Snapshot #9- I am a miracle.

It was a blisteringly hot July afternoon when Jesus asked me to have a glass of wine with Him. I know that sounds really weird to some people- Christian people can be touchy about drinking. Understandably. The Bible is really clear that getting drunk is NOT something that God wants people to do. And sometimes, when people drink, they get drunk. So it might sound really odd to some people that Jesus would invite me to sit down and have a glass of wine with Him. Except, that's exactly what He did.

I put my kids down for their afternoon nap, and I sat down at my computer with my wine glass, and I started to write. See, this invitation wasn't about kicking back and relaxing. This was an invitation into truth. In vino, veritas, right? It was an invitation to let my mind flow freely, to let the words and feelings pour out onto the page in front of me.

I was having a glass of Pinot Noir, but what I poured out for Jesus was this- disappointment, disillusionment, anger, unbelief. I didn't really hold back. I poured Him a cup of my wrath, a fully disclosed rendition of the state of my heart and mind.

I didn't realize it at the time, but this invitation of His was more than just an invitation to share my deepest, darkest secrets. It was an invitation into His healing.

About a week later, I got really sick. I wrote a blog about those feelings earlier in August. What I didn't write about, though, was how it persisted, and then got worse. My anxiety was followed by a terrible sinus infection, and then migraine headaches. Every day of the month of August, I felt so miserable that I thought that it would be better to die than go on feeling the same way.

It wasn't just that I felt physically bad. I felt unmoored. Like I could not find myself. Like I was a stranger in my own body. I could not seem to access the "good" feelings that are characteristic of my life. Whatever the chemical "cause" of this, I do not really know. What I do know is that God was using this physical change to do a greater spiritual work in me.

I started reading Ann Voskamp's The Broken Way a few days before Jesus and I had wine. Early in the book, Voskamp describes a time when she was seated beside a rabbi on an airplane. She had a bottle of water and the rabbi spoke poetically about its purpose- to be broken open and poured out. Our lives are like that, he said, made to be broken and poured out. Voskamp makes the point that it's a risky thing to pour out your broken life. To do so requires faith that God loves enough, cares enough, is enough... to refill what has been broken and poured out.

I didn't know how to articulate this until reading about the rabbi and the water bottle, but, for so long, I have felt like there is a filter over my life. Like that bottle cannot be refilled because there's something covering it. I believe that God is Living Water, but it's like something covers my heart and prevents me from really being satisfied by His goodness.

After the wine, but before the sickness, an old friend came by for a visit. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, but she's someone who knows about my life- my hurts and disappointments. She also works as a life coach and is passionate about helping sisters in Christ get "unstuck" from places like the one that I have been occupying. I thought that things were fairly "okay" while she was at my house visiting- I was feeling pretty put together that day actually. But, after the sickness came, I knew it was time to ask for some help.

I sat on my back porch cocooned by the sounds of crickets and cicadas for our first phone conversation. I told her how I had been feeling physically. Then, I told her about the "filter"- how I couldn't seem to be filled up by God. My pain- the pain that made me start writing these Snapshots in the first place- covered my life. But it wasn't just covering me, it was choking me. The belief that I could not be loved, that I had to prove my worth, that rejection and misunderstanding from people equated with rejection and misunderstanding from God- was destroying me.

When I had wine with Jesus, I accused Him of something. That afternoon, my wine-loosened fingers typed it out- My spirit died. You let them kill me. That night on the phone with my friend, while the insects roared, Jesus so gently began to respond to that accusation.

We prayed against the nastiness that entangled my heart. I would love to say that the next day I woke up and it was all over. That I was suddenly better physically, mentally and spiritually. But that wasn't the case.

I was reading the book of Mark at night when my anxiety kept me awake. I paid special attention to Jesus' healing miracles. I began to wonder what it felt like when people with life-long illnesses or possession by evil spirits were healed. I've always just read those stories abstractly. But now, I wanted to know- what does a miracle feel like? Was it painful when Jesus touched those people? Did it feel like fire or lightning or was it comforting, maybe even peaceful?

For years, I've prayed for a miracle. Especially at Christmas time, I would pray for a miracle- for miraculous healing of broken relationships. In all those prayers, I've sometimes wondered- what if what God is doing in my life- and in Andy's life- what if that is the miracle? But, to tell the truth, I didn't believe that was enough. I'm just one person, and not a very important one. A miracle in my heart would be nice, but it was not enough. It had to be bigger. It had to be everyone. It had to be something that could be shouted from the rooftops- something that people would look at and proclaim - God is good. 

