Into the Fold

I cried at work today.

We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.

It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.

It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.

As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.

We had thought the same about ourselves.

And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.

My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:

When the people returned to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon, they became as those who dreamed. Their hearts were filled with laughter; their tongues with shouts of praise. The people of Earth said to them, "The Lord has done great things for you." Indeed, the Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.

That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.

I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.

I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.

And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.

And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me. 
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.

The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.

Prozac Nation: A Confession of Allegiance

Today, I am starting anti-depressants.

It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.

No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.

Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.

I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?

I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.

I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.

There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.

The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.

I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.

Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.

You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.

A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.

Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.

For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.

Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?

I guess I'll find out.

On Authority and Noserings or "Because I'm Willing"

Who I was in college is no secret.

With my long, blonde curls, my loose fitting clothing, my barefootedness, my hooped nosering, and my refusal to wear makeup, I was your classic flower child. Shoot, I was even in an indie band. 

My favorite story was the time I spoke in a board meeting in my hot pink, tye dye sundress, mud on my ankles included. 

Needless to say, my transition to "professional" has been difficult. 

I have had to have "conference room tweaking chats" about things I never would have dreamed would be a problem, like walking on the grass or my nosering (okay, yes, I did have a couple nightmares about that one). 

Wearing shoes, sitting at a desk, learning how to be a classy, polished lady, does not come naturally, and, though I ask for direction often, I don't always feel as though I'm given clear paths. Mostly, because a lot of the things I have come into conflict with have been things that a lot of people would implicitly understand. 

Being an extremely literal person (and a drugless hippie), that implicit understanding skipped me. And, to be honest, sometimes the direction I'm given goes so completely against everything I am. 

For example, it's difficult for me to have a sunny attitude about A. keeping my shoes on and B. keeping my bare feet out of the grass. 

Yesterday, there was a pretty brutal "tweaking" conversation with me that took me wholly off-guard. 

I left it frustrated and confused and sad, confused at why God had brought me back here to fail again and again and again. 

Then, last night, I went to my craigslist Bible study with my boyfriend Julius (the only one in the group who would be able to appreciate the irony of the topic for the evening). 

You ever read First or Second Peter? Yah? Good. Then you know where I'm going with this. 

No? Well, let me tell you. 

The main focus is pursuing harmony, repaying evil with good, submitting to authority with a humble heart, and prayer. 

KEY POINT A: 

1 Peter 4 talks about keeping a clear mind and self control in order that you may pray. 

Now, you may think, "What???!" 

But it makes sense. Track with me here. 

You are attacked with a mixture of truth and anger. 

You respond with cortisol (stress hormone), a mess of tears, confusion, frustration, and all kinds of other stuff. Your heart and mind are so stuffed with hot emotion that there isn't any room to understand. 

It's when you take every thought captive (self  control) and quiet yourself (clear your mind) that you can glean the truth, humble yourself, see areas of need for both growth and grace, and learn how to pray well, both for yourself and the other party involved. 

KEY POINT B: 

1 Peter 5 speaks to the elders of the church about taking care of those underneath them, but what Peter says I think is applicable to us all. He exhorts them to do good "not because you must, but because you are willing, as God wants you to be; not pursuing dishonest gain, but eager to serve".

I used to be a debater, so I read a lot about Jean Lacques' social contract.
When you enter into a society, there is an implicit (sometimes explicit) set of social rules and regulations that you agree to adhere to (again, formal or informal). 

When you break that social contract, you open yourself to correction because you have removed yourself from the "society". You following? 

I entered into this world and this job and this university willingly. The things they have asked of me are not things which come naturally, but they are things that I will adjust, not because I must but because I am willing; because I love my job and my university and my students/families alike. 

My approach has been with the wrong heart. I'm not sure I would go so far as to say it's been for "dishonest gain", but it also hasn't been with an "eager to serve" spirit. 

So, it's time to take a Devil Wears Prada attitude and amp it up. 

The hoop is gone, the heels are on, and, with coffee cup in hand and a smile on my face, I'm tearlessly, fearlessly here, at my desk, ready to recruit. 

Look Up, Look Down, Look Out

It seemed a little odd to me momentarily how spotty my postings from this semester have been.

Then, when I consider the fact that, rather than listening to the sound of the life of my mind, I have been listening to the voices of my friends as we live life with one another, I'm no longer confused at all. 

I stopped writing about life because I started to live it. 

When I imagined living in Northern Ireland, this is what I imagined. 

Books and learning, sure.
But this--on the go, travelling, spending time with school friends and church friends and the friends of friends, skyping with loved ones from home, having a clear direction, full of joy and fun and banter--is the stuff of all the things I had ceased to believe were in the books for me here. 

