Rediscover

There is this idea that we are perpetually rediscovering what is already true. In our spiritual walks, we are uncovering the God who is already at work within us. Science discovers what exists already but didn’t know or couldn’t name. Our experiences shape us... and yet who we are shapes how we experience things. In this way, we go through life rediscovering who we are.

In depression, so often we feel lost. Questioning if this is all there is. Is this all I am? Is it enough - no - can it be more - I don’t think so.

The lostness of ourselves is the fact that we have lost the eyes to see us for who we are. I am on a quest to rediscover what I have forgotten - the me that I already am - the me that will shape the one I become - the me that has been refined through every storm. Michelangelo is quoted that in his sculpting he simply removed what wasn’t the sculpture - uncovering the art within. “The David” was always in the marble - Michelangelo’s task was to uncover it. This is now my quest. To uncover what already is. To reveal what has been made.

There are some real key issues that keep this from happening. First, there is an idea that we have to come up with what the sculpture looks like - and that we can do it wrong. This is fundamentally incorrect, but also assigns a huge weight of never being enough, not looking right, being afraid that we cannot undo the work already done. In this is idea, the past has already spoiled the future and I need to spend the rest of my life trying to buff out the stain and the scars. In this idea I am frozen, fearful if I move to the right or the left, I am setting off a string of events that forever rewrites the possible. And that my legacy is dependent on today’s work - so I better not get it wrong.

Unconditional love (and grace) are at odds with this concept, which is intellectually easy to see, but emotionally nearly impossible to believe. Unconditional love accepts and loves the sculpture beneath. The scars and stains are part of the final version that is already cherished. In this, I have a choice. I can spend my life trying to earn love, worrying about everything that is not enough. Or I can throw myself into the idea that I was never enough but already chosen - and that means I’m not earning love and I’m incapable of losing love.

Here’s the awful truth - I want to be chosen for something I have done. I want to be able to point to the reason why I am worthy. I want to be handed a trophy that proves my worth and polish it every day. I see all my flaws, my tears, my shame. When my darkness stares me down, don’t I need some bright and shiny proof that my good outweighs my bad? What if one more dark thing tips the scales and I am no longer accepted. No longer loved. The truth is laid bare for all to see - and the sculpture beneath is judged as rubbish instead of art.

Even though I have a glimpse of grace, I choose fear.

At the heart, I think I am smarter than God. I see the true me and when He sees what I really am, He will change His mind. I don’t accept myself as precious, knowing the truth of who I am, so how could He. I wouldn’t choose me - and in a matter of time, He will realize His mistake. This leaves one path out of the darkness - to believe what He sees is the more real version of me than the one I can see. To believe He sees the finished version and intentionally chose me - the me I haven’t seen yet. Grace seems to good to be true.

But grace believes that God is greater than I am. He is more loving that I am. He is more forgiving than I am. His goodness is greater than my own. His patience is infinite. His truth is eternal.

Before I can rediscover anything about myself, I need to rediscover God. I have to believe the truth of who He is before I can accept the truth of myself. As God reveals Himself, I can rediscover the one He made me to be. The one He chose. The one He loves. 

The search...

As a person plagued with anxiety and depression, I find myself desperate for a narrative to move me. Whether it's binge watching seasons of dramatic television, devouring 16 novels on Elizabethan times with compulsion or faithfully following the programming of NPR, I am a consumer of stories. I invest myself recklessly into fictional characters, as determined to know them as if I was a close friend. Not because I'm in need of a companion. I have been blessed to call some of the most amazing people in the world my friends and family. Not because my life is horrible. I understand that I have so much to be thankful for: health, material goods, a job that I love. I'm not even looking to create a place to belong. I have a home which is a safe space - and people to share it with.

I'm looking for myself. I'm trying to discover my narrative.

I can sing every word of Hamilton and identify with the heroes and the villains. I see a part of myself as a little of every character of Everyone's Son - part crack addict mother, part abandoned child, part mourning foster mom, part judge. I can see how people's stories weave together into fabrics of community and how each thread, whether made of brilliant scarlet silk or fraying burlap, makes a tapestry lovely to behold. But what I can not see, is me.

The many hats I wear give schedule and structure to my day. Wake up a mom, go be a professor, be a friend during lunch, be a consultant late afternoon, be a mom again through dinner, be a lover to my husband. Then sleep. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

When the hats are removed, I'm naked. Ghost like. Translucent.

My husband and I go hiking and on every trail, there is one perfect moment. There is a moment when I am surrounded by nature and the woods are alive. The birds are chirping and squirrels are skittering up and down trees. The leaves rustle in the wind and the sun shines through the leaves giving a brightness to the forest floor. Everything around me is alive. And that is enough. Mosses and mushrooms, caterpillars and spiders, trees and vines....all alive. Breathing and basking in that moment. For some it will be measured in days. For some the years will come and go, and yet they will remain.

