no fear

I have decided to follow Jesus.

And that means no turning back.

My doctor finally put me on a stabilizing medication, to help reduce the physical side of my panic (heart racing, hyperventilating, that kind of embarassing stuff).  The first week was asbolutely miserable.  Messing with the levels of serotonin in your body effects more than I was prepared for.  Two weeks later, I think for the most part, things are beginning to level out and the worst is over.  Now that most of the physical symptoms can be controlled with this serotonin stabilizer, the mental part is up to me.  I have been learning to remind myself in moments of anxiety, "No fear.  He is the Lord, my God, my Savior."

This week I've been focusing on moving out.  Considering my newly-developed fear of making plans, I have decided to just keep moving forward.  Every day, my plans change.  They adapt to new research I've done, or advances in my work, or circumstances with my family, or just the ways God is still stretching me through this process (whatever it is, because I'm still not totally sure).  It's funny that after all this stretching, you'd think I should be pretty tall by now.  But I still feel small (:

The newest adaptation of my plans is far from what it was a month ago.  Or last week.  But I think there's some beauty in this surrender I've been forced to embrace, because I cannot dictate my own future.  Even the small stuff.  I have to ask Him before I make any decision about what I am doing and how I am doing it.  Or rather, the conversation goes more like:

"I am going to make this new step today within my means; feel free to interrupt, or confirm that it falls under accordance with Your will."

And He does.  Right now, nothing is within my power.  So I pray for wisdom, and I evaluate thoroughly.  And I move when and where He says I can.  I've been complaining about how hard it's been to hear Him this whole time.  But I am realizing that I hear Him just fine.  In one word sentences. 

Like, "Yes." "No." "Here." "There." "Love." "Cry." "Rest." 

This refining has looked like just what I can see directly in front of my face, and nothing further.  I ask Him what He wants to do with my future, with my life.  Am I supposed to go back to school?  Am I supposed to stay in St Louis?  Can I just marry him now?  Can we just run away to Africa?

And He says, "Look at this job I provided you with."  or  "I've given you the means to pay the bills you owe."  or  "I've given you the means to move out on your own."  And I'm like okay, mysterious God; that doesn't answer my questions. 

But He's providing for me to live in right now, and only now.  And all I can do outside of that is dream, or hope, or wonder.  Or further than that, Trust.

With each day, and each new burden that's placed upon my shoulders, He tells me to hand them to Him and asks over and over how much I am willing to trust Him.

And the answer is as far as He asks.  I decided to follow Jesus.  And that means no turning back.

Somebody that I used to know

This week I’ve been feeling out of time, out of place, and out of touch.

Saying that coming home was, and is, hard on me is an understatement.  It’s not just about leaving Mizzou; leaving my life, and the future I was very meticulously building for myself.  And it’s not entirely about living with my parents again, having minor rules to live by, and other schedules and lives in the house that conflict with mine.  It’s not even about having to learn to be independent at an accelerated rate, teaching myself adulthood as I go along, taking responsibility for things that seem far beyond my grasp. 

Coming home has been the hardest on me for all the things I left behind when I headed to Columbia.  And I mean that in neither a completely nostalgic, nor completely bitter way.  Maybe just a little bit of both. 

I dropped my little brother off at the church I used to call Home this evening and realized how I don’t really belong here anymore.  I used to feel comfortable there; I used to feel known there.  My family used to be there.  But E-Free hasn’t been my home in years. People have stopped asking for me, or about me.  Which is okay.  Because I’m supposed to be gone, like everyone else.  I’m supposed to be moving on.  Like I was doing before I had to come back.  And it’s not that I drive all these familiar streets and hate the memories that I made on all my adventures here. 

But I also remember being ready to leave it all behind.  Because the year that I left was a year of endings.  Exactly the way it needed to be.  I tied all the loose ends, and shut all the doors when I left.  Because I made a lot of mistakes that year, and I wouldn’t pass up that opportunity to walk away from everything I broke, all the bridges I burned.  I knew the people that mattered would stay in touch, but everything else could be let go. 