But that was before. Before Ann Voskamp and her poured-out heart. Before anxiety made me feel like the universe was splitting apart. Before the night I spoke to the lies while the cicadas sang. Before the headaches made me want to die. Before I started taking walks with God every morning. Before I heard His voice. Speaking. Singing.  Calling. Assuring. Comforting. Giving. Clarifying. Answering. Challenging.

I used to think that I would have to outline these Snapshots. My plan was always to go searching for them in an orderly fashion. But it never really seemed to work. I believed that the answers were there in the Scripture. I thought if I just went digging deeper, more diligently, more systematically, then I would find it. And then I could use them. I could fortify myself with the truth. I could outline myself into an existence where I wouldn't experience pain like this ever again. I could structure and write myself into a place where I would feel loved and secure.

I used to think that if I had known my identity well enough, then I would never have gone through this. I never would have believed the lies. I never would have suffered like this. But now I'm starting to think that it doesn't work that way at all. I'm beginning to see that identity is a gift, as is the faith that's required to receive it. And that the identity we are given is the identity that Christ sees that we need, minute by minute, hour by hour of our one and only, precious, God-given life. Like manna, I'm not sure that it's something that I can store up the way that I have so desired.

I'm beginning to see that what I did was store up an identity that I thought looked pretty good, in an effort to protect myself from further pain. Never mind that it wasn't exactly what Jesus was speaking and singing and giving to me. It was based on the Bible. It was good-looking. It was neat and orderly and purposeful. And yet, it failed. Every pain-filled, terrifying day of this past month, God has been completely disassembling what I have built up for the past nine years. Every lie, every painful memory, every sinful response, every attempt to fix it, every good thing that I've tried to build up as a buffer- it's all coming down. And, in its place, He is rebuilding me with His very specific words for my very specific needs.

I have long loved Mark 5: 21-43. In these verses, Jesus performs two miracles at basically the same time. A woman is miraculously cured of her internal pain, and a little girl is raised to life. This is my Snapshot from this most painful place in this journey. Because, you see, I am a miracle. I am this miracle. A woman with internal pain. A little girl who died. And a Jesus who has said, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering." 

For a lot of years, I've felt kind of foolish talking and writing about my suffering. Because it doesn't seem serious enough. It came from rejection from relatively nice people. Rejection happens. It's part of life, so it has always felt like something that I should be able to just get over. But the truth is, those people represented Christ. So their rejection felt like His rejection. When they wouldn't listen, it felt like He wasn't listening. When they failed to understand, I thought that He didn't either. For all this time, that's what I have been suffering. Not the rejection of man, but the confusion that comes when man's rejection masquerades as God's rejection. Feeling unloved and rejected and separated from God is suffering. Even if the catalyst for that starts with something small, even foolish.

But Jesus hasn't ever thought that my suffering was silly or foolish or insignificant. Jesus, who asked my angry, busted, confused heart to pour Him a cup of my wrath that July afternoon, passionately pursues me. In Mark 5, the dying girl's father comes to Jesus, the woman with internal wounds comes to Jesus. But in July, Jesus, filled with compassion, came to me. Have a glass of wine with me, Meredith. Pour out what's inside. Let it come out. Let it come down. Let me refill and rebuild. 

Now I know what a miracle feels like. It feels like a racing heart and shaking hands and migraines that keep you awake at night. It feels like losing everything, even your very grip on what makes you, you. It feels like desperate cries for prayer when your own prayer feels like it's not enough to get you through.  And in the midst of it all, you're wondering- what is He doing? 

He is coming with compassion. He is speaking the truth. He is reminding me of who He is. He is telling me who I am. He is singing over me. He is strengthening me. He is saying "Be still!" to the storms of my mind. He is promising me the future. He is guiding me in His word. He is giving me friends who are co-suffering with me. He is changing me. He is healing me. He is taking away my pain. He is giving me new life. He is doing a miracle.

I am a miracle because He is a Miracle Worker. I've wanted a miracle. I've wanted a restoration. And, now, at last, I have one. And maybe it isn't the miracle that I prayed for all those Christmases. But what I have learned is that my life is enough. Enough to glorify the Miracle Worker. When I wake up in the morning, I will walk with Jesus. I'll hear His voice clearly. The filter is gone. The dead in me is coming back to life. The internal wounds are healing. And, with my one voice, I will proclaim that He is good. 

