This past Sunday, during the time for children at our worship service, our pastor explained the change of the color of the stole that covers the pulpit. Having not grown up in a Presbyterian church, the whole liturgical calendar thing is new to me, so I'm always appreciative of an explanation for these changes, too.
"What color do you see?" Pastor Howard Dudley asked.
"Green!!" replied the little girls with bows in their hair.
Green, he explained, marks what the Presbyterian Church calls "ordinary time." And for our church, it accompanies a shift from hearing about the life of Christ from the pulpit to the life of the church, as we begin a series of sermons based on the book of Acts. As he talked, one little girl shouted, "GREEN MEANS GO!"
"Yes! Exactly. Green means go. Because we should go with the love of God." His enthusiastic response was more gracious than anything I could have come up with in that moment. Even as he spoke, I could feel little flutters of anxiety in my chest.
Sometimes I imagine being on-scene in John 16, when Jesus is telling his disciples that it's good for him to go away. I'm 100% certain that if I were there, I would have my arms crossed over my chest and a fully disgruntled look on my face. In my mind, I'd be thinking, "So you just leave us here and it gets better? I don't think so."
Because how does it get better than Jesus? How does it get better than a man who walks on water and calms seas? How does it get better than a Person so unafraid of public opinion that he speaks his mind with total, unadulterated freedom? How does it get better than a human being whose spit heals blindness and whose touch heals lepers? How can it ever get better than someone who intentionally obliterates social and religious walls of separation with a wrecking ball of grace?
When I read about Jesus, no matter what's going on with me or in the world, I am always pierced by an arrow of hope. But I cannot say that the same thing is true when I read about the work of his people.
I want to lean into Jesus in John 16 and whisper from the wisdom of my 2019 vantage point, "You know they're going to mess this up, right?"
Instead of loving one another, they're going to promote themselves. Instead of setting captives free, they're going to enslave. Instead of healing, they're going to wound. Instead of spreading a message of hope, they're going to promote fear. Instead of purity, there will be abuse. Instead of listening, they're going to shout, and email, and, God help us all... tweet. And the world isn't going to know them for their love, they're going to fear them as closed people who are obsessed with their own opinions, policies and moral standards. And the Earth isn't going to be renewed, it's going to be ravaged.
We in the church like to think that sin, and people who do not believe in Jesus are responsible for such atrocities. But, reality and history tell a different story. The people of God are culpable for much of the world's hurt and shame and anxiety today. Thus, my heart's fluttery response at that green color on the pulpit on an otherwise beautiful, sunlit Sunday morning. "Why, Jesus? Why can't you just stay here and show how it's actually done? Make sure it's done right? People just seem to find more and more reasons to argue with one another about who you are and what you would do. Why not just stay here and get things done yourself?"
But how can I argue with a God who stoops from his position above all of the universe and clothes himself in human flesh? Can I even understand the depth of his obsession with mankind? Isaiah 55: 9 says, "as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." Indeed they are. I would never think of looking to people to continue to express God's perfect love. People are far too inconsistent. Too weak, fickle, selfish and mean. Why in the universe would you entrust a message of grace and love to them?
The only answer I can think of is that we are the objects of that grace and love. We look at the Bible and think of it as God's Word, and indeed it is, but its also so very human. Written by humans and for humans and filled with human stories, about our failures and our victories and our pain and lamentation and rejoicing. The only God we know of is a God intertwines himself with human life, and expresses himself through our flesh and bones and blood. First as One of us, then as One with us.
This makes me think of my work as a teacher. It's no secret that teachers can sometimes get caught up in the act of teaching. We can obsess over mastery over content, presentation style, and meeting certain professional goals. But, um... our entire existence is only justified by the students. And, especially as a science teacher, there needs to come a time when I step away from the lab table and say, "Read the lab manual, and do it yourselves." Because that's what teaching really is about. It isn't selfish, even though I sometimes make it that way. It's not about my performance and how well I can do the experiment. It's about giving the students something that they don't yet have. It's a complete transfer, and that transfer is only legitimized by my stepping completely away and entrusting them to use what I have tried to give them.
I think that's what Jesus did. And, even though my inner cynic doesn't like it, I can't argue that it is best practice. Without people, who would he have saved? We identify Christ as our Savior, but you can't be a Savior if there's nothing there to save. His saving work was meant for people, mean, fickle, disobedient, rebellious people. That grace was fully transferred to us, and then, he left us with the Spirit to help us continue the work that he started. So even though there's a part of me that wants to say, "Don't go,we're not going to handle this well." I can understand why he did go. It's an act of love. An act of trust. And a chance for us to see if we've actually received what's been freely given.
I wonder if only people who have been wounded by other Christian people or who are wary of the animosity they see between different factions of the church would respond the way I did to the green? I tried for a long time to just pin my woundedness and wariness on sin, not sinners. Christians say that all the time. But for me, it doesn't work. I've been told that I should take comfort in the reality that my struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of the dark world and the evil in the heavens above. But just as Love poured out in flesh and blood for my life, so evil corrupts flesh and blood which leads to death. The struggle might be ongoing in the heavens, but it's definitely breaking hearts and bodies and minds down here. I'm not sure that the two can or should be separated. No, woundedness comes from people. Sometimes it comes from Christian people. The same people he was talking about when he said, "It's good for me to go away, because I will send them the Advocate."
I'm beginning to see that if I could go back to John 16, and stand there cross-armed and give Jesus my two cents, that he would look back and me and say, "I know they brought you pain, Meredith. But do you not see? They are also bringing your healing. "
And so, this very idea that caused my anxiety to spring forth- this reality that the church is now the representation of Christ on Earth- how can I deny that this is also the way that he is healing me? Over the past few weeks, I've been more intentional than ever before about sharing what burdens me. As I have emailed or texted people I love and trust, the weight of my thoughts becomes lighter as I type the words. Every day, I am reminded through phone calls, emails, post cards, texts- that I am not alone. I am being prayed for. I am understood. Last night, I went to yoga class. The lady who teaches it goes to my church. When she ends class, she comes around to each person and touches oil to their temples and forehead. That physical touch is another reminder that I am not alone. Even in the care of my physical body, something that seems so private and personal, there is someone there to help. Today, after making slime with kids at VBS all morning, I was momentarily buried under a pile of preschoolers during the closing assembly. Those soft, sticky, sweaty, small arms and legs remind me that I have purpose. There's another generation coming along after me, and surely the people of God will wound them. But maybe, by his grace and power, we will heal them, too.
I can see the beauty in this. And the necessity of it. How can we really be Jesus' people, if we don't have the chance to take all that he has given to us, and put it into action. Are we going to fail? Of course. And sometimes the consequences of that failure are heavier and deeper than I can express in words. Our failure is serious. But, so is our victory. And it's through our victory that we shoot arrows of hope into the world. Hope for ears that listen and hands that serve. Hope for hearts that will break with the wounds of the world, rather than contributing to them. Hope for justice and mercy. Hope for freedom and God's glory, not our own. I need this chance to go. Because I probably carry more personal failures to live up to who Christ really is, than victories. For today, anyway. But green means go.
So, tomorrow, I'll get up and I'll go. I'll go on sharing what is too heavy for me to carry alone. I'll go on receiving help from others who are willing to give it. And I'll go on serving those who are willing to receive what I have to give. I'll go with compassion, the way my Lord did. And, as much as I am able, I'll go without fear. (That's the hardest one for me) And I wonder... Maybe, in the end, "ordinary time" will end up bringing extraordinary change to my life.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Baby Shark
Like other stay-at-home Moms, my world revolves around play-dates. On these hot summer days, I live for trips to the pool, splash pad or (shady) playground with other moms of preschoolers and toddlers. This week, we met up with my friend Gaia and her daughter Mary at Bravery Kids Gym in Fayetteville.