For me, in that moment, I can simply breath and know that I don't need more of a purpose than to exist in the moment. I am nothing. And that's okay.

Some people live their life as a part of a jigsaw puzzle. Utterly unique, but integral to a bigger picture. The edges, nooks and curves allow them to perfectly connect to the pieces around them, and only in that form does their unique shape, size and color become a picture. Most people find that blend of uniqueness and belonging a place of certainty and strength. But my whole life I've been looking for something else. I've been looking for a world without hats. Without structure. Without metrics. A life where simply the act of filling my lungs is enough.

To live within the communal expectation, constantly at odds with the reality of my soul and the normality required of me, is exhausting. Keeping the will to search for myself, rather that settle for being defined by my routine, is not an easy task. But the very act of searching, these words I craft right now, are a narrative all my own. And for now, that will have to be enough.

On loving and losing

It hits me at the most random times...walking down a hallway at Purdue, driving in my car, sitting on my couch reading a book. There's no obvious trigger, but my subconscious knows that I am grieving...aching...missing....

This summer three dear friends move to far off places. Thanks to technology, they are a simple FaceTime call away and yet things will be different. As their lives blossom and grow in new places, with new friends and new experiences, staying current - relevant becomes harder. We've all had the best intentions to keep up with far away friends to find ourselves going weeks without contact, or letting Facebook replace real connection, or dwindling down to the Christmas card and annual generic letter that accompanies the best photo we could find from that year. And the face to face visits let you pick right up with the laughter and common ground, and yet there is an unspoken gap between you. The gap of all the daily life which occurred without regular contact. We are all so busy it's hard enough to keep up regular contact with those who live in town. Add hundreds of miles and different time zones, the challenge grows.

While it's not a lost cause, to think that relationships won't change over time and distance is simply naive. No matter how intentional you try to be, the relationship must change. It cannot look the same as when you lived in closer proximity. And yet...what if the change is for the better....

Maybe it's wishful thinking on my part, but I have been pondering if having a friend move away could actually add depth to the relationship over time. Everyone wants to be wanted. What if your friendship shows even greater levels of devotion as each person actively pursues the other? What if the intentionality and time required to maintain regular contact demonstrates a deeper love and appreciation for the relationship? What if the relationship can be an anchor in a sea of change - saying "no matter where you go or what happens to you, I will be here". It's one thing to say the words, but another to prove it to be true.

When my husband was deployed time and time again, in some ways it was easier to love him (hard to argue with a guy at war) but it was definitely harder to communicate that same love across the ocean and desert that separated us. But when I reread the letters from those deployments, I hear the very purest parts of our heart for each other. The one that says "My love for you is not dependent on fun activities, common experiences or even the joy I have in seeing your smile. My love for you is simply that - my love for you. Because of who you are."

And so I say to those three wonderful women who will no longer meet me for coffee or sit next to me at church....follow your path - and I will celebrate your new life with you - because my love for you is simply that - a love of who you are. Time and distance will not change that. But don't be surprised when I break down in tears during those random moments when the loss of your smile hits me. You can't care this much without experiencing the bittersweet ache that comes with change.

Into the Darkness

Tuesday, I gave into what felt like defeat and went to the doctor to pursue medication for my depression. I feared the appointment over the next 24 hours, but also realized I had gotten to a point where I was truly not functioning as a person. I was barely getting through the necessities of life and simply couldn't face anything else. I felt like I was being swallowed up by darkness and just wanted to get out.

In the examination room, my worst fears played out through the conversation with my doctor. While he listened patiently to me explain the current situation, he sighed and responded, "We've had these conversations before. Susan, you have depression. You will always have depression. You can either choose to treat it or continue in these cycles, but it is only going to get worse if you ignore it. You took yourself off the medication because you felt better, and now you have gotten to a point of crisis again. This will continue every time you choose to stop treatment. You will need to be on medication the rest of your life."

For the first few hours after the appointment, I truly felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Or the face. Or kicked in the teeth. Or maybe all 3. I felt beaten. This was the diagnoses I had dreaded. This was the statement I had anxiously feared at 2am when my mind would keep me awake. This was what had me in a perpetual state of panic trying to fix what was wrong with me, always coming up with a new plan that would solve this problem. He said aloud what I had heard whispered in my head for years.

While I wouldn't recommend him as a counselor, he is an excellent doctor and he was simply telling me truth in a way I couldn't ignore it. See, we had been in this cycle and I was one of those obnoxious patients that stops taking medicine and then wonders why the symptoms come back. But unlike the person with high blood pressure or bad teeth, I saw treatment as failure. I saw medicine as giving up. I saw life long illness as condemnation. Something had to be wrong with me if I was a depressed person. I'm supposed to have the "joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart." While high blood pressure is in your genes, depression was of my own making. Wasn't it?