Snapshot #8- I am clean

Our first apartment was way too clean. I come from a really clean family. The Cobles (my mother's family) are all clean super-freaks.  I coined this phrase a few years ago that caught on in my family- "there's clean, and then there's Coble clean." You can walk into any of the Coble family homes and basically eat off of any surface, including the bathrooms. I'm only 1/4 Coble, but I got the clean gene for sure. I revel in organization and think the smell of Pine-Sol and Murphy Oil is better than perfume. Still, that first year... things were out of hand.

People deal with disappointment and dysfunction differently. Some people drink and numb their minds. Some people eat too much and burden their bodies. Some people join fitness groups and sculpt themselves into something they show off on social media every day. Some people go to the mall and try to purchase beauty. I vacuum.

Our first apartment was where dust came to die. I knew where every item we possessed was located. I vacuumed and dusted and scoured daily. Dysfunction makes me feel dirty. And there was so much dysfunction and disappointment in that first year,  I couldn't handle it. Cleaning made me feel in control. There was so much that I could not control, that I could not stop or change or bring into order. Every expectation I had might be shattered, but, dang it- my clothes would be color-coordinated by season and hanging one finger-width from one another in our little walk-in closet.

I've asked a friend to help me debride some of the old wounds I'm trying to overcome. She works as a life coach and spiritual counselor, so she asks the tough questions- the ones most of us are too polite to ask of one another, even if we care deeply for one another. The other night she asked me one of the hardest questions I've ever been asked. What if it's all true? What then? What she meant was- what if the low opinions that other people have of me are true? What if I have been a troublemaker? What if I am responsible for making a mess of so many lives? What if it is my fault that people don't speak to one another anymore? What if- had I not come on scene- everything would have been better? Been okay? No love lost? What if that is true? What then?

I could hardly catch my breath. "Oh," I said. "I don't know...I think. I think that would be... unrecoverable."

It's been almost nine years. But I'm still cleaning. Trying to clean what's around me. All of the brokenness of my own heart. The brokenness of the relationships. I've tried to clean it. Tried everything. Dysfunction makes me feel so... very... dirty.

The Bible talks about cleanliness a TON. If you ever get into the weeds of the Old Testament, it's just on and on about cleanliness. The Cobles might be a little house-proud about our cleaning skills, but we have nothing on God's chosen people. Their lives were literally consumed by the pursuit of ceremonial cleanliness. The actions they took or did not take determined whether or not they were clean enough to be accepted by God in their acts of worship.

My BSF teacher in Austin would always say, "Our God is a God of order." When you study Biology for a while you realize that nothing is more true. The order found in the living world is astounding. Take genes, for instance. They're composed of four chemicals- just four- arranged in ultra-precise sequences. And sometimes, when one- just ONE, out of billions- of those chemicals gets out of order- boom! Genetic disorder.

So we have a God who is ridiculously orderly and kind of a clean freak in charge of the universe, time, our existence... and what do I have? Dysfunction. Chaos of mind and soul. The heart is deceitful and beyond cure. Who can understand it? Dysfunction doesn't just make me feel dirty. I am dirty. I came into the world this way. Sin-stained. No amount of animal sacrifice or Murphy oil can do anything about that.

But that's exactly the point of all those old laws. To show God's chosen people, and dirty people like me that would we never, ever get clean enough.

Jesus says in John 15:3- You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. 

It's true that in a world devoid of grace that my actions would leave me in a state that is truly unrecoverable. But I don't live there. I live in the presence of the Vine, attached to Him, His grace flowing into me each and every moment. What he says is the only judgment that really matters. And he says- I have already made you clean. 

God is a God of order. A holy and perfect Being. But I am not. I am powerless in my own existence to create that kind of orderly, holy, perfect world. So, in my own efforts, I will always fail.  I did fail. There was love that I withheld and there were words that I didn't. There was fear. There was pride. Sin breaks everything. Dirties everything. Mine is no different. My friend asked me- What if it were all true? When then? 

For so long, I've tried to come against that thought. Clean myself. Defend myself. Create a life away from this idea that it could be my fault. Please, please, don't let it be my fault. What holy terror has come to me when I've entertained the thought that I could really be responsible for this amount of brokenness.