There was a time when this was my culture, and calling.  But now it’s just where I used to sit and talk with Mary, where my sister showed me who Jesus was for the first time, where Jake broke my heart, and Ben broke the pieces that he left.  It’s where I got drunk to forget, and dunked under water in forgiveness and mercy.  It’s where I witnessed His goodness; and forsook  His grace.  It’s where I wanted to yearn and burn for more passion, but hadn’t learned how yet.  It was a time for growing.  At one point, it was my culture and my calling.  But now I can only see it as what it used to be.

And I can’t for the life of me figure out why He’d call me back here.

into existence

The 9th time my family moved, I waited until the weekend before we were leaving to start packing my room.  It was my subtle rebellion.  “Take that, Mom; half my room will end up in the garbage because I won’t have time (or space) to pack it and bring it all with me.”  The logic was there for a 13-year-old-me, at least.  We moved in 7 days anyway.  And brought all 3 of our lives with us in my aunts pick-up.  Everything that still belonged to us in a truck.

I’ve spent the better half of my life trying to control situations around me.  The 12th time I moved (back home, from college), I told myself I’d give up on that.  Because I could cry, or complain, or freak out completely, but at the end of the day there was over 5200 dollars that I couldn’t cry or complain into existence.  I simply had to adjust to the circumstances.  If I sat to think about it too hard, I sincerely believed I’d lose my mind.  So I went through finals, sold my books, and packed my room in the last few days I was there without much direction at all.  Some people said I was tough; some thought I was just in denial.  But really, to me, it was as simple as doing what I had to do.  We all have basic survival instincts, right?  We all have the ability to keep adapting as major life changes occur.  There weren’t many choices for me at that point.  Pay 5200 dollars, or leave… and I didn’t have 5200 dollars.  The funny thing is: I raised 5200 dollars to go to Togo over the summer.  I told Jesus that I’d like to do His work in West Africa, and He said here are the people I’ve appointed to support you, and here is 5200 dollars.

I got a job at CLH less than a month after being home.  It was literally a God-send.  He sent them to me. 
I talked to my sister recently about wanting to stay at CLH even though I am trying to move into her house further away and still saving for a car.  She had originally suggested that I just get a job closer to the house, but I explained that not only do I have a commitment to them at this point, but I’m making good money for someone my age without real college background doing something I didn’t have the qualifications for, but ended up really enjoying.  How likely does that scenario sound?  Especially after what I witnessed today (more of that later).  In her typical manner – that I do love about her; don’t get me wrong – she stated, “Well you know God owns all the money in the world, so He can give you whatever you need.” 

While I do believe that wholeheartedly, it is actually the reason I am staying at CLH for at least another semester.  (As opposed to another job because I still can’t go back to school.) But this is a good laugh for me.  Because what she said is true.  God does own all the money in the world.  Which is why I was able to go to Africa.  And why I have employers who have given me a steady, secure job that I have basically had to learn the field as I’ve gone along for. 
So I have to believe it’s why I had to leave college. 
He’s hasn’t allowed me a way back yet.

Over the last 4 months, I’ve been learning the ropes to the “real world.”  You know, the one they always talked about in high school.  I’ve learned to take responsibility, to save and budget,  to suffer, to be proud of my work, to breathe, to panic, to bounce back, to pay bills, to plan, and then re-work the plan on a daily basis because circumstances never stop altering. 

What I witnessed today helped me to realize that this is how He’s been refining me since I drove out of Columbia in November. 

I had a doctor’s appointment so I kept the car and planned to pick my mom up from work afterwards.  Only an hour after I’d been at work, I got a text from her that said I might have to come get her sooner because her firm was dissolving and that she didn’t know if she had a job anymore.  

A lot of things ran through my head in that moment.  Like how this is the kind of thing that happens in movies.  Or how I could imagine people rioting at her office, employees punching the partners or picketing or burning fax machines and the such.  But mostly how beyond all the angry people at the office, what was going to happen to my family?