Bravery is one of these indoor play gyms, where you pay to let your littles run around and jump and swing about while you try to have a conversation with another mom. Your conversation inevitably fails because your child falls down on the padded floor, or needs a strong reminder that we share and take turns or has go to the potty. But, you're still happy to have an hour of conversation in the sweet air conditioning that is not centered around Nick Jr. characters.
Gaia and I were sitting on one side of the room, watching the girls interact with a little guy who looked to be about three. We noticed that he was a little bit rough. We witnessed him throwing some plastic cones about, and we commented that the women with him didn't seem to be his mother. She seemed a little too timid when correcting him. Most mommas would grab their child and make a quick correction at the cone-throwing, but this woman seemed a bit like a fish out of water. We said she looked like a grandmother or a babysitter, but she was definitely trying.
This boy and our two girls were up on a wooden platform. Below the platform is a pit filled with super soft, foam blocks. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I saw Story fall from the platform into the blocks and the little guy jumped in right on top of her. I had just risen from my chair when I heard her screaming. I ran to her, and the boy's grandmother ran over too. It was a blur for a moment, and then I realized what my red-faced child was screaming about. Her arm was red and blue and white from the worst bite mark I've ever seen. The boy's grandmother picked him up, and Gaia told me later that he was trying to bite and kick at his grandmother while I stared at my screaming little girl and tried to think.
Something kind of primal takes over for a second when you realize that someone has hurt your child. That boy might have just been three years old, but I was ready to drop-kick him into the parking lot for a moment. But peace rushed in and calmed that instinct too quickly for more damage to be done. There was no need for more screaming. Everyone was already plenty upset.
But, I did look at the woman, holding the boy, who was now crying. And said, "Is he your grandson?" She said, "Yes." And I said, "He's a little out of control." And then I walked back to the seating area with a still crying and shaking Story.
As the staff responded to the situation with an ice pack and some gummy snacks, the boy's story unfolded. His grandmother was mortified and devastated by what happened. Through tears (real tears, not histrionics) she told us that he was a drug baby, and his mother is in rehab. Though his grandmother was falling apart, the boy seemed to not care whatsoever about anything that was happening. Once Story calmed down, I asked his grandmother if I could talk to him, and she said yes. I said, "I want you to know that you hurt my little girl. She is crying because of what you did to her." He just stared at me blankly. Shortly after that, Gaia and I took our kids to the reading room, so they could completely calm down.
After a while, the grandmother appeared at the door of the reading room to let us know that she had filled out the incident report with the staff and left her number. She said to call if we needed anything. She was still crying and apologizing. She hugged Story and, with tears still streaming down her cheeks said to me, "I don't want her to be traumatized." I told her, "We will be fine. It sounds like you have a really difficult situation. We want you to go in peace." During these interactions, her grandson continued to try to kick and hit her. Gaia offered tender admonishment to the boy, "Don't hit your grandmother," she said in her Italian accent, "she loves you so much." But I could see from my seat on the reading room sofa that the broken parts of that boy's life had so filled him up that he had nothing else to pour out at that moment but slaps and kicks. As they turned to go their own way, my heart broke for them because I knew that Story's wound would be so much easier to heal.
After about fifteen minutes, my baby girl was back out to play. I sat cross-legged on the floor building blocks with Grey and looked across the room at her. "Baby Shark" came on through the speakers and I watched her move her little body to the music and I thought, "Wow, that girl is fierce." Later, in the car, she wanted to call her daddy and tell him about the bite. She said, "That boy had a sad heart. He didn't know how to act." And, then, I cried.
God of grace, thank you for giving us peace in our moment of pain. Thank you for giving us the power to speak truth to those who hurt us. Thank you for giving us the resilience to dance, even after we've been knocked off our feet. Jesus, thank you for weeping with the wounded. We ask you for peace for this boy who wounded Story and great healing for him and his family.
Bravery is one of these indoor play gyms, where you pay to let your littles run around and jump and swing about while you try to have a conversation with another mom. Your conversation inevitably fails because your child falls down on the padded floor, or needs a strong reminder that we share and take turns or has go to the potty. But, you're still happy to have an hour of conversation in the sweet air conditioning that is not centered around Nick Jr. characters.
Gaia and I were sitting on one side of the room, watching the girls interact with a little guy who looked to be about three. We noticed that he was a little bit rough. We witnessed him throwing some plastic cones about, and we commented that the women with him didn't seem to be his mother. She seemed a little too timid when correcting him. Most mommas would grab their child and make a quick correction at the cone-throwing, but this woman seemed a bit like a fish out of water. We said she looked like a grandmother or a babysitter, but she was definitely trying.
This boy and our two girls were up on a wooden platform. Below the platform is a pit filled with super soft, foam blocks. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I saw Story fall from the platform into the blocks and the little guy jumped in right on top of her. I had just risen from my chair when I heard her screaming. I ran to her, and the boy's grandmother ran over too. It was a blur for a moment, and then I realized what my red-faced child was screaming about. Her arm was red and blue and white from the worst bite mark I've ever seen. The boy's grandmother picked him up, and Gaia told me later that he was trying to bite and kick at his grandmother while I stared at my screaming little girl and tried to think.
Something kind of primal takes over for a second when you realize that someone has hurt your child. That boy might have just been three years old, but I was ready to drop-kick him into the parking lot for a moment. But peace rushed in and calmed that instinct too quickly for more damage to be done. There was no need for more screaming. Everyone was already plenty upset.
But, I did look at the woman, holding the boy, who was now crying. And said, "Is he your grandson?" She said, "Yes." And I said, "He's a little out of control." And then I walked back to the seating area with a still crying and shaking Story.
As the staff responded to the situation with an ice pack and some gummy snacks, the boy's story unfolded. His grandmother was mortified and devastated by what happened. Through tears (real tears, not histrionics) she told us that he was a drug baby, and his mother is in rehab. Though his grandmother was falling apart, the boy seemed to not care whatsoever about anything that was happening. Once Story calmed down, I asked his grandmother if I could talk to him, and she said yes. I said, "I want you to know that you hurt my little girl. She is crying because of what you did to her." He just stared at me blankly. Shortly after that, Gaia and I took our kids to the reading room, so they could completely calm down.
After a while, the grandmother appeared at the door of the reading room to let us know that she had filled out the incident report with the staff and left her number. She said to call if we needed anything. She was still crying and apologizing. She hugged Story and, with tears still streaming down her cheeks said to me, "I don't want her to be traumatized." I told her, "We will be fine. It sounds like you have a really difficult situation. We want you to go in peace." During these interactions, her grandson continued to try to kick and hit her. Gaia offered tender admonishment to the boy, "Don't hit your grandmother," she said in her Italian accent, "she loves you so much." But I could see from my seat on the reading room sofa that the broken parts of that boy's life had so filled him up that he had nothing else to pour out at that moment but slaps and kicks. As they turned to go their own way, my heart broke for them because I knew that Story's wound would be so much easier to heal.
After about fifteen minutes, my baby girl was back out to play. I sat cross-legged on the floor building blocks with Grey and looked across the room at her. "Baby Shark" came on through the speakers and I watched her move her little body to the music and I thought, "Wow, that girl is fierce." Later, in the car, she wanted to call her daddy and tell him about the bite. She said, "That boy had a sad heart. He didn't know how to act." And, then, I cried.