But what if it is? What then? I've proved to myself and everyone else time and time again that I cannot clean it. I cannot clean my own wounds or anyone else's. But, what I can do. What I am doing is listening to HIS voice. Not mine. Or anyone else's. He says, "You're already clean because of the word I have spoken to you." His words, his work, his life- makes me clean. These sins, this chaos, this exhaustion from trying to fix it. They aren't here. They are gone. Washed away by the blood of Jesus.

He went to great cost- the greatest anyone could ever go to- to make me clean. So I lay down my dust rag, my vacuum and my attempts at self-righteousness. And I embrace the reality that my broken heart is only truly understood by the One who broke himself to make me whole. Who dirtied himself to make me clean. The one who traded holiness for sinfulness out of his abundant love for me. I receive this gift with all of my grace-washed heart.

I have a new answer for my friend's question now- What if it's true? What then? The answer is in the words of this amazing song by Natalie Grant.

There's nothing too dirty that you can't make worthy. 
You wash me in mercy. 
I am clean. 

Washed in the blood of your sacrifice. 
Your blood flowed red and made me white. 
My dirty rags are purified. 
I am clean. 

Snapshot #7- I am worthy

This morning, I sat on my kitchen floor surrounded by three loads of laundry, trying to entice my three year old to let me take off her very full Pull-up from the night before. She was busy taking the Russian nesting doll magnets on and off the magnetized, chalkboard-painted pantry beside our stainless steel fridge. My very sleepy, almost one-year old son saw my empty lap... and an opportunity. I was calling to his sister, but he crawled into my lap with lightning speed and stretched his body out, belly up, a smile stretching across his sticky face as he relaxed and sank down. His sister soon followed, her urine-soaked ballerina PJ's making full contact with the knee of the faded yoga pants that are older than our marriage.

I know that the years will be too short- everyone on Facebook keeps reminding me, especially with back to school in full swing- so we sat there, the three of us, smelling like syrup and pee-pee, and I let a few minutes ooze by like the Aunt Jemima Light that had taken just a few milliseconds to itself before covering Mickey Mouse's waffle face earlier in the morning.

I read a verse recently-2 Thessalonians 1:11. Here it is.

With this in mind, we constantly pray for you, that our God may make you worthy of his calling, and that by his power he may bring to fruition your every desire for goodness and your every deed prompted by faith. 

My mind has been exploring identity for so long. Maybe it is the journey of my life, the story that I will tell myself over and over and over again. Because it seems that I lose sight of the slivers of truth I discover every time I blink my eyes. But here is this snapshot- of a Parent calling his children into his lap.

God is a parent. A Father-Mother. It took both Adam and Eve to reflect his image. And today I need this image of this Parent calling, and messy children filling his lap.

It's hard to feel worthy. The entire world is sort of set up to make us feel like we have to do something to be worthy to live in it. This takes on so many different faces. Have children. Make money. Lose weight. Accomplish goals. Build. Design. Create. Save. Be relevant. Make yourself interesting. Look good. It's exhausting.

What I love about this verse to the Thessalonians is that the worth follows the calling. God is calling his children. Like a mother on the floor of a kitchen. Come here- sticky, pee-soaked, beautiful creation of mine. Come here to me. I am calling you. Just as you are.

This is what I'm learning about who I am- the worth is because of the calling. But the two cannot be separated. I am called, therefore I am worthy. And the calling doesn't really have to do with "doing" anything. We talk about calling a lot in Christian culture- God "calls" us to serve in different ways, to live in different places. But those sort of "calls" change as life changes. God is creative with his children. He lets us move around and do different things. But this call here- this is the call to all of us. The one call that makes all the others possible. This is the call to come to him and be filled with the power we need to be a worthy member of his family.

Let me see this invitation and sprawl, belly up and smiling, and stare into this holy Parent's beautiful face. Let me believe that because I was called here, I am worthy to be here- in all of my mess and pain and striving and failing and thinking and feeling. Let me see him welcome all of his children into a lap so unimaginably big that there is room for all of us who are being called. Everyone come. There's plenty of room. And nothing delights his heart more.

In coming to him, I am being made worthy by him. Because he's called me to be his. His flesh and blood. His hands and his feet in the world he sent his Son into, and then brought him back out of. I am worthy of being a part of this because I have been pulled by grace into his Father-Mother arms. He breathes me in and fills me with his very life,  and this gives his heart gladness and joy. He rejoices because I am there. I rejoice because I am wanted. I am loved. I am understood just as I am.