I had all day to think about it (on the car ride to the doctor, waiting in the office, on the way to pick up my little brother from school), until she finally came home and told us exactly what happened.  She explained the dirty details of the partners’ decision, how hundreds of secretaries were left out of the loop until it came to the disastrous spreading of a rumor today, that they shortly found out was entirely true.  She explained that she couldn’t give much more information, because even she didn’t know.  She couldn’t say when her last day would be, or if she is even getting her check this payday.   Life circumstances.  Dramatically altered, from one day to the next, no warning. 

I couldn’t help but sit there as she described her day, the initial panic to what I saw as calmness before me, and remember that day in my dorm when I realized I was in way over my head with that bill.  And it hit me right then.   He has so much to teach me still.  Because I was still here, making plans for me, and my money.  And now it’s changed again.  And whether it’s to show me in stark contrast how steadfast or unchanging He is, or if it’s to teach me patience, or if it’s to continue to make me surrender, I accept it humbly. 
And I don’t think it’s because I’m strong or brave or awesome.
I may be any (or all of those things ;)), but I am broken first.

Just Breathe

"2 A.M. and I'm still awake writing this song; if I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to. And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd 'cause these words are my diary screaming out loud and I know that you'll use them however you want to."

When I go into one of my panic attacks, Brian has to remind me to do what is supposed to come naturally to me.  Sometimes, I am so overcome with panic that I lose control of what I'm saying or doing.  Or not doing.  

I don't think I have a disorder, but I'm not a doctor.  And I do know this isn't normal, but it's common.  I've gone back and forth in the past 3 months, questioning whether or not something is really wrong with me.  More than that, I have often been too ashamed to face the reality that this is my present glory: brokenness; His glory.  And that shame only adds to the anxiety.

I've learned that this anxiety thing can be pretty cyclic.  One anxiety attack leads to more anxiety which leads to another anxiety attack, which leads to more anxiety and so on and so forth.  It isn't easy to accept that this is just the way things are going to be for now.  The Lord knows I fight it.  And He also knows how I fail.

Most of the time, I have no idea what triggers my attack in the middle of a seemingly-ordinary day.  It's this day-by-day, sometimes moment-by-moment uncertainty of being fine one minute, and coming entirely undone the next.  By the time I realize that my stomach is twisting and my chest is aching, my body is beginning to shake as I've already stopped breathing properly.  

And when Brian reminds me to breathe, it's always the moment that my conscious mind can faintly hear above my subconscious cries that I've lost this minor, and yet at the same time major, grip on reality.  

I can't remember to breathe.

Maya Angelou once said,

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

I run into the unwanted answer over and over again that healing takes both time, and screaming my diary out to anyone who will listen, and I believe that my battle is every bit spiritual that it is mental (and physical).  I think I stop physically breathing sometimes because my mind gives my body the impression that it isn't supposed to stop; I've forgotten how to take breaks.  In all these years of running, and holding on,  and hiding, and holding out, I've forgotten-- or maybe never even learned-- to be still and accept being fought for.   

When I am alone with my anxiety, I find myself in the midst of an attack pretending that I can faithfully wish the panic away.  But when Brian is there to see them, I am made more aware of the fact that wishing isn't really doing the trick.  He prays for me in that moment; sometimes I let him hold me, and sometimes I don't.  But more recently, he's been reading Psalm 27 to me even when I push him away because I told him that a friend of mine reads it to another friend of mine who has been suffering extreme anxiety as well.  If it takes him a few repetitions, he still catches my attention with the same verse every time.

You have said, "Seek My face."  My heart says to You, "Your face, Lord, do I seek." -27:8

My heart has to speak.  Because my mind is a mess.  

I have a follow up appointment with my doctor next week, and while I know that she will only remind me that even from a medical standpoint, healing takes time, I have the temptation to wish that she will put some plugs in my head and fix the little hiccups in my brain.  But for as long as it has taken and will continue to take to unfold this story inside me that is not even mine, I let myself be reminded to breathe, and just breathe.  

Because my Father is fighting for me.