God of grace, thank you for giving us peace in our moment of pain. Thank you for giving us the power to speak truth to those who hurt us. Thank you for giving us the resilience to dance, even after we've been knocked off our feet. Jesus, thank you for weeping with the wounded. We ask you for peace for this boy who wounded Story and great healing for him and his family.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
That's Southern
Thursdays are our at-home days. We spend the rest of the week driving back and forth to preschool and Bible Study and playdates, but Thursdays, we have no agenda. We can just stay home. This past Thursday, I bundled the kids up and placed them in the double jogging stroller, a blanket on top of their little legs, and we walked to the library.
I love my neighborhood. Is it as rare as I think it is to walk through your neighborhood, on the way to the library, no less, and rattle off your neighbor's names as you pass their houses? As we walked by gardens just waking up from winter and homes with gigantic white columns and wrap-around porches, I decided to strike up a conversation with Story.
"Do you know what 'Southern' means?" I asked.
"No," she replies.
It has only just occurred to me, as we pass by a tremendous magnolia, that she is, in fact, a child of the South. Born in Austin, and with a daddy who will always seem more Colorado than Carolina, she seems, somehow, not quite of this place.
"What's 'Southern' means?" she asks.
Well, I think to myself, that's going to take some time to try to answer.
My Mom gave me Reese Witherspoon's book, Whiskey in a Teacup for Christmas. As I sat reading it one afternoon on the sofa in my living room, it dawned on me that I don't need to be ashamed of being Southern. I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus like any other Southern girl, but along the way, I met a lot of people from a lot of places. Such is life in Fayetteville, North Carolina, home to Ft. Bragg.
A lot of people who come to Ft. Bragg can't help but talk about how they can't stand the South. It used to really bother me, and I felt defensive, but then somewhere in time, I think I went vanilla about the whole thing. It's hard to keep on caring. Especially because most of those people who complain so much will leave in a few years anyway. People come to Ft. Bragg from everywhere in the world, and most of them have their own well-developed sense of what home ought to look and feel like. I've learned not to begrudge them that, even if in reality, home is likely to be more a state of mind than a state of the nation. Even so, there are some memories that I cannot shake. A former boyfriend who incessantly insulted my mother's wallpaper, and who got viscerally angry over the fact that my mother had an African American housekeeper named Katie. And the girl at my bridal shower who poked fun at me for wearing black swiss dot panty-hose with my forest green dress, and who could not get over the fact that I'd had bridal portraits taken (she had never heard of such a thing!) I reckon that, over the years, I developed a feeling that, at the very least, I ought to be sort of ashamed of being Southern. I felt like other people were utterly convinced that the South was filled with nothing but ignorance, humidity and mosquitoes, and though I've honestly never felt this way myself, I couldn't muster the strength or desire to go on defending it.
I know there are some people who are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of thought. Who would ever feel embarrassed of being Southern? Pour them some sweet tea in a monogramed glass and sing them Dixie- this is the South and they're proud of it. I don't begrudge them either. I suppose everyone is entitled to their home state of mind.
I guess that I'm not so worried about what those people said about my panty-hose or my mother's wallpaper anymore, nor am I going to monogram everything that doesn't move (sorry Reese), but I am beginning to see that it's important for me to start to tell my little ones about the South- and here's one reason why...
On my run today, I ran back through my sweet neighborhood to the museum that stands just on the other side of the train track from the library. I stopped and took a couple of pictures of the statue out front. It's a statue of the General William C. Lee, a renowned General from Dunn who served bravely in the 101st Airborne during World Wars I and II, and it was set ablaze a few nights ago. The museum curator was on the news earlier this week explaining that he supposes some "jerks" (his word, not mine) set it on fire, thinking it was a statute of the other General Lee.
On Thursday, I walked and pointed out things to Story- "See that camellia, that's Southern. So many beautiful colors! Let's see how many colors we can collect. And that magnolia tree? That's Southern too. It has the sweetest smell in high summer. Those letters on your jacket? That's your monogram. That's very Southern."
We returned from the library with The Story of Ruby Bridges, and I explained, to the best of my ability, how people in the South used to be really mean to black people. (Well, first I had to explain what "black" and "white" meant because it was impossible to understand the plot without that backstory) Story was incredulous and asked, appropriately, time and again, "Why? Why?"And I had to tell her the truth- that it was sin, and a sin that surely grew riper in this Southern soil than in other places in our country.
I told Story on our walk that as she learns about the South there will be things she likes, and things she doesn't. There are things that are silly, and some that are so pretty they'll take your breath away. Others are ugly and unfair and some unspeakably sad. It seems more clear than ever that I should tell her the truth about this place, even as I continue to discover it. Confusion and ignorance fuels the fire of bitterness. But there is still time for truth, and with it, I hope, empathy, humility and peace.
When some people think of this place, they might think it ignorant and unpleasant, but, to me, this place will always be home. And it's up to people just like me to ensure that nothing is forgotten or swept under the rug. Because if people from the South don't invest in our own story, then what will be told about it from the outside? There's a lot to learn and a lot of ways to keep on growing. There's a lot of soil that needs kindness planted where hatred once was. So I'll keep planting empathy and truth. Because, to me, that's Southern.
I love my neighborhood. Is it as rare as I think it is to walk through your neighborhood, on the way to the library, no less, and rattle off your neighbor's names as you pass their houses? As we walked by gardens just waking up from winter and homes with gigantic white columns and wrap-around porches, I decided to strike up a conversation with Story.
"Do you know what 'Southern' means?" I asked.
"No," she replies.
It has only just occurred to me, as we pass by a tremendous magnolia, that she is, in fact, a child of the South. Born in Austin, and with a daddy who will always seem more Colorado than Carolina, she seems, somehow, not quite of this place.
"What's 'Southern' means?" she asks.
Well, I think to myself, that's going to take some time to try to answer.
My Mom gave me Reese Witherspoon's book, Whiskey in a Teacup for Christmas. As I sat reading it one afternoon on the sofa in my living room, it dawned on me that I don't need to be ashamed of being Southern. I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus like any other Southern girl, but along the way, I met a lot of people from a lot of places. Such is life in Fayetteville, North Carolina, home to Ft. Bragg.
A lot of people who come to Ft. Bragg can't help but talk about how they can't stand the South. It used to really bother me, and I felt defensive, but then somewhere in time, I think I went vanilla about the whole thing. It's hard to keep on caring. Especially because most of those people who complain so much will leave in a few years anyway. People come to Ft. Bragg from everywhere in the world, and most of them have their own well-developed sense of what home ought to look and feel like. I've learned not to begrudge them that, even if in reality, home is likely to be more a state of mind than a state of the nation. Even so, there are some memories that I cannot shake. A former boyfriend who incessantly insulted my mother's wallpaper, and who got viscerally angry over the fact that my mother had an African American housekeeper named Katie. And the girl at my bridal shower who poked fun at me for wearing black swiss dot panty-hose with my forest green dress, and who could not get over the fact that I'd had bridal portraits taken (she had never heard of such a thing!) I reckon that, over the years, I developed a feeling that, at the very least, I ought to be sort of ashamed of being Southern. I felt like other people were utterly convinced that the South was filled with nothing but ignorance, humidity and mosquitoes, and though I've honestly never felt this way myself, I couldn't muster the strength or desire to go on defending it.
I know there are some people who are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of thought. Who would ever feel embarrassed of being Southern? Pour them some sweet tea in a monogramed glass and sing them Dixie- this is the South and they're proud of it. I don't begrudge them either. I suppose everyone is entitled to their home state of mind.