God turned this, the greenest desert of my soul, into an oasis. 

Over and over and over since my February return, God demonstrated to me more unexpected goodness than I had even begun to hope for by handing to me (in exact) the deepest desires of my heart, the ones I dreampt up and wished for but never even considered asking after. 

I had thrown them, my expectations clothed as "hopes", from my mind and gritted my teeth. For good or bad, I told God, I was coming back to NI, just because I knew this was the place he had laid out for me in this time. Unlike last semester, I armed myself and prepared for the blows to start. 

Unlike last semester, they didn't come. 

It is a humbling thing to be loved. 

The God who "destroyed" my life has rebuilt me from the bones out and set my feet in an entirely different direction and equipped me for what is to come. 

I will get distracted and dramatic and a little bit lost. 

I'm human. 

But I can tell you this much: I am irrevocably changed. 

All thanks and praise be to God, my father, my glory and the lifter of my head. 

Verbal Nudity

For the past four days, I have been in Siloam Springs.

A lot of people challenged me on this decision (for a variety of reasons), but I went because I graduated early, and all my friends are still on campus, not to mention my professor friends. 

Three and a half absolutely packed days of meetings, friend dates, coffee, and Jenga. 

There wasn't a friend specifically assigned to Jenga, but I've found over the years that if I ever have an awkward space of time on campus, if I sit in Walker Student Center for 5 or more minutes, someone I know and like (but unfortunately neglected to schedule time with) will show up. 

And, because sometimes interactions with friends like that--the ones you really like but don't always know what to talk about with--can be a bit awkward, Jenga. It's the perfect amount of social distraction. Not so focus-necessary that you can't focus on your conversation but just enough that you can focus energy on it if the conversation feels slow. 

In this way, my free time was enriched by several people I haven't been able to have a chance to speak with in months, and it added so much flavor I would have entirely missed out on. 

Going to Siloam also offered me an opportunity to make a few new acquaintances, some I very much enjoyed making and a couple that were necessary to make. Both were a stretch. 

More than that, though, the journey of the past few days was one of verbal nudity. 

As far as the 5 Love Languages test goes, I usually classify myself high on Words of Affirmation. However, I am not usually a verbal affirmer. Instead, I write. 

Most times, actually, when I need to address something particularly saturated with sentiment, I write instead of speak. Thus, this blog, and my letters and emails. Raw, but hiding. 

It's not as though I think writing is wrong--indeed, letter receiving is one of the greatest things, and I love sending them. However, when all big conversations (or really any big conversation) is done via the written word, I think there is a problem. 

70% of communication is non-verbal. So when I'm not forced to look in your eyes, weigh the immediate impact of my words and decisions on your heart, watch your body language, I miss out. And even if my letters or blogs are extremely vulnerable, they lack that intense intimacy that comes through individual communication. 

Over three days' time, I had three different conversations with three different girl friends. 

In one, I sought for forgiveness; in the second, I offered an admission of cowardice; in the third, I opened the understanding . In all three, I opened the door for rejection. 

In a previous post, I defined "intimacy." With intimacy, there is a tension and an opportunity for the other person to either accept and grow or reject and let die. 

Incredibly, all three chose the former. 

It wasn't just that choice that impacted me so much, though. Rather, it was that I felt the power of having to fully engage, to admit some pretty deep and sacred feelings in the immediate presence of the ones capable of decimating my attempts. The result was access to depth that I didn't know was available to me in those friendships. Our God is an awesome God. 

Forbearance: Patient Endurance

I know what I said about girls calling boys their "little brother" but, like many stereotypical girl moves I make fun of, I am an exception to this rule (don't worry. I'm guilty of a whole host of other things).

Today, I co-babysat with my "little brother" from high school, Taylor Pride. I don't think he and I have seen each other or talked for about two years, but my senior year of high school? We were besties. His word, not mine.

Junior-Senior prom. Caity and I robbed the cradle and went with Juniors. Taylor asked Caity & Will (Tay's best friend) asked me. It. Was. Epic.

By co-babysat, I mean LibbyRosie slept, and Taylor and I chatted it up. He's doing International Relations up at Wheaton in Chicago.

Meeting new friends at University or even reconnecting with old friends is often frustrating. Either you have to give 22 years of backstory for the current story to make sense, or you have to catch up on however long you've been absent in order for your story to make sense.

But then there are those people that the story doesn't matter as much as the heart. I try to collect (or at least keep) as many of those people as I can. Taylor is one of them.