And he gives me his power to go out and do those other callings. To really be him to the world. His flesh and blood. His hands. His feet. His voice. His heart. How else could I do it if not through his power? And yet, what I am learning is that nothing is more important than being him. Because there are so many other voices out there telling everyone what they need to change in order to be worthy. What they should or shouldn't look like or accomplish or feel like inside. Wealth and beauty and youth and affluence are calling. Relevance and productivity and achievement are calling. Legalism and self-righteousness and pride are calling. People will say to you, with their words or their actions or their silence- you are not worthy. Try not to listen. Try to hear this calling instead. Try to see the Father-Mother, the holy Parent, who kneeled down farther than any of us could ever have imagined, and became sin for us, so that we can come into his lap and be held and told- you are worthy of being my flesh, my blood. 

I'm trying to sit in his lap this morning and let the minute ooze by. I'm trying to let this calling replace the rejection that has pierced my heart 1000 times and made me feel so deeply unworthy. I'm trying to let grace surround the messiest places of me and believe that I am worthy.

Father, receive me now as I answer your calling. The calling to be yours. Let your voice soothe my restless heart that has so deeply believed that I must change or do or accomplish or clean up or fix or become something in order to be worthy, in order to be accepted. Help me rest here in your arms. Help me to believe that I was wanted. That I was bought at a price. That I am worthy. That I am desired and loved. Please make me worthy of the calling you freely give to me. Give me your power to accomplish all the other callings. To become like you in my heart and my mind and my actions. Help me to reflect you rightly- to be Jesus to the people that I love- the ones that I like and the ones that I don't like. The ones that like me and the ones that don't like me. It scares me to think of the damage that's being done in the world by people just like me, who associate with your Name, but aren't resting here and receiving your power to do your will. Forgive me for doing that very thing and change me. Let me be yours and let that be enough. Amen. 

From the bottom of my anxious heart

For you were bought with a price. So glorify God with your body. 1 Corinthians 6:20

Last Saturday, I woke up to a bright day and got my family in the car to go to Sunset Beach for the day. Today, I woke up and had to mentally scan my body before I could even move. The tips of my fingers are still a little numb. The pain in my chest has subsided and my breathing seems pretty normal. My muscles feel sore- like I've started intense exercise training, when, in fact, the most strenuous thing that I did yesterday was fold a basket of laundry. That brightness and energy from a week ago seem so out of my grasp.

I usually meet my day feeling strong and courageous. I love to make plans with my family and my friends. My life is filled with simple joys and attainable goals. But for almost a week now, I have awoken every day with uncertainty. I don't know how I will feel- what my body and mind will allow. Even the most menial tasks can seem difficult and overwhelming. It takes all of my energy and focus to feed my children. Sometimes I can't even manage to eat something myself. My appetite is gone. My energy evaporated.

I don't really know what is going on with me. All I know is that I was full of energy last Saturday and then, out of nowhere, on Sunday afternoon, a fatigue suddenly came upon me. We were riding in the car and I couldn't keep my eyes open. That initial "can't keep my eyelids open" sensation was followed by anxiety symptoms that have waxed and waned over the past week.

I suffered a severe bout of post-partum anxiety just days after I had Grey. I felt so claustrophobic my last day in the hospital that I paced the room. My blood pressure shot up so much that it was HIGHER the day of discharge than when I was in labor! That time was so difficult for my family. We had to hunker down at my mom's house for a week because I couldn't get out from under the cloud of anxiety. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. My heart pounded and my muscles ached and I couldn't catch my breath. I have felt all of those things this past week- sometimes for hours on end. But, what's made it more troubling for me is that I do not have any idea why. After I had Grey, I thought, "Okay, this is terrible, but I just had a baby. My body is all out of whack, but it will recover." This time, I don't know the cause.

When you tell someone- even a medical professional- that you're suffering from anxiety, their usual response is to ask you- "What is troubling you?" This makes a lot of sense because I think that a lot of people (myself included) experience anxiety about something. Stress at work, worrying about bills, trouble with family. I've gone through that kind of anxiety before and it does manifest itself in physical problems. I think that's the kind of anxiety I experienced back in February, when I felt really worn out, troubled, sad and, yes, anxious... about my life, my work, and my emotional pain. But that is very different from what I've felt this week. This experience is more like what it feels like to suddenly come down with the flu- it comes from out of nowhere and you know that something is terribly wrong with your body, but you cannot stop it from ravaging every muscle and nerve.