I guess that I'm not so worried about what those people said about my panty-hose or my mother's wallpaper anymore, nor am I going to monogram everything that doesn't move (sorry Reese), but I am beginning to see that it's important for me to start to tell my little ones about the South- and here's one reason why...
On my run today, I ran back through my sweet neighborhood to the museum that stands just on the other side of the train track from the library. I stopped and took a couple of pictures of the statue out front. It's a statue of the General William C. Lee, a renowned General from Dunn who served bravely in the 101st Airborne during World Wars I and II, and it was set ablaze a few nights ago. The museum curator was on the news earlier this week explaining that he supposes some "jerks" (his word, not mine) set it on fire, thinking it was a statute of the other General Lee.
On Thursday, I walked and pointed out things to Story- "See that camellia, that's Southern. So many beautiful colors! Let's see how many colors we can collect. And that magnolia tree? That's Southern too. It has the sweetest smell in high summer. Those letters on your jacket? That's your monogram. That's very Southern."
We returned from the library with The Story of Ruby Bridges, and I explained, to the best of my ability, how people in the South used to be really mean to black people. (Well, first I had to explain what "black" and "white" meant because it was impossible to understand the plot without that backstory) Story was incredulous and asked, appropriately, time and again, "Why? Why?"And I had to tell her the truth- that it was sin, and a sin that surely grew riper in this Southern soil than in other places in our country.
I told Story on our walk that as she learns about the South there will be things she likes, and things she doesn't. There are things that are silly, and some that are so pretty they'll take your breath away. Others are ugly and unfair and some unspeakably sad. It seems more clear than ever that I should tell her the truth about this place, even as I continue to discover it. Confusion and ignorance fuels the fire of bitterness. But there is still time for truth, and with it, I hope, empathy, humility and peace.
When some people think of this place, they might think it ignorant and unpleasant, but, to me, this place will always be home. And it's up to people just like me to ensure that nothing is forgotten or swept under the rug. Because if people from the South don't invest in our own story, then what will be told about it from the outside? There's a lot to learn and a lot of ways to keep on growing. There's a lot of soil that needs kindness planted where hatred once was. So I'll keep planting empathy and truth. Because, to me, that's Southern.
Saturday, January 26, 2019
Stuck
Yesterday was a really tough day. After feeling a throbbing pain in the same spot in my abdomen since Wednesday, I called my doctor's office and spoke with his nurse. After describing my symptoms (aching right side of abdomen, sweaty, clammy) she told me to go to the ER. I did NOT want to have to go. I've been to that ER three times in the past year (once for a stomach ulcer, once for panic attacks and now this). Just thinking about the cost of it made me weak in the knees. With me not working, we cannot afford more medical bills.
But, when a medical professional tells you to go to the ER, you go to the ER. The VERY LAST thing I wanted was to wake in the middle of the night with a ruptured appendix or something like that. So, about 2 in the afternoon, my Mom took off with my kids and I went to the ER. Four hours later, my bloodwork came back normal and an ultrasound of my gallbladder proved that it was not blocked (though has likely been spasming for still undetermined reasons)
I drove to my mom's house to pick up the kids feeling like a total failure. What kind of loser has to go to the ER three times in a year for these kinds of things? Maybe if I had managed my diet and health better, I wouldn't have gotten an ulcer. Maybe if I had more grit and less OCD, I wouldn't have started having panic attacks. Now this? What even was this? Couldn't I just suffer through a little more abdominal pain like a normal person? Couldn't it be absolutely nothing? Why did I cost us so much money and inconvenience by having to get this checked out?
When I got to my mom's I picked up the kids and was just ready to go home and get in the bed, pull the covers over my head and forget about the day. But, in an effort to try to whip up some small amount of whimsy on behalf of my three year old, I paused as we drove down my parents' long driveway to shine my headlights on some deer that were crossing from the wooded area on one side to the pasture on the other. I kept asking Story, "Do you see them?" And she would chime back, "I don't see them." So I inched closer and closer and closer to the fence of the pasture, until I was completely off the driveway. Eventually, the deer walked off and I was ready to get back to Plan A: hide under covers. But, when I tried to move my car forward, the wheels just spun. Put it in reverse. The same. Horrified, I put the car in neutral and got out to push. If there ever was a moment of me overestimating my own strength, it was that one. The car didn't even budge. I called Andy.
The gas light was already on in my car, so I knew that I needed to turn it off. We sat there, in the cold and the darkness for thirty minutes waiting for Andy to arrive. I gave Story my phone and Grey a baggie of Fruit Loops and let the shame sit with me for a while.
Have you ever felt this way? Like you just want to dig yourself a hole and crawl in? Like you just cause trouble and cost money? Like you can't get it together?
As I sat there, a song came to mind. It was Psalm 139: 13-14. I had listened to it that morning when taking Story to preschool on a Seeds Family Worship Lullaby album. (if you're unfamiliar with Seeds Family Worship, they are verses set to music. Great stuff. The best for helping memorize scripture) I began to sing it in my mind. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
While waiting at the ER, I perused Facebook and saw a lot of things about the right to life stuff that's been going on lately. I read a couple of articles. And liked a couple of posts. Psalm 139: 13-14 is used frequently when defending the right to life.
But as I sat there in the dark, with shame throbbing alongside the fist-sized pain under my ribs, that verse took on a new shape for me. For me, it's easy to look at small children and have mercy. It can be harder to look at grown people and do so. But it's hardest of all to consider my failings and act in kind.
But, when David authored this Psalm, he was a grown man. He had some great victories, and some epic failures. He was both a fearful warrior, and a deceptive defender. This tends to be lost when we consider him a "man after God's own heart." He cost a lot of people their lives. But he believed in God. He revered Him, and he saw himself as something fearful and wonderful.
Could I do the same? Could I not only see a child in a womb as fearful and wonderful? Could I see myself that way? There. In the mud? With an epic medical bill on the way? It didn't come naturally, but I chose to. I chose to show compassion. And love. Because that's what God commands.
This type of thing is really new to me. I have scoffed for the longest time at anything that implies or promotes self-love, self-care, self-compassion. I feared that such things could only lead to vanity. But, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong. I read Story the Berenstain Bears book about the Golden Rule this week. Printed on the first page is Matthew 7:12 So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you. It might be subtle, but there's an implication here that what you would do to yourself would be the kind thing, the compassionate thing, the loving thing. Therefore, you should do that to someone else.
Last night, I sat in the dark, waiting for Andy's headlights, and I chose kindness. I chose to praise God for making something good, instead of telling myself over and over again that I am not good. It kept me from sinking into an abyss of self-loathing. It kept me buoyant enough to tend to my children and their needs, to consider their anxieties and to extend that kindness to the backseat.
As I waited for Andy's headlights to pull into the driveway, I thought of a parallel. Life can be dark, and I sometimes feel as if I am waiting for the Light to show up and rescue me. But, in the waiting, I need to choose kindness. Compassion. Mercy. Love. Because life is fearful, wonderful and vulnerable- whether that is the life of an unborn child, a teenager, an adult or... myself.