We spent the better part of our time together "real talk[ing]", as he puts it.

Along with arranged marriages, divorce, cross-cultural differences about both of those topics, and being a spy, one of his main proposed topic questions was, "Why do people of our generation try to avoid pain and hardship?"

My response? "It's painful. And hard."

It was a good question, though. We're a pretty hedonistic society.

When something stops "feeling" good, we take it as a sign that it isn't good anymore, and we go seeking for the nearest available thing that will give us that feel-good feeling again as quickly as possible. A very processed sugar society.

But insta-happiness, like processed sugar, only lasts so long, and the crash hits hard. Because you're not spinning life with anything substantive. When the crises of life come, you think that cotton candy is going to protect you or give you the strength you need for a long-term struggle? No.

My cousin Kristina said that in the army, they repeated to themselves the mantra, "Embrace the suck."
They'd be sweating and feeling like Hell out on the field, but there wasn't any way to make it end sooner, so, they just had to engage with it. Accept that it was going to happen.

They survived it. "The Suck", while sucky, made them strong.

I think it's about time more of us learned to embrace the suck, suck it up, and start taking the time to seek out and build our lives with complex sugars. They may not taste as good on the go-down, but when the fight comes, they will be what give fortitude enough to continue on in a manner which will bring glory to the one who created us.

One More Time With Feeling

I had a dream once. Not like Martin Luther King Junior. The real kind. The kind your sleeping self creates.

In this dream, there was a path. A silent man to my left, but to my right were two people standing with their backs to me talking a ways down the sloped road. But I walked past them, walking straight and toward a hill.

I walked with big strides up the pathway, hooking my feet into the creases in the cracked dirt and making good time.

The hill got steeper, though, and as I looked forward, I saw it wasn't a hill at all but a mountain. The nearly ninety degree up kind, and the air was thinning. I got slower. Still long strides, but with so much more effort and not enough oxygen to keep up even that pace.

The man wrapped his fingers into my rib cage. He was having no problem keeping a consistent pace and now steel-grip, half-dragged me up along with him. I could feel his fingers bruising into me.

Feet no longer catching hold but slipping. Air coming less. Rim of sight fuzzing, darkening. Dizzy. Still those fingers in my ribs pulling me up.

We came up and I saw the burning edges of the sunset over the crest of the mountain. And passed out.
_________________________________________________________________________________

There was one more chapter to my pain. I left Siloam perfect. My memories there, perfect. And they needed to be rewritten into reality.

I prayed extensively beforehand, knowing that I was to be watched and knowing I would face questions.

Lord, What do I say? How am I to be gracious? How am I to speak the truth? With what words do I fill my mouth?

Then came the moment when I fully grasped it: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, others will believe what they will believe. I cannot make for myself my reputation. It is the Lord who writes my name.

Therefore, whether it makes me look weak or undone, I will speak the truth. I will speak the truth with deep humility and without shame. "The Lord has dealt with me."

In Siloam, I learned of more betrayal, of secrecy, of broken, broken journeys, and of pain.

I was left with nothing but compassion and a deep ache, knowing of self-destructive bonds forged out of ignorance. You  know not what you are doing, but it is your journey. Not mine.

To my supervisors, professors, and friends, I told the truth of my current state and of my own journey. Never have I been not more open but more raw or present in my answers. Never have I been less lovely.

And yet, and yet, the Lord was seen. In the wreck that is my body and my life, the ones who know me spoke over me favor. I, who have sought my whole life for that favor and respect; I, who have twisted myself mangled to achieve honor; I, who have always fallen short of what I wanted, am only to receive it now, when I am the least deserving of the words I once fought so hard to win.

Then, I walked away and didn't look back. I did not get my closure. I did not seek my closure. I chose my closure. I chose to walk alone and allow The Lord to do his own work without me putsing about in somebody else's path.

Muted by pain and so present in my pain, but I am so thankful.

My future husband and children and friends will bless, bless, bless these past four months. I myself will bless these past four months.

I am changed, told I even look it.

My story is not my own. The Lord has closed my journal and opened a new book, writing my pathway with blood and tears and truth.

I am home, but I am not better yet, and that is difficult for me to accept. However, a whooped boxer doesn't spritz away dainty after his rounds. He is taken out of the ring, cradled away, and nursed back into battle mode.

I have been taken out of my ring. I have been cradled. And now, I just need time to heal.

At the end of the day: Jesus.

At the end of the day: soundness of mind, right alignment of body and spirit, grace, humility, forgiveness, love, compassion, shameless truth, and the deep recognition and value of friendship and of being human.

At the end of the day: hope.