It took his heavy handed approach to make me come to terms with how I saw myself. He flat out asked me: "Where does all this pride come from? It isn't helping you at all."

Not only was my depression my problem to fix, failure to fix it meant that I couldn't do anything else in life. Everything I wanted for my future was on hold until I got this depression thing under control. But I didn't want treatment. I wanted a cure. I wanted it gone. I wanted to be free of the darkness.

A funny thing happened as I processed his assessment of the situation. I thought of all the people I knew who had life long illnesses and how they dealt with them. I thought of how much respect I held for their joy within the difficulty, their courage to deal with their issues head-on, their personal responsibility they took for their health and treatment. For those people, they could live a joyful life and be sick for all their days here on earth. For those people, they could be wholly themselves, even with a brokenness that couldn't be fixed in this lifetime. And while they would choose to be without it if they could, they used their illness to see the healing hand of Christ - even though they weren't fully healed.

Today is known as Good Friday - the day Jesus entered the darkness on our behalf. The day He gave into death, so that death would die. But it is only on this side of the resurrection that we can call it "Good". That day and the Saturday that followed were dark - both because the sky turned black and because all who loved Jesus watch Him die and be buried. The physical and spiritual realms were dark.

On this side of Easter, we can call the darkness good, because we know it isn't the final word. We know that light remains on the other side. We know Sunday came - and eternity is coming.

With a life long illness, I can no longer look for a cure in this life, but I can see the other forms of healing already offered to me. I can no longer try to fix myself, but I can enter life with joy for all the days I've been given. And I can humbly abandon my thought that "I am better than this" and instead take personal responsibility for my treatment. I can enter into the darkness, knowing there is light on the other side.

And for the first time, in a long time, it isn't fear that I feel.

It is hope.

Um, thank you?

My husband started his prayer over our meal last night, "Dear Lord, thank You for today..." and from that point on, I didn't hear another word he said. I was lost in my own mind questioning, am I Lord, am I thankful for today?

Was I thankful in the moment that I discovered my son was gone and we had no idea where he was? In the pit of my stomach, I knew he had run away, but I had no idea where or how much of a head start he had on us. I was terrified...

Was I thankful in the moment I saw him on the grounds of the community center, just within shouting range - watching him turn and run from me as fast as he could as soon as he saw me? I could already see he was soaked to the bone as he dashed over the hill. I was panicked...

How about as I climbed through the woods, chasing after him, unable to see more than a few hundred yards, being cut by thorns and thistle that were growing in wild bushes in the midst of all the trees. I screamed his name while I prayed for his safety, prayed for God to bring him back to me, prayed for God to point me in the right direction - all while crushed under the thought that I could never find him in those woods on my own if he wasn't wanting to be found.

I think turning and going back to the community center to call 9-1-1, get people to help me search, telling my mom to stay with the kids - that moment of turning in the opposite direction of where I had seen my son go and walk away - that moment of leaving my son running away from me in the rain - I can't think of a harder moment in my life. I didn't have a phone and I knew I needed help, but going back to the center meant I had to stop looking for him. In that moment all I felt was hopelessness.

Or the moment I answered the questions during my call to 9-1-1 "Yes, he has run away before, but never like this." "Yes, he is on an anti-depressant." "Yes, he could possibly be a danger to himself." I can't even tell you what I was thinking and feeling. But I wasn't thankful.

Or how about when he got out of the police car, dripping wet, pulling away from my embrace and not looking at me, as I choked back the sobs. He was back in my sight, but he wasn't WITH me. That moment broke my heart.

Was I thankful when he was back at home, sitting on our sofa, telling us his plan was to run away...and just keep running until he couldn't run anymore...and then....

No. I wasn't thankful. I was mourning my poor son's spirit: that at 13 years old he is running away from life - with nothing to run to. Just running into the woods - in the rain - with nothing waiting for him on the other side.

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 "Be joyful always, pray continuously, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."

Yes, I am thankful for the part where he was returned to me. I am thankful for the gift of praying over him as he slept in his own bed last night. I am thankful for the strangers who raced across the field to the police car to tell the officers where they saw him running. I am thankful for the stranger, a kind woman who overheard all the commotion, and started driving in her car through the surrounding neighborhoods looking for him. I am thankful for the young man who got us towels to help us dry off while we were finalizing the police report.