But, when a medical professional tells you to go to the ER, you go to the ER. The VERY LAST thing I wanted was to wake in the middle of the night with a ruptured appendix or something like that. So, about 2 in the afternoon, my Mom took off with my kids and I went to the ER. Four hours later, my bloodwork came back normal and an ultrasound of my gallbladder proved that it was not blocked (though has likely been spasming for still undetermined reasons)
I drove to my mom's house to pick up the kids feeling like a total failure. What kind of loser has to go to the ER three times in a year for these kinds of things? Maybe if I had managed my diet and health better, I wouldn't have gotten an ulcer. Maybe if I had more grit and less OCD, I wouldn't have started having panic attacks. Now this? What even was this? Couldn't I just suffer through a little more abdominal pain like a normal person? Couldn't it be absolutely nothing? Why did I cost us so much money and inconvenience by having to get this checked out?
When I got to my mom's I picked up the kids and was just ready to go home and get in the bed, pull the covers over my head and forget about the day. But, in an effort to try to whip up some small amount of whimsy on behalf of my three year old, I paused as we drove down my parents' long driveway to shine my headlights on some deer that were crossing from the wooded area on one side to the pasture on the other. I kept asking Story, "Do you see them?" And she would chime back, "I don't see them." So I inched closer and closer and closer to the fence of the pasture, until I was completely off the driveway. Eventually, the deer walked off and I was ready to get back to Plan A: hide under covers. But, when I tried to move my car forward, the wheels just spun. Put it in reverse. The same. Horrified, I put the car in neutral and got out to push. If there ever was a moment of me overestimating my own strength, it was that one. The car didn't even budge. I called Andy.
The gas light was already on in my car, so I knew that I needed to turn it off. We sat there, in the cold and the darkness for thirty minutes waiting for Andy to arrive. I gave Story my phone and Grey a baggie of Fruit Loops and let the shame sit with me for a while.
Have you ever felt this way? Like you just want to dig yourself a hole and crawl in? Like you just cause trouble and cost money? Like you can't get it together?
As I sat there, a song came to mind. It was Psalm 139: 13-14. I had listened to it that morning when taking Story to preschool on a Seeds Family Worship Lullaby album. (if you're unfamiliar with Seeds Family Worship, they are verses set to music. Great stuff. The best for helping memorize scripture) I began to sing it in my mind. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
While waiting at the ER, I perused Facebook and saw a lot of things about the right to life stuff that's been going on lately. I read a couple of articles. And liked a couple of posts. Psalm 139: 13-14 is used frequently when defending the right to life.
But as I sat there in the dark, with shame throbbing alongside the fist-sized pain under my ribs, that verse took on a new shape for me. For me, it's easy to look at small children and have mercy. It can be harder to look at grown people and do so. But it's hardest of all to consider my failings and act in kind.
But, when David authored this Psalm, he was a grown man. He had some great victories, and some epic failures. He was both a fearful warrior, and a deceptive defender. This tends to be lost when we consider him a "man after God's own heart." He cost a lot of people their lives. But he believed in God. He revered Him, and he saw himself as something fearful and wonderful.
Could I do the same? Could I not only see a child in a womb as fearful and wonderful? Could I see myself that way? There. In the mud? With an epic medical bill on the way? It didn't come naturally, but I chose to. I chose to show compassion. And love. Because that's what God commands.
This type of thing is really new to me. I have scoffed for the longest time at anything that implies or promotes self-love, self-care, self-compassion. I feared that such things could only lead to vanity. But, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong. I read Story the Berenstain Bears book about the Golden Rule this week. Printed on the first page is Matthew 7:12 So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you. It might be subtle, but there's an implication here that what you would do to yourself would be the kind thing, the compassionate thing, the loving thing. Therefore, you should do that to someone else.
Last night, I sat in the dark, waiting for Andy's headlights, and I chose kindness. I chose to praise God for making something good, instead of telling myself over and over again that I am not good. It kept me from sinking into an abyss of self-loathing. It kept me buoyant enough to tend to my children and their needs, to consider their anxieties and to extend that kindness to the backseat.
As I waited for Andy's headlights to pull into the driveway, I thought of a parallel. Life can be dark, and I sometimes feel as if I am waiting for the Light to show up and rescue me. But, in the waiting, I need to choose kindness. Compassion. Mercy. Love. Because life is fearful, wonderful and vulnerable- whether that is the life of an unborn child, a teenager, an adult or... myself.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Bare trees, bare souls and the love that made them both
I like January. I like how stripped down it is. Plants, schedules, closets (thanks Marie Kondo) even the sky seem to have settled into a simple beauty. The base layer of life. Some people might think it's bleak, but I am sort of reveling in the simplicity.
In my spirit, there's a similar paring down going on. A simple revelation. A base layer of faith that I've been getting in touch with.
I walked from room to room this morning, opening blinds (I'm trying to learn something from the natural rhythms of the Earth these days. Light and dark. Rest and wake. Sow and reap.) I looked at the lovely pink tone of the January morning sky. And simple truth lit across my heart.
I did not come into the world innately good. I came into the world innately loved.
There's a lot of good that I've tried to cover myself up with. For fear that I would not be accepted. I wanted to prove that I should be accepted. Wanted to do something worthy. Be someone worthy. Sometimes it seems like each and every day is just a trial waiting to be stepped into. Who will see me? Judge me? Like me? Reject me? Certainly I need something to arm myself against this. A career or my children, a higher degree or a cute outfit. A glass of wine or a cup of coffee or my iPhone. My dad is a lawyer, maybe it's in my nature to come up with a defense.
But something about January and pink skies and bare trees has me breathing deeply, bravely. My defenses are tired. Or maybe that's just me that's tired. Too tired to pick them up. It's a good tired. Bare trees can be really beautiful when you take a moment to look at them. Bare souls can be, as well.
Maybe all I need is this love? This love that brought me into existence and will see me through every day. This love that will never demand that I prove myself worthy. Only asks that I would love back.
We love Him because He first loved us. 1 John 4: 19
Saturday, December 29, 2018
Can I be an anxious Christian? Part 2: Can a mature Christian be anxious?
There were some things that I wanted to say in the last post that I didn't get around to. So I'm having another go at this question- Can I be an anxious Christian? But, in this post I'm going to look at anxiety and Christian maturity.
When I think about a mature Christian, I think of someone who has been following Christ and obeying God's Word long enough for the fruits of the Spirit to be evident in his/her life.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Galatians 5:22-23
Mature Christians are people you can count on to respond to life's triggers according to God's Word and with consistent reflection of his character. This is not to say that they are perfect people. But, they are growing people. And they are people who know God and His Word well enough to look more like him than like the rest of the world.
So, can a mature Christian be an anxious Christian?
One of the marks of a mature Christian is that they ought to be able to recognize sin, and want to turn from it. Many people qualify anxiety as a sin, because it implies a lack of trust in God. This is one of the more confusing things about anxiety- people think it is synonymous with worry. If you're anxious, then you must be worrying about something, right? And worry is a sin. So, if you're anxious, you must be sinning.
Not necessarily.
As I said in the first post, the symptoms of General Anxiety Disorder (GAD) can be caused by a variety of triggers. Yes, chronic or acute worry might be one of them. In my case, this did play a role, and I'll touch on that later. But, if you want to know how to love someone with GAD well, don't assume that their symptoms are a consequence of the sin of worry. Their anxiety may or may not have anything to do with worry.
Remember that GAD is basically a prolonged and/or exaggerated expression of the fight or flight response. GAD can be the result of a variety of physiological and/or psychological triggers- exhaustion, stress, poor eating and drinking habits, or a traumatic event. Likely, it's a combination of these factors. Mature Christians are not exempt from any of these triggers, and therefore can easily find themselves trapped in a pattern of GAD.
