this. We did this.

And what remains is hope.

Giving Thanks for What Is

At first light I wake.

My temples pounding and piercing me with pain, I am angry with the fierce illogic of it all. I try to understand. I wake resentful. Am I thirsty? Did I wake too late my body screaming for caffeine? Or is this another manifestation of the depression, the black fog that has clouded my days for – I count them – fourteen long days. And fourteen hostile, dreamless nights. I wake wondering if I slept at all? This morning with a headache, I question it. Headaches hold messages, ciphers of secret coded understanding; though today’s meaning I am too foolish to fathom. I stumble downstairs, the dog at my heels. Coffee. Migraine medication. Water. Toilet. In that order. I can only focus on these four whispered words. Each step, my head aches as I blink and blink again. My right foot’s bones twinge, piercing through the fog. Again, foot pain. Why? It is always worrying me these days, why all the pain?

This thanksgiving day, I want gratitude.

I am so blessed. I know this, it is almost appallingly clear – I have nothing to be depressed about. But my depression is something deeper, old, even ancient pain that has nothing to do with today’s abundance.

I sit and drink in the silence. The oldest son is awake, the early bird, tap — tap –tapping keys of his fingers on the keyboard. Otherwise silence. It sounds so good. Even as my stomach lurches, and my head continues to pound, I sit in the wonder of silence and ask God to open my ears.

For He is always speaking, if only I could hear Him, see Him, receive Him.

I’ve been reading One Thousand Gifts and I pick it up, again – for what could be better on this day of thanksgiving than a book about learned gratitude? It hurts to read. Eyes blurry from sleep, head still piercing I feel a flood of the Tears That Never Come, flood the walls of my heart, full. Bursting. Pain. To honor the intent of the book, I’ve begun my own list. I’ve only cobbled together – I count them — Twelve things this week. I titled it:

A Dare to Name all the Ways that God Loves Me:

Health insurance.
A husband’s love.
A home.
The truth of scriptures.
Daniel gave thanks.
For children’s laughter.
For children’s questions.
For childlike faith.
Imaginations of children.
The sound of LEGOs pieced together, clicks and clinks as the youngest boy digs.
The click of computer keyboard, as ideas fall onto the screen.
The tinkling of guitar chords, rising from the basement.

I add to the list, even through my headache…

Skinny boy legs.
Coffee, warm and soothing.
Enthusiasm of children.

“For God speaks again and again, though people do not recognize it.” Job 33:14

Yes, I hear Him speaking. And the promise I hear from him today:

“See now that I, I am He, and there is no god besides Me;

It is I who put to death and give life.

I have wounded and it is I who heals.” — Deuteronomy 32:39 NASB

I am tempted to focus on his words I have wounded, but I “should” remain, even linger with these words — It is I who heals.

Lord, make me an instrument

vocatus atque non vocatus, deus aderit. — these words of Erasmus, translate to say:

Bidden or unbidden, God is present.

I think it is important to remember, beauty in the bleak days.

“Prayer is sitting in the silence until it silences us, choosing gratitude until we are grateful, praising God until we ourselves are a constant act of praise.” — Richard Rohr

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;

where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon:
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
and where there is sadness, joy

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
— St. Francis of Assisi (1182 – 1226)

So often, it is too easy to get caught up in ourselves. “Lord, make me an instrument…” Don’t we all just want to be useful, usable? I know, when I am caught up in my own darkness that I am, or at least I feel, useless.

While life’s dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread,
Be thou my guide;
Bid darkness turn to day,
Wipe sorrow’s tears away,
Nor let me ever stray
From thee aside.

— A hymn My Faith Looks Up to Thee by Ray Palmer.

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! –– Psalm 26

I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, and did not let my foes rejoice over me.
O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
O Lord, you brought up my soul from Sheol, restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit.
Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.
For his anger is but for a moment; his favour is for a lifetime.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
As for me, I said in my prosperity, ‘I shall never be moved.’
By your favour, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain;
you hid your face; I was dismayed.
To you, O Lord, I cried, and to the Lord I made supplication:
‘What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit?
Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?
Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me! O Lord, be my helper!’
You have turned my mourning into dancing;
you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever. — Psalm 30

In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me.
Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.

You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

You hate those who pay regard to worthless idols, but I trust in the Lord.
I will exult and rejoice in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction;
you have taken heed of my adversities, and have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy;
you have set my feet in a broad place.

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also.
For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery, and my bones waste away.

I have become like a broken vessel. But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hand; Blessed be the Lord, for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me.

Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord. — Psalm 31

———–

I covet your prayers friends. All I can say is that I know this is an illness. I also know that it is spiritual attack. More important, I know that I am beloved. I will take courage and wait for the Lord.

On Paying Attention

At times like these.

When I am feeling so poignantly this illness depression, which is chronic and confusing and feels a lot like failure, at times like these … I have learned to wait and pay attention. Taste the bitter in this moment. And see what God intends.

Henri Nouwen says of this patience:

“The word patience comes from the Latin verb patior which means “to suffer.” Waiting patiently is suffering through the present moment, tasting it to the full, and letting the seeds that are sown in the ground on which we stand grow into strong plants. Waiting patiently always means paying attention to what is happening right before our eyes and seeing there the first rays of God’s glorious coming.”

I know intellectually that God wants me to let go of this grip I have on my pain. He says “I will take it — your sadness, pain, fear, and hollow heart and make life out of it.” This is the promise which gives us our hope. This is everything. Julian of Norwich says in Revelations of Divine Love:

“God sees our wounds and sees them not as scars but as honors. . .”

It is possible to thank God for our weaknesses, our broken hearts, our frequent “failings,” even our sickness? I think it is not only possible but necessary.

I believe He has something good he intends to come out of my heart falling over the precipice, shattered.

Yes, I’m weary of being so feeble and human. Is it possible to thank him, yes and I am waiting expectantly as Nouwen says:

“Waiting patiently for God always includes joyful expectation. Without expectation our waiting can get bogged down in the present. When we wait in expectation our whole beings are open to be surprised by joy…, “Brothers and sisters … the moment is here for you to stop sleeping and wake up, because by now our salvation is nearer than when we first began to believe. The night is nearly over, daylight is on the way; so let us throw off everything that belongs to the darkness and equip ourselves for the light” (Romans 13:11-12).

I am paying attention and I choose to be grateful nevertheless, which I wrote about over at Provoketive this week.

My cup is always half empty. At least, without Jesus it would be. Even with the Holy Spirit active it is an effort to be positive. …. Even in the midst of the hell of depression I am grateful. God gives us this one life and we are charged to sort it out. He guides us, truly he does, but much of life is us sifting through the good and the bad.

Life is choices.

… (more)

As we begin the season of advent it feels right amidst our clamoring to wait on Him. In the fear, wait. Anxious furtive thoughts, wait.

Pay attention and wait with joyful expectation.

MHH

Quotations from Everything Belongs by Richard Rohr and from Bread for the Journey by Henri J.M. Nouwen.

What God can possibly expect from a broken-down, brokenhearted, mess like you?

Grace is that kick-start value that breaks through the dullness of one’s self-loathing, recrimination or dysfunction, granting love and favor without the expectation of a return. Experiencing it from God is transformational, offering it to someone else is revolutionary. — Saltshaker

In some ways, I wonder if my frequent lingering in the pain of the past — the constant remembering — is a slap in the face to God, to the forgiveness and grace that I have received.

I live with that shame. I live with the question if God is the healer why can’t I heal, finally, once and for all?

That question rings out loudly today as I look back over my week of falling into depression, again. I know that I have some control over it, though not sure how much. I know that. I wonder to myself if by slipping down there again, I betray my Lord? Am I denying him? “They claim to know God, but by their actions they deny him. They are detestable, disobedient and unfit for doing anything good.”

I have always believed that my honesty and truthfulness was my only hope out of the wickedness of a childhood full of fear, self-hatred and pain. Now I am uncertain. Perhaps I am doing this in my own strength and I am not really healed? Does my frequent lingering only pick the scab off of a wound that deserves to heal? I want the Lord’s healing. I want my life to be proof of God being real.

I whisper a prayer from Jeremiah: “I know Lord, that our lives are not our own. We are not able to plan our own course. So correct me, Lord, but please be gentle. Do not correct me in anger, for I would die.”

Correction first, healing second.

Really? This might be it. The connection I’ve been searching for. As I open up to God’s correction, then healing may come? I see it in the words of Julian of Norwich in Revelations of Divine Love:

“See that I am God.
See that I am in everything.
See that I do everything.
See that I have never stopped ordering my works, or ever shall, eternally.
See that I lead everything onto the conclusion ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it.
How can anything be amiss?”

What?

Before time began, this too the Lord knew …

He knew of an angry father.

He knew of a reclusive, fearful cold mother.

He knew of four frightened daughters, full of secrets.

He knew me, full of self-loathing, before time began.

This too, He knew? He never stopped ordering his works, or ever shall.

How – can – this – be?

What do I do with this knowledge that before time began He knew my pain?