Anxiety cycles in a positive feedback loop, which is one of the things that makes it so terrible. My anxiety started as something purely physical- heart palpitations, shaking hands, troubled breathing- but then it became something mental as fear began to creep along the very pathways the biological symptoms were bulldozing through my body. "What if I always feel like this? What if I can't catch my breath? What if I have a heart attack? What if I'm never able to take care of my children by myself again?" Sometimes these thoughts make the physical symptoms even worse,  and other times they send me into a depressed state.

I hate feeling this way. I want to get better and I'm continuing to seek help from medical professionals until things return to normal. When things get really hard, I cry out in prayer. I send desperate text messages to my praying friends- I know that they will lift me up to God. In this week of suffering, I have clung to some truths that have refreshed my soul, even as my body has completely failed.

God will not leave me. One of the scariest things for me this week has been being alone. It's totally crazy because being around people heightens my anxiety, but then being alone makes it even worse. Anxiety doesn't really make sense. But, in the few times that I have been alone, I have been able to just breath and believe that God is with me. That He will not leave. That even if my heart stopped or I could not catch my breath, He would, somehow be there. My friend Rebecca sent me the picture that you see at the top of the post. This image says everything.

My prayers are being listened to. I have never been so desperate and dependent on prayer as I have been this past week and in the week after I had Grey. I've never had to fall to the floor in prayer because I cannot stand (or stand it) anymore. I've sent so many desperate "please pray!" text to my family and friends this week. My prayers have changed as the week has continued. At first they were always- "God, please take this away!" I'm still praying that, and if you want to pray for me- please pray that too!!! But I've seen a shift in my prayers as I've anchored into the truth that God is in control and that He loves me and will not abandon me. Now, I pray for specific things- "God, please take the tightness in my chest away. Please let me sleep. God, please help me love Andy and the kids. God, your will be done." He answers. My favorite moment of his faithfulness to answer me came on Thursday night, which was the worst night I've had. I couldn't sleep, and the chest pain and troubled breathing were extremely difficult to endure. In the middle of the night, I was reading the book of Mark and came across the passage where Jesus is in the boat with his disciples and a storm comes up. Jesus is asleep, but everyone else is like, "We're going to die!" They wake Jesus up and ask him- "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?" Jesus speaks to the storm and says, "Quiet! Be still!" I read that passage on Thursday night and asked Jesus to do the same for me. Within a few minutes, I was asleep, my fingers still stretched out onto the passage in Mark 4.

One Body, many parts. The Body of Christ is an amazing and mysterious thing. I know that the Bible tells me that I'm being made into the image of Christ. But I'm also a part of a bigger Body- one that is composed of people with different gifts. As my physical body has failed, I have depended on the Body of Christ to hold me and help me. Andy is part of that Body. My mom is part of that Body. My friends are part of that Body. Whether it's lifting me up in prayer or folding laundry or playing with my children, I have depended on this Body this week. My friend Leslie reminded me that it is God's design for this Body to work in this way. I don't want to have to put these members in this position, but, ultimately, it is what God calls them to- to do His will and His work and to show Himself to the world through them- through my brokenness and their strength. For this is the message of the Gospel- our brokenness, His strength. Thank you to those members of our Body who have lived out that Gospel with me this week.

Give God glory. The main lesson I'm learning this week, and the reason that I am writing now, is to glorify God. I listened to this John Piper meditation on Friday about the reason that you have a body. (I'm attaching the link at the bottom of the post) It made me weep. My body is broken right now. Something is so wrong with it and it affects my mind and my heart and every muscle and nerve. It hurts to be like this. It's easy to think that there is no purpose in a broken mind and a broken body. It can hardly function at times, curling up underneath a blanket in agony has been my only recourse on a few occasions. I long to glorify God in a healthy body- one that can get together with friends, teach lessons to children. I hope to be in that kind of body again soon. But, for now, I choose this truth- this body, this broken one, this one whose neurotransmitters and hormones are completely out of whack- this is the one body that I have. And this is the body that I will use to glorify God. He bought this body in all its imperfection- at a price. His plan is to use this body to glorify His name. So I say, "Yes, God. Let's do it. Though my flesh and my heart (or mind, in my case) may fail... let me glorify you. You are the strength of my heart and my portion forever." I love God. I give thanks to Him for this broken body. I ask Him to heal it. I ask Him to take away my pain and my family's suffering. But even if He doesn't, I ask for the strength to continue to glorify Him. He is in control. He is Sovereign. I have made Him my refuge, and I will tell of all of His deeds.