The last thing that a mature Christian should do is get discouraged by assuming that their experience with anxiety is an expression of their lack of faith. We might think, If I really trusted, loved and belonged to God, I wouldn't feel this way. Or, If I just pray more or get down to the root sin, all of this will go away. I once thought this way but, as time goes on, I've learned to see this experience as a testing of my faith, rather than an expression of not enough faith.
Having said that, I must admit that one of the things that I have recognized and dealt with during this time of testing is unbelief. One of the Bible's key verses on anxiety is 1 Peter 5:7. My mom gave me a print of this verse for Christmas and I love it, but, one of the things I was challenged with early on was the verse that precedes it.
Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's might hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 1 Peter 5:6
In my case, one of the factors involved in triggering my GAD was chronic worry over a circumstance in my life that I've struggled with for years. God used what was happening to me physically to spur me to deeply, and I mean really, really deeply examine my heart toward God and every other person involved in this circumstance. Through counsel and confession, I learned that I did not really trust God when he says that he is bringing all things together for my good and his glory. (Romans 8:28) Not only that, but, in my pride, I have been thinking that I could, would and should fix this thing that he has allowed to remain broken. It was really important for me to "humble myself under his mighty hand" and truly, deeply accept his will in this matter.
God is good. Even when a situation doesn't feel good. God is love. Even when I might not particularly feel loved. God is wise. Even when I think my way is better, his is always best. God is just. Even when something feels unfair, only God can see and rightly judge circumstances and people. GOD CAN BE TRUSTED.
After humility, we get to the sweet stuff... Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7
It's not exactly easy to feel cared for when you are face-down every day begging for something to be taken away, and it isn't taken away. I have many friends who find themselves in this place, and on their behalf and mine- I must say, the struggle is so. very. real. This is the testing that produces endurance, character, and eventually deepest hope and joy. But it hurts while it is happening. It feels desperate and terrible. Far from feeling beloved, it feels like being forgotten. Far from feeling cared for, it feels like affliction.
But somehow, through the pain, real hope emerges. My anxiety is not gone, but I feel more together with God than I have in a long time. I don't know what's happening in my life, and my circumstances haven't really changed, but I know His kindness in a deeper way. I trust His goodness with a little more certainty. I am excited about His future and less dependent on the experience of here and now.
All of this depends on accepting the latter part of this verse as the core belief in my life. Because he cares for me. I've started to rebuild the way that I think of myself. At the foundation level is this belief- God cares for me. He takes delight in me. He really, really likes me. And enjoys me. At every stage, every step. Currently, I believe that God has told me that my willingness during this time of testing delights him. It isn't the end product- not the final fruit of a perfectly at peace mind and soul- that delights him (probably because I don't have that yet), but he delights in my willingness to continue on this journey, step by anxious step, looking for him, trying to find out more about him, testing, tasting and seeing him each day.
Does this make me a mature Christian? Well, yes. I believe it does. I believe that mature Christianity can only result from true testing. We can study God's Word (and we should), we can serve in our churches (and we should), we can build beautiful relationships with strong believers, but for our own maturity to really come through- we have to be tested. We have to be tried by fire. We have to let the dross be consumed, the gold refined. That's what anxiety can be for the mature Christian- the blazing furnace of refinement.
Let me be clear. I am not a mature Christian because I am anxious. Neither am I an immature Christian because I am anxious. Anxiety can come about because of many things, but when it does come, there is always the opportunity to respond with an attitude reflective of 1 Peter 5:6-7. Humility. Trust in God's mighty hand. Belief in his love. And a throwing off of any worry that might keep us trapped in GAD. We can step forward, hearts still beating, breaths still coming short, panic attacks still just around the corner, trusting that he will care for us. He loves us. He delights in us. And he is working all of this together for our good.
Friend, if you are reading this and suffering from anxiety, please know that I do not assume that you have a problem with pride or lack of trust. God allows this suffering for reasons that he alone knows. It does not mean that your problems have been the same as mine. It also doesn't mean that anxiety will go away as soon as sin is dealt with. This has not been the case for me. But, what has been the case, is that I'm learning to count the whole thing as joy- even though I would LOVE for my pounding chest to never ache inside me again. I know, that for fruit to come to maturity it takes time. And for trust to be real, it must be tested. So I humble myself, because, in due time, he will lift me up. May he do the same for you.
When I think about a mature Christian, I think of someone who has been following Christ and obeying God's Word long enough for the fruits of the Spirit to be evident in his/her life.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Galatians 5:22-23
Mature Christians are people you can count on to respond to life's triggers according to God's Word and with consistent reflection of his character. This is not to say that they are perfect people. But, they are growing people. And they are people who know God and His Word well enough to look more like him than like the rest of the world.
So, can a mature Christian be an anxious Christian?
One of the marks of a mature Christian is that they ought to be able to recognize sin, and want to turn from it. Many people qualify anxiety as a sin, because it implies a lack of trust in God. This is one of the more confusing things about anxiety- people think it is synonymous with worry. If you're anxious, then you must be worrying about something, right? And worry is a sin. So, if you're anxious, you must be sinning.
Not necessarily.
As I said in the first post, the symptoms of General Anxiety Disorder (GAD) can be caused by a variety of triggers. Yes, chronic or acute worry might be one of them. In my case, this did play a role, and I'll touch on that later. But, if you want to know how to love someone with GAD well, don't assume that their symptoms are a consequence of the sin of worry. Their anxiety may or may not have anything to do with worry.
Remember that GAD is basically a prolonged and/or exaggerated expression of the fight or flight response. GAD can be the result of a variety of physiological and/or psychological triggers- exhaustion, stress, poor eating and drinking habits, or a traumatic event. Likely, it's a combination of these factors. Mature Christians are not exempt from any of these triggers, and therefore can easily find themselves trapped in a pattern of GAD.
The last thing that a mature Christian should do is get discouraged by assuming that their experience with anxiety is an expression of their lack of faith. We might think, If I really trusted, loved and belonged to God, I wouldn't feel this way. Or, If I just pray more or get down to the root sin, all of this will go away. I once thought this way but, as time goes on, I've learned to see this experience as a testing of my faith, rather than an expression of not enough faith.
Having said that, I must admit that one of the things that I have recognized and dealt with during this time of testing is unbelief. One of the Bible's key verses on anxiety is 1 Peter 5:7. My mom gave me a print of this verse for Christmas and I love it, but, one of the things I was challenged with early on was the verse that precedes it.
Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's might hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 1 Peter 5:6
In my case, one of the factors involved in triggering my GAD was chronic worry over a circumstance in my life that I've struggled with for years. God used what was happening to me physically to spur me to deeply, and I mean really, really deeply examine my heart toward God and every other person involved in this circumstance. Through counsel and confession, I learned that I did not really trust God when he says that he is bringing all things together for my good and his glory. (Romans 8:28) Not only that, but, in my pride, I have been thinking that I could, would and should fix this thing that he has allowed to remain broken. It was really important for me to "humble myself under his mighty hand" and truly, deeply accept his will in this matter.
God is good. Even when a situation doesn't feel good. God is love. Even when I might not particularly feel loved. God is wise. Even when I think my way is better, his is always best. God is just. Even when something feels unfair, only God can see and rightly judge circumstances and people. GOD CAN BE TRUSTED.
After humility, we get to the sweet stuff... Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7
It's not exactly easy to feel cared for when you are face-down every day begging for something to be taken away, and it isn't taken away. I have many friends who find themselves in this place, and on their behalf and mine- I must say, the struggle is so. very. real. This is the testing that produces endurance, character, and eventually deepest hope and joy. But it hurts while it is happening. It feels desperate and terrible. Far from feeling beloved, it feels like being forgotten. Far from feeling cared for, it feels like affliction.