In the midst of the panic and terror, there were strangers being the hands of feet of Christ to me. People whose name's I'll never know and I will never see again. But I could not register a feeling of joy - a feeling of hope - a feeling of peace- a feeling of gratitude. In the midst, even though I could see His hand moving, I was in darkness. And this morning, laying again in the darkness, staring and the ceiling and wondering what today will hold, I questioned "Can I be thankful in the journey? Can I be thankful for today?"

We have so little real control over our lives. Over the things and people we care about. In a moment, everything can change. I can read the verses about rejoicing in trials, casting my cares on Him, putting my hope in Him, trusting in Him. But what about the brokenness of this world? What about the brokenness in my son's heart? What about the mother's of missing children who have never returned? What about sorrow of those who have truly lost a child? Where does the Light meet that darkness?

I believe Lord. Help my unbelief.

Desire

I've had so much running through my head it has been hard to form coherent thoughts, let alone sentences, but now I feel like I can start to express some of these new insights.

I've had a unique experience lately of being able to compare what I have felt like I was supposed to do with what I actually desire to do. Desire has always seemed like a bad word to me, almost synonymous with sin. Desire is that longing inside you that should be repressed and remain unspoken. Even desires that aren't sinful somehow seem wrong because it feels selfish or immature.

Without giving into desire, I've kept trying to fill my days with activity, hoping something will satisfy.  I had resigned myself to equating sleep with rest, accolades with success and busyness with fulfillment. I thought that in a broken world, being a fallen individual, this was a good as it could get. And yet, in the face of my desires, I have found how lacking the lists of crossed off accomplishments truly are.

I've been blessed with the opportunity to be heard, instead of listened to. I've been known, instead of just liked. I've experienced true community, instead of simply standing with a crowd. I've experienced things that awaken my spirit in a new way, where I'm drawn into the process, rather than trying to move as quickly as I can to get it done. I've been given for a vision that trades in a life well-lived for a life well-loved.

Somewhere in the midst of giving up my lists, I've given into a reality that reaches the deepest longings of my heart. Instead of waiting for the journey to be over, I'm looking forward to each step a long the way.

Giving up....

For the forty days during my fast, the only word I heard from God was "no". When I pondered my treatment course, He said no. When I thought about being involved in additional events, He said no. When I questioned if I should extend myself in a new way, He said no. When I asked it I should take my hurt and questions to other people, He said no. Over and over, as opportunities arose, His answer to me, was no. As a person who is perpetually tempted to make my self worth equivalent to my productivity, this is not at all shocking. My way wasn't working. Doing more was not making me satisfied. My "yes" that lived at the tip of my tongue was silenced and in turn, He gave me exactly what I needed - He gave me less. He gave me quiet. He gave me space. And time. And peace. And rest.

In Mark 10 a blind man shouts at Jesus over and over again, "Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me." When brought to Jesus, Jesus asks the blind man what he wants. The blind man says, "Rabboni, I want to receive my sight." Jesus asks the obvious question and receives the obvious answer. The blind man wanted to see. Just like many miracles before this, the bleeding woman wanted to be healed, the lame wanted to walk and the sick wanted to be well. Why does Jesus, Lord of all, ask us what we want?

I think it's a beautiful statement of faith when we are able to confess our need, to the One who can provide. While Jesus already knows, by us stating the obvious, we have to humble ourselves and admit out loud, I can't get what I need on my own. All my effort has still left me lacking. Only you can provide. The physical healing are indicative of the condition of our soul, which is why the Lord graciously forgives sins for many of the people He also physically heals. He knows the obvious need, but He also can heal the very deepest longing of our hearts; the places of desperation that we haven't been willing to address in ourselves. Asking Jesus for help puts us in the right relationship with Him. We acknowledge who we are and we acknowledge who He is. He is not a doctor, but he is the Ultimate Healer. He is not a therapist, but He is the Wonderful Counselor. He is not a teacher, but the very Word of Life. Asking Jesus for help demonstrates a faith that says, I'm broken on my own and ONLY YOU can fix me.

Audrey Assad sings in her song, The Way You Move,
I know that the hardest part of love is not the thing I have to give
It's what I give up, I'm giving up ground
And I'm trading in my solitude for safety now
All my pride, it doesn't stand a chance against the way you move
You're tearing up roots and breaking down walls
And I don't stand a chance at all, against the way You move.

We have to give up our thoughts of self-sufficiency and independence. We have to give up the walls we build around ourselves and our ego-centric thoughts. It isn't about how what I think I can get from Jesus, it is coming open handed for what only He can give. Sure, there are maladies that I'm looking to be addressed, but He isn't going to stop there. He won't stop until He gives me His best, regardless of what I have to give up to receive it.

My fast temporarily gave up food - but the real intent was to begin in me the daily practice of giving up. Giving up my way, my plans, my will, in exchange for the His best for me.