He knew and He knows. He knows my heart, what it feels like to fear your own daddy and wonder what you did wrong? He knows what it is to crave a comforting, hug from mamma, a hug of safety. He knows what horror tastes like, in salty tears streaming down, as you’re berated, over and over, for some failing; that as he yells, you are not even sure that he remembers what failing of yours set him off. He is so caught up in his righteous raging. All you know in that moment is the shame and loathing and fear. You want to escape it, him, home. If this is love… then there is no safe place.

And over the years you hide inside yourself, eyes wide to the world, cringing. Expecting life to hurt. Not knowing whom to trust, if anyone. Even in that fear, remembered some thirty years ago, you stumble over the question of what God can possibly expect from a broken-down, brokenhearted, mess like you? But he knew this pain too?

“God only desires that our soul cling to him with all of its strength, in particular that it clings to his goodness. For of all the things our minds can think about God, it is thinking upon his goodness that pleases him most and brings the most profit to our souls.” (Julian of Norwich.)

Really?

Cling to the truth that God is good. Even in the midst of past horrors, pain. Scabs on your heart, thick scarring. Disbelief. Knowing, or at least fearing that people will always let you down. Your hurt billows out with the fear from the echoes from a daddy’s rage.

I will cling to His goodness as if it is a prayer, whispered, lifted to the heavens with a tiny billow of faith.

A prayer of gratitude for his goodness is all he asks. Not my perfection. Not any deed or accomplishment. Not even a big, humongous faith.

Simply cling to his goodness.

See that I lead everything on to the conclusion ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it.

He made life, with power wisdom and love?

Amen. May it be so for me and you.

Shall I Dance for You? (A poem)

The sun came out today and I felt its warmth creep into my soul. It would appear

that I am on the mend. Believing,

That is the tricky thing. Knowing and accepting are strange bedfellows.

Where did it come from I wonder — this self-loathing?

Was I born this way?

Or is it the result of rubbing against broken people?

Am I shattered and wrecked – lost beyond repair? Or, hopeful. Yes.

Where do we find safety, deep rest except by trusting in the Son.

All my striving and this need to prove, outperform, and achieve isn’t the Gospel.

I have soaked in the lies of culture — an ethos of discontent– so deeply into my pores that I no longer believe?

Where do we find safety, deep rest except by trusting in the Son.

Am I respectable, admired, or lovable without doing?

Shall I dance for you so that you will love me, finally?

It is never enough.

So today, I will lie here in the sunshine and soak in the sun.

AN INEXPLICABLE THING: Depression

Depression is real, very physically here and enigmatic. After all this time it remains a mystery to me exactly why it returns.

Granted, there are a few things that I realize I do know, I actually have learned about the illness. And so for the most part yesterday, I decided to fight because I know I must, even while still disbelieving that it matters if I do battle against it.

It hangs on me — dead weight. I go through the motions of my day because if I stopped … well, I fear stopping, getting off this track of ‘life’ would be worse. I know that too. It is good that I can cook, show up on time, think (sort of) and write these words. I can do homework-time, do rides here and there (they are almost a relief for they fill up the endless stretches of life being like this.)

I am microscopic fragment adrift in the vast universe, even while the phone is ringing. The irony is in feeling so alone while the phone is mocking me by ringing. I cannot even will myself to pick up it up. My mother is calling but I cannot face her. I don’t have the energy to say what needs to be said. Years of what is misunderstood smolders around me. Facebook depresses me. Why do I need to know who is friends with whom? It only reminds me how alone I feel. Grateful, shiny happy people depress (and inspire) me. Why do some people never seem to struggle?

I hate myself in this moment. Somehow I thought I was past this. Past the sinking hole of depression but now I see that I am depression.

A friend says in an email:

“He [Christ] knows how we feel, having been rejected by the ones he loved most. He would die again if only just for me (or for you). I’ve also realized that “homesick” feeling is just a symptom of the spiritual divide between us and God. Those feelings can be put to use to draw us closer to him, but we’ll never quite be home until he returns or calls us there.”

There is something crucial in her last few sentences, an insight that I must try to tease out with my tired foggy brain. All my life I have felt alone – when I am totally honest. It is not that I have been literally rejected. People love me. I do know that, when I am not so disheartened.

“Have you ever experienced the kind of friendship you speak of when you cry out (in your depression) that you feel alone and so unimportant?” my husband asked me the other day.

I think perhaps this longing is something I need to sit with – too often I am looking to others and to things to fill something that only Jesus can.