But somehow, through the pain, real hope emerges. My anxiety is not gone, but I feel more together with God than I have in a long time. I don't know what's happening in my life, and my circumstances haven't really changed, but I know His kindness in a deeper way. I trust His goodness with a little more certainty. I am excited about His future and less dependent on the experience of here and now.
All of this depends on accepting the latter part of this verse as the core belief in my life. Because he cares for me. I've started to rebuild the way that I think of myself. At the foundation level is this belief- God cares for me. He takes delight in me. He really, really likes me. And enjoys me. At every stage, every step. Currently, I believe that God has told me that my willingness during this time of testing delights him. It isn't the end product- not the final fruit of a perfectly at peace mind and soul- that delights him (probably because I don't have that yet), but he delights in my willingness to continue on this journey, step by anxious step, looking for him, trying to find out more about him, testing, tasting and seeing him each day.
Does this make me a mature Christian? Well, yes. I believe it does. I believe that mature Christianity can only result from true testing. We can study God's Word (and we should), we can serve in our churches (and we should), we can build beautiful relationships with strong believers, but for our own maturity to really come through- we have to be tested. We have to be tried by fire. We have to let the dross be consumed, the gold refined. That's what anxiety can be for the mature Christian- the blazing furnace of refinement.
Let me be clear. I am not a mature Christian because I am anxious. Neither am I an immature Christian because I am anxious. Anxiety can come about because of many things, but when it does come, there is always the opportunity to respond with an attitude reflective of 1 Peter 5:6-7. Humility. Trust in God's mighty hand. Belief in his love. And a throwing off of any worry that might keep us trapped in GAD. We can step forward, hearts still beating, breaths still coming short, panic attacks still just around the corner, trusting that he will care for us. He loves us. He delights in us. And he is working all of this together for our good.
Friend, if you are reading this and suffering from anxiety, please know that I do not assume that you have a problem with pride or lack of trust. God allows this suffering for reasons that he alone knows. It does not mean that your problems have been the same as mine. It also doesn't mean that anxiety will go away as soon as sin is dealt with. This has not been the case for me. But, what has been the case, is that I'm learning to count the whole thing as joy- even though I would LOVE for my pounding chest to never ache inside me again. I know, that for fruit to come to maturity it takes time. And for trust to be real, it must be tested. So I humble myself, because, in due time, he will lift me up. May he do the same for you.
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Can I be an anxious Christian?
My friend Angela sent me this Relevant magazine article this morning, and it resonated with me. It feels similar to the experience I've been having with anxiety disorder. It also sounds similar to some of the encouraging stories that have been shared with me by others who are suffering from anxiety and depression.
I think the central question here is- can you be an anxious Christian? I want to talk a little bit about that question.
I think that any adjective could be inserted in front of the word Christian, and a similar question could be asked. Can I be a depressed Christian? A gay Christian? An angry Christian? A selfish Christian? A prideful Christian? An insecure Christian? An ungrateful Christian?
First, I have to think about the word Christian before I can address any of these other words. What is a Christian? For me, a Christian is anyone who fits this description in Romans 10:9 "If you declare with your mouth "Jesus is Lord" and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." I think a Christian is a "saved" person- a person who believes that God's grace alone has saved them from the wrath of God. And the Bible is clear that absolutely anyone can qualify for that grace. It has nothing to do with our actions- Romans 4: 5 "To the one who does not work but trusts God who justifies the ungodly, their faith is credited as righteousness."
So, anyone, and I do mean anyone, can be a Christian. That is not to say that I think that everyone is a Christian. Some people think that everyone is saved. That's an interesting theology, but not one that I personally agree with. If I believe the Bible, and the Bible says that the qualifying acts for salvation are belief in my heart and confession of my lips, then I'm not going to believe that everyone is saved. Not everyone believes in Jesus in their heart. So I don't think everyone is saved. Some people choose to reject Him. Even people who were raised in "Christian" cultures.
But what about all these other words? I can't answer all of those questions, but I can share what I'm learning about being an anxious Christian?
Can I be an anxious Christian? Absolutely. Yes. Being anxious does not make me less of a Christian. It isn't something that I need to be ashamed of. Because it is a part of my Gospel story, and, like Paul, "I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation." (Romans 1: 16)
What is anxiety, anyway? There's a complicated question, and one that I can only answer by sharing from my experience because I am not a doctor, nor have I studied this disorder in great depth. But, for me, anxiety is a collection of nervous symptoms that I have learned are all associated with excess adrenaline and cortisol stress hormones. I've felt a lot of different things in this time that I've had anxiety, but the main ones that I suffer from are- chest pain (yes, I've been fully checked out and my heart is 100% fine), dizziness, invasive thoughts and the sensation of unreality.
When I first began to experience anxiety, people would ask me, "What are you worried about?" Well-meaning friends often ask this question and encourage anxiety sufferers to pray more or seek help from a Christian counselor, which is really good advice, but may or may not be what that person needs. Some people have been praying on their "hands and knees" as the Relevant magazine article clarifies, and some have been in counseling for years. Both of those truths applied to me when I first began to experience anxiety. To me, counseling and prayer are always a good idea, but they might not eliminate nervous suffering.
"What am I worried about?" At first, I had no idea. Because on the surface, I thought things were fine in my life. I wasn't consciously worried about anything. But over these months of nervous suffering, God has let me explore the deepest parts of myself- places where unbelief and unforgiveness and ungratefulness have been flourishing. This has been a hard and humbling journey. And, along the way, as I've uncovered places that needed to be transformed by God's grace, I have been sort of shocked and ashamed. But, I'm choosing to reject the shame. I don't need to be ashamed of something that God says is common of all humanity- I am a sinner. I need God's grace. I need His help. That's part of my belief and confession. It's also a part of my healing. I also don't need to be ashamed of something that glorifies my Savior. And, let me be clear- I do need saving. I do need healing. Every hour, I need Thee.
But anxiety disorder can't just be boiled down to mental stress or unconfessed sin. For some, anxious suffering might not have anything to do with the heart or mind (though, we're integrated beings, so it's hard to separate those things out, but emotional or spiritual issues might not be the primary problems) Most of the time, I see anxiety classified as a mental illness, but the book my doctor recommended to me- Dare, by Barry McDonough- says that's not really the case. The symptoms of anxiety (panic attacks, troubled breathing, insomnia, muscle pain and fatigue, invasive thoughts, unreality, etc.) are actually caused by adrenaline. Essentially, chronic anxiety is a prolonged and habitual fight or flight response. Not many people talk about these physical aspects of anxiety. Usually, people go straight for the mental, emotional or spiritual issues at hand. But, even when those are being dealt with, the physical sensations (which can be frightening and horrifically painful) can remain. In fact, anxiety is often triggered by physical suffering, and I believe this was the case for me. The first panic attack I had was in the hospital after delivering Grey. My body had struggled so much with that delivery, and I was exhausted and in pain. This isn't uncommon. Apparently, many people first experience anxiety and panic attacks after operations or accidents, or when they are chronically exhausted or not eating or drinking well. My anxiety returned at a time when I wasn't sleeping because of Grey's troubled sleep. (In truth, I hadn't slept more than a few consecutive hours in more than a year) When we think about anxious suffering in this light, it seems almost silly to ask the question, "Can I be an anxious Christian?" It would be like asking, "Can I be a Christian with cancer? Or migraines? Or arthritis?"