https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/why-you-have-a-body

Mommy's voice, too

Story has VBS at our church this week. The theme is “Shipwrecked: Rescued by Jesus.” We’ve been watching the music videos on YouTube since yesterday. I like the songs. They’re catchy and the theology is good.

On the way to church this morning, Story was watching one of the music videos on my phone and singing along. I began to sing along too, and she said, from the back seat- “Stop singing, Mommy.” She likes to hear her own voice these days. I guess that’s a pretty normal child-development thing.

Most of the time, I would say, ‘Okay, you sing.” Let her develop her own voice, her sense of self, all that stuff. But today, I didn’t. I said. “Jesus wants to hear Mommy’s voice too.”

After I said this, the power in my own words filled me with emotion. Again, the chorus came, and Story sang, and I sang too. She didn’t like it. “Mommy, no singing.”

“Story, I’m not going to sing loudly. I want you to be able to hear your voice, but Jesus wants to hear both of us.”

My eyes filled up. My voice cracked. But I sang on.

Not Going Back...

I have only got a moment for this- the kids will be up in a few- but I'll write with what I've got.

I'm home with the kids today because public schools are closed in a lot of North Carolina counties. The reason is that many teachers are up in Raleigh, rallying for respect.

I'm not there. Not marching, not even posting something on Instagram in solidarity. Because I am just too tired to do it. I am exactly the reason why those teachers are marching- a burnt out, heart-broken educator who isn't going back next year. They're rallying for pay that catches up to the national average, for better per-pupil spending, but mostly-- for respect.

I teach in a classroom with a hole in the ceiling. Leaky pipes caused the ceiling tiles to soak through and after one of the tiles caved in and fell during first period, they took all of the tiles down and now there's just a gaping hole. (by the grace of God, the student sitting under it wasn't at his seat at the time) When it rains, I come into a class with a little flood that extends from wall to wall. I call the front desk to try to get the custodial staff to come and clean it up. Sometimes they come. Sometimes they don't.

There's no air conditioner in my classroom. On Monday, the outside temperature was above 90. My poor administration is trying to work everyone into an air conditioned classroom when they are teaching, forcing teachers with AC to let other classes roam into them during their planning hours. On Tuesday, Grey had a high fever, and I really wanted to stay home with him- the only time I've thought of taking off to be with my sick child during this whole semester- but the logistical nightmare of trying to explain these classroom switches to a sub wasn't worth it. I gave up on my sub lesson plan after twenty-five minutes of trying to type things up. I called my mom. She came here. I went to work.

A few weeks ago, there was a fight in a classroom across from me. The teacher, a lovely woman from Barcelona and a fantastic, incredibly hard-working teacher, was having a hard time keeping her students in the classroom. They were all pouring out into the hallway to see the kids slam one another into the lockers. I bolted from my room at the sound of the commotion and tried to herd her students back into their room with my most commanding voice. They wouldn't listen, so I gently laid an open palm on their arms to move them back into the room- out of harm's way- trying to curb the chaos. One girl looked at me- she knew I was a teacher- she looked me in the eye and said- "Get your f-ing hands off me." I had to go back to my class and teach cell division. It was the fifth or sixth fight that had happened near me or involved one of my students, just in one semester.

I teach to rooms filled with 30 students who are more interested in their cell phone than anything I could ever say. Most cannot listen or pay attention beyond 10-15 minutes of instruction- if that. If I try to design a lesson that is fun, engaging- whether it's a lab that I have paid for out of my own pocket or something using technology- most are too lazy to read the instructions and actually engage in the activity. And those are my honors classes. My standard class has about six sleeping students everytime I try to talk for more than five minutes. Some of them can barely read, but I'm required to cram an over-stuffed biology curriculum down their throats at break-neck speed in time for state-testing in June.

I wake up at 5AM every day to design lessons and grade papers. And I come home so tired. Tired in my bones. Tired in my soul.