I have tried many things to fill that ache over the years from over work, to compulsive shopping, to excessive drinking, and at times a relationship. I know that I so fear that vast ache, that I preemptively withdraw before anyone can hurt, reject or let me down. I defensively withdraw because I fear that this deep, cavernous place down inside me cannot be filled. And then I am forced to face my terrible loneliness that only God can fill.

⁸ Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. ⁹ Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. — Philippians 4:8,9

In moments like this I know, that I know, absolutely nothing. But a tiny part of my brain or heart understands what this means – to hold on to this Hope for that is the peace that trancends all understanding.

He is with us and wants to fill us.

But, “we’ll never quite be home until He returns or calls us there.”

Life is Work, Hard Work (but there is a ray of hope) (logicandimagination.wordpress.com)

in the midst of ashes, hope

Broken Bits and Pieces

I am so bloody tired of this feeling of being trapped and held by the past, unable to live the abundant life that was promised to each of us.

And I am frightened. Scared to death of the endless looking back to see and remember. When will I find in the midst of the ashes, hope. And where is it?

All the broken bits of me are scattered and the wind gusting into my life today threatens to blow me away.

I don’t know what to do with the bits and pieces of memory – those things that hurt. They cause me to doubt myself. They are vicious. They are hurtful and dangerous, drumming. They are clamoring. They are ringing in my head louder than my small wavering voice (only just) learning to speak. Are they a lie from the pit or truth? When I get like this, when my wounds are oozing as they do today, I cannot distinguish lies from truth. It is what it is. I am nobody. Just another nobody with a story. Who cares? I cannot believe that this story would help anyone. One word put on the page after another – risky only in its admission. Here, now, this, these words, they are nothing.

I am so tired of this place. My family and its circling pain, all shattered fragments, falling apart more every day. Who will hold the generations together? They are slowly slipping away and soon they will be bits and pieces of nothing.

More importantly how do I learn? When will I be transformed?

Trust Him

The disciples appear to be sitting around, unsure of what to do, until Peter decides to go fishing (John 21) and the others go along. Was it aimless activity. They needed to eat. Not necessarily completely aimless but doing the thing in front of them. The disciples do not know what to do, so they do the necessary. And the story suggests that they have put themselves in a place where Christ meets them.

“Here is the simple truth, attested to by the saints, that when we are uncertain what to do we should simply do our duty and God will guide.”

But that night they caught nothing doing what they perceived as the right thing. It is suggested that they are being prepared to learn one of the central lessons of discipleship–apart from Jesus they can do nothing (15:5).

Jesus has taught this lesson before, for “never in the Gospels do the disciples catch a fish without Jesus’ help.”

I feel like those fishermen who struggled to believe—they were fishing in order to pass the time and in order to eat. It has been a long, long time that I have sat with my story, lived it, tried to find something redeeming there in my story. And my life.

I fear, like the disciples with their nets in the water, that

I. just. don’t. believe.

Yes, I am having trouble believing that you can catch fish here. With my life. With this story. It’s been “a long night of fishing and I have caught nothing.”

I need to hear His voice, and I don’t even know for sure that I know what it looks or sounds like any more. Is it even him they wondered when he showed up? When He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat”….

What are his promises for a moment like this?

Lay It Down

So I have to set down my anger and disappointment at myself for quitting my job so that now, in the middle of a recession, I have no possibilities. I have to put my desire to work or “to do something” to support my family down. I have to let go of my ego and pride and the very real delusion that a job will make me more esteemed person to others or bring me respect. Lay it down.

I must believe that all of this, my story, is part of a purpose bigger than I am able to imagine or see. Jesus is teaching me that apart from him I can do nothing.

Even I don’t see it. It is almost easier to look backwards because that is so much clearer, ah beautiful hindsight.

No the future is confusing. I think I want to go back to school then I am I’m totally frozen by insecurity, self-doubt, and fear — perhaps I’m not smart enough, diligent enough and more importantly have nothing original to say? It has all been said, thought, written, done. Lay it down.

I thought I was going to write my story, but there isn’t even a story. It is just a story about an average nobody middle child who had a raging rather, became a workaholic while having three kids and a step daughter, who quit her paying job, got depressed, became an alcoholic, and now does what? Lay it down.

Tom says it is a spiritual attack when I start to feel like I have nothing to offer to the world, to my children, to my friends (what friends?), to him. Lay it down.

Don’t tell me I’m a good mom, because I don’t care right now. I don’t even know why I am here.

The future is blank. It requires faith. Big faith? A small quavering timid faith is all I seem to have today, a brokenhearted faith. Whatever it is, it’s immeasurable.

It simply is. I have to lay it all down and believe what he promises, when he said …

“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” – Luke 1:45

Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.

Category: Depression