Of course, anxiety is more nuanced than migraines or arthritis because the mind does play a significant role in the progression of the disorder. What I think about anxiety, and what I think about myself and about God and about other people, will absolutely affect whether or not I heal from this disorder, which is not necessarily the case with those other sicknesses. But, anxiety is definitely a physical problem, and should be treated as such, both by anxious sufferers and those who are close to them.
So, can I be an anxious Christian? Does having anxiety disqualify me in any way from bearing witness to Christ? Or becoming like Him? My take- No. Absolutely not. I'm beginning to see anxiety as one of the cracks in my life through which the Light shines in. Anxiety helped me get at some of the sins beneath my conscious thoughts. Anxiety drives me to God, who heals all my diseases (Psalm 103: 3) And, best of all, anxiety is helping me throw off the need for you (or anyone) to see me in any particular light. I want other people to see me in a good light. I want a good reputation, and to be seen and thought of well. I have held out the cup of approval so many times like little Oliver Twist, "Please, God, can I have some more?" And, I could not get over it when He said, "No." Rather than fill that cup with the elixir of other people's approval, which doesn't actually satisfy my soul, He's allowed it to stay empty. I'm finally learning to put that cup down. And I'm looking for a new one to pick up and bring to Him. There's tremendous freedom in that. Freedom from the anxiety of what other people think about me. Wow. I'm not "there" yet, but I'm journeying on... step by anxious step.
I think the central question here is- can you be an anxious Christian? I want to talk a little bit about that question.
I think that any adjective could be inserted in front of the word Christian, and a similar question could be asked. Can I be a depressed Christian? A gay Christian? An angry Christian? A selfish Christian? A prideful Christian? An insecure Christian? An ungrateful Christian?
First, I have to think about the word Christian before I can address any of these other words. What is a Christian? For me, a Christian is anyone who fits this description in Romans 10:9 "If you declare with your mouth "Jesus is Lord" and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." I think a Christian is a "saved" person- a person who believes that God's grace alone has saved them from the wrath of God. And the Bible is clear that absolutely anyone can qualify for that grace. It has nothing to do with our actions- Romans 4: 5 "To the one who does not work but trusts God who justifies the ungodly, their faith is credited as righteousness."
So, anyone, and I do mean anyone, can be a Christian. That is not to say that I think that everyone is a Christian. Some people think that everyone is saved. That's an interesting theology, but not one that I personally agree with. If I believe the Bible, and the Bible says that the qualifying acts for salvation are belief in my heart and confession of my lips, then I'm not going to believe that everyone is saved. Not everyone believes in Jesus in their heart. So I don't think everyone is saved. Some people choose to reject Him. Even people who were raised in "Christian" cultures.
But what about all these other words? I can't answer all of those questions, but I can share what I'm learning about being an anxious Christian?
Can I be an anxious Christian? Absolutely. Yes. Being anxious does not make me less of a Christian. It isn't something that I need to be ashamed of. Because it is a part of my Gospel story, and, like Paul, "I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation." (Romans 1: 16)
What is anxiety, anyway? There's a complicated question, and one that I can only answer by sharing from my experience because I am not a doctor, nor have I studied this disorder in great depth. But, for me, anxiety is a collection of nervous symptoms that I have learned are all associated with excess adrenaline and cortisol stress hormones. I've felt a lot of different things in this time that I've had anxiety, but the main ones that I suffer from are- chest pain (yes, I've been fully checked out and my heart is 100% fine), dizziness, invasive thoughts and the sensation of unreality.
When I first began to experience anxiety, people would ask me, "What are you worried about?" Well-meaning friends often ask this question and encourage anxiety sufferers to pray more or seek help from a Christian counselor, which is really good advice, but may or may not be what that person needs. Some people have been praying on their "hands and knees" as the Relevant magazine article clarifies, and some have been in counseling for years. Both of those truths applied to me when I first began to experience anxiety. To me, counseling and prayer are always a good idea, but they might not eliminate nervous suffering.
"What am I worried about?" At first, I had no idea. Because on the surface, I thought things were fine in my life. I wasn't consciously worried about anything. But over these months of nervous suffering, God has let me explore the deepest parts of myself- places where unbelief and unforgiveness and ungratefulness have been flourishing. This has been a hard and humbling journey. And, along the way, as I've uncovered places that needed to be transformed by God's grace, I have been sort of shocked and ashamed. But, I'm choosing to reject the shame. I don't need to be ashamed of something that God says is common of all humanity- I am a sinner. I need God's grace. I need His help. That's part of my belief and confession. It's also a part of my healing. I also don't need to be ashamed of something that glorifies my Savior. And, let me be clear- I do need saving. I do need healing. Every hour, I need Thee.
But anxiety disorder can't just be boiled down to mental stress or unconfessed sin. For some, anxious suffering might not have anything to do with the heart or mind (though, we're integrated beings, so it's hard to separate those things out, but emotional or spiritual issues might not be the primary problems) Most of the time, I see anxiety classified as a mental illness, but the book my doctor recommended to me- Dare, by Barry McDonough- says that's not really the case. The symptoms of anxiety (panic attacks, troubled breathing, insomnia, muscle pain and fatigue, invasive thoughts, unreality, etc.) are actually caused by adrenaline. Essentially, chronic anxiety is a prolonged and habitual fight or flight response. Not many people talk about these physical aspects of anxiety. Usually, people go straight for the mental, emotional or spiritual issues at hand. But, even when those are being dealt with, the physical sensations (which can be frightening and horrifically painful) can remain. In fact, anxiety is often triggered by physical suffering, and I believe this was the case for me. The first panic attack I had was in the hospital after delivering Grey. My body had struggled so much with that delivery, and I was exhausted and in pain. This isn't uncommon. Apparently, many people first experience anxiety and panic attacks after operations or accidents, or when they are chronically exhausted or not eating or drinking well. My anxiety returned at a time when I wasn't sleeping because of Grey's troubled sleep. (In truth, I hadn't slept more than a few consecutive hours in more than a year) When we think about anxious suffering in this light, it seems almost silly to ask the question, "Can I be an anxious Christian?" It would be like asking, "Can I be a Christian with cancer? Or migraines? Or arthritis?"
Of course, anxiety is more nuanced than migraines or arthritis because the mind does play a significant role in the progression of the disorder. What I think about anxiety, and what I think about myself and about God and about other people, will absolutely affect whether or not I heal from this disorder, which is not necessarily the case with those other sicknesses. But, anxiety is definitely a physical problem, and should be treated as such, both by anxious sufferers and those who are close to them.
So, can I be an anxious Christian? Does having anxiety disqualify me in any way from bearing witness to Christ? Or becoming like Him? My take- No. Absolutely not. I'm beginning to see anxiety as one of the cracks in my life through which the Light shines in. Anxiety helped me get at some of the sins beneath my conscious thoughts. Anxiety drives me to God, who heals all my diseases (Psalm 103: 3) And, best of all, anxiety is helping me throw off the need for you (or anyone) to see me in any particular light. I want other people to see me in a good light. I want a good reputation, and to be seen and thought of well. I have held out the cup of approval so many times like little Oliver Twist, "Please, God, can I have some more?" And, I could not get over it when He said, "No." Rather than fill that cup with the elixir of other people's approval, which doesn't actually satisfy my soul, He's allowed it to stay empty. I'm finally learning to put that cup down. And I'm looking for a new one to pick up and bring to Him. There's tremendous freedom in that. Freedom from the anxiety of what other people think about me. Wow. I'm not "there" yet, but I'm journeying on... step by anxious step.
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