So, I'm not going back. I'm not bitter. But I am sad. I said to my mom today, "it feels like a death." I love teaching. I love science. I love kids. But I can't be crushed in spirit day after day and have the heart and soul reserves necessary for my own family.

So, I'm not going back. I'm going to stay home with my kids next year.

In saying this, I want to make it abundantly clear that I am in no way blaming the school I teach at. I have been INCREDIBLY blessed to work at Cape Fear High School. The administration has been nothing but fair, kind and considerate towards me. They are doing the best they can. And I work with a host of excellent educators. We are all tired. That's why we are marching. We're more than just tired- and we aren't just paranoid or greedy. There are SERIOUS problems going on in public education. I cannot even begin to address the probable solutions in one blog post. All I can say today is that I am proud of those teachers in Raleigh today. My heart is there too. THANK YOU for going on behalf of those who have lost their voice, lost their strength and their will to fight. God be with you.

Snapshot #6- I am getting hungry.

The next stop on my identity journey is John 6. I'm probably going to camp out here for a while, but I want to share something that happened today when I started digging in.

I read through the chapter and started outlining.

In John 6: 1-14 Jesus feeds 5,000
In John 6:16-24 Jesus walks on water as he and the disciples get over to the other side of the lake.
In John 6: 25-59 Jesus talks to the people who have come looking for him after the feeding miracle and tells them that he is the bread of life.

I stopped reading and looked across my screened in porch to the empty settee. I imagined Jesus sitting there, relaxing, as I am, for this hour of time while the three little things that make so much noise rest peacefully inside. I talk to him like he's a friend who has stopped by for a chat while the kids nap. I say, "So, I don't mean this disrespectfully, but I don't know how to connect this conversation you're having to my current circumstances. You were talking to these Jewish people who were steeped in their traditions, but didn't recognize you as the Son of God. My problems are with believers- people who have said that they recognize you as the Son, and have eaten your Bread."

He doesn't say anything, so I continue.

"I'm not saying that this is irrelevant. I think it's really relevant. But I just don't know how yet."

Then, something inside me says, "Go get a piece of bread."

Not wanting to miss out on something that might be important to this project, I get up and go to the kitchen and open up a ziploc of leftover rolls from Easter dinner. I pull off half a roll and bring it outside. I'm thinking- maybe I'll experience some sort of profound sensation as I eat it that will point me in the right direction.

Back on the porch, I put the roll in my mouth. It starts to dissolve, and it tastes a little bit like the plastic bag it's been in. Nothing profound happens- just the enzymes doing their thing, turning it into a mush that I swallow down.

"Were you hungry for that bread?" He asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I had already had so much to eat."

"Exactly," he says.

I'm not sure what I'm going to find here in John 6, but I know that my nap-time conversation with Jesus is revealing this- to really want the Bread of Life, I've got to get hungry for it. Hungry for Him.

What got me into this identity- quest to begin with? Wanting to be believed? Liked? Loved? Understood? Valued? How have I gone about trying to meet that need? I've tried just about everything- organizing, cleaning, yoga, therapy, friendships, adventures, reading, TV shows set in Britain, mysteries set in Quebec, Pinot Noir, Southern Living, talking (poor Andy... so much talking), writing, Bible study, posting pictures on social media, working, gardening-  I've tried lots of good things. They fill my plate. They aren't bad. I'm not going to pretend like they are. They're good. I can keep them. I can keep all of them. But, He's right. Those things can suppress my hunger. When I am the cleaner, the organizer, or the yogi, I'm not hungry. When I'm the reader or the talker or the writer, I'm not hungry either. When I'm the teacher or the mom at play group or the wine-drinker at girls night out- I'm not working up an appetite for Jesus. If I want to eat Bread, I've got to get hungry.

For me, I think that means that anytime my internal struggle nags at me, I shouldn't load up on those favorite things to try to feel better. They curb my appetite. It's scary to think about not leaning into those pleasant distractions, because how I feel on the inside can be really unpleasant. My pain and insecurity are scary. I like to try to get away from them. I feel weak and guilty and stupid for feeling this way. My feelings frighten me. But they make me hungry.

Bread that comes down from heaven shouldn't be something that I'm too full to eat. Because it's the one type of Bread that I really need. I have a problem- a broken heart and a messed up identity, and there's a Fixer for that problem. He was on my porch with me this afternoon, letting me know that I need to get hungry.