Song of My Heart's Devotion

news that changes nothing

I've turned into one of those people who blogs to process stuff, and as I struggled with some recently-received news, I wanted to head straight for the keyboard and get it all out.

But I had to wait--not only because my loved ones deserve time to hear things and process in their own ways, but also because, as transparent and real as I try to be about my journey, there are some things that are just a little too raw and real to talk about right away.

I finally have a name for what I've been experiencing, which has been above and beyond my severe adrenal fatigue (which way better now, by the way!) Puzzled by the panic attacks and chronic anxiety that persisted and even worsened as I rested, I finally went to see someone. And I heard words that were a surprise and yet not surprising at all.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Panic Disorder.

When I got myself home from the appointment and turned to the internet for answers (oh, come on, you do it, too), I read descriptions that matched me perfectly. This was not just a case where reading stuff on the internet turns you into an instant hypochondriac. I really have those things.

So yes, that IS me, I am so sorry and so FLABBERGASTED to say.

Flabbergasted is the best word.  Webster's Dictionary says it conveys "astonishment with bewilderment and dismay." Yup, and a fair degree of hysteria, to boot. Have you EVER heard of anything more ridiculous? I've actually got agoraphobia. I mean, seriously? Come on! Who GETS agoraphobia?

Apparently, me.

Even now I'm both laughing and aghast as I type this outrageous, wildly improbable occurrence. How on EARTH does something like this happen? What turns an active Christian businesswoman, wife and mom, into someone who can't even go to church, let alone get on a plane to speak at a conference, or even sit in a restaurant with friends for lunch, in the space of about twelve months?

It's dumbfounding. Yet, here we are.

Anxiety attack on Aisle 4. Panic episode in the school pickup lane. Rescheduled reservations finally cancelled altogether.

Well, we'll be picking this apart for a long time. But in the end, my reality is exactly what it was the day before the diagnosis. It's news that doesn't really change anything.

You don't just "get over" agoraphobia by yourself. I cannot make depression disappear by willing it to go POOF! I can't drag myself out of this panic pit and overcome anxiety with heavy doses of sheer stubborn. That's really comforting, actually. To hear and to know, finally, that I cannot fix myself. I've had thirteen months of intense struggle and interrupted life to arrive at a place where it is clear and undeniable that I need outside help and intervention.

And as there always is, there's a grace in that moment of letting go. There's a peace that tempers the grief, when I release what I wish was true, and accept what actually is true. The truth sets us free.

Sometimes we get news that changes things, but alters nothing about God's goodness or His ultimate plan for us.

Sometimes it wasn't truly a surprise, but we still have to experience the shock... and process the grief.

And always--never sometimes, but always ALWAYS, for the believer-- there is a grace and peace for that moment.

Even the ones that flabbergast us.

not what you signed up for: to my spouse

I know this is not what you signed up for.

I didn't sign up for this, either.

On good days, I know you know that.

On bad days, I'm convinced I've ruined us. That my weakness is going to spell the end of your love for me. That no marriage can survive these bouts, these see-sawing seasons of up and down, happy and sad, well and unwell.

That your long-suffering, incredibly patient and loving nature will finally reach the point of no return and you'll come to the conclusion that whatever you saw in that laughing girl long ago is irretrievably gone. My panic disorder has changed nearly everything. It must have changed your love for me. 

I wonder constantly what you really think. I am on high alert for exasperation identification in your voice. I imagine a tinge of impatience coloring your words. I read into everything you say. Is it now? Is now the time when I've finally exhausted the love of my spouse? Is this it? The beginning of the end?

All this brings home to me the miraculous love of Christ for His bride the Church. He DID sign up for pain and suffering, betrayal and death. He knew in advance His people would wander, play the whore, turn to idols, lose faith and disobey at every turn, and yet He still signed on the dotted line.

There was no vague line about "in sickness and in health" or "for richer, for poorer" in His vow.

There was no naive ignorance of what the future held.

There was only, "I love you so much I'm going to defeat death itself to save you." 

You have the harder job, my love. My job is to to love you and respect your role as the leader of our home. Dearest, you make it so easy.

But your job is to love me as Christ loves the Church, to the point of dying to redeem her (Ephesians 5:25.) Loving me more than your own life (vs. 28.) That kind of love blows the mind. We both know no human can ever live up to that. But I see the seeds of that kind of love in you, a clearer kind of picture lived out right in our home. Each marriage intended to be a living example of Christ's unselfish, undying love for His bride.

Honestly? I have a hard time trusting the God of the universe to have my wellbeing at heart. I have an even harder time trusting any human to truly, honestly put my needs above their own. But over and over, time and again, your choice to wake up next to me and face whatever comes together quiets the voice in my head that tells me I broke us. The one that would have me believe there is a bottom to the well of your love, and the bucket has surely scraped up the last drop for the last time.

Be patient with me, beloved. Keep telling me what is true when I can't trust my own thoughts. When old demons rise to re-fight battles I thought I'd already won. I feel so guilty for being part of what God is using to refine you. Let my season of weakness be a tool for both of us, to bring us closer to Him.

No, this is not what we signed up for. And I long for the day when it all makes sense because we're finally in blood-bought, blameless fellowship with Him, face to face, the veil gone and at last in complete accordance with His plan. So clearly the only way it could have worked. So plainly motivated by a love beyond comprehension.

When God shows us what HE signed up for, and we all marvel at the perfection of His plan.

what I know is true

(Note from Lyssa: I began this post four months ago; not sure why I never finished it. Probably the adrenal fatigue "brain fog" interfered. Thankfully, I don't feel quite that wretched physically any more. My body has made the progress I wish my mind would make.

But here it is now. And here am I, still clinging to what I know is true: my God is good. My God is faithfully working all things together for good.)

____

So, it's been a rough couple of months. I feel "not good" about 75% of the time. On really bad days it's more like 90%, and what passes for a great day is more like 25% "not good." We talk in percentages because it's so much easier than saying, "Well, I had a bad night and woke up with the worst headache I've ever had, but pulled it together about ten a.m. Then after I ate lunch I felt good for about 15 minutes and then dizzy and lightheaded for three hours. I had an anxiety attack in the carpool lane after school, but by the time we got home I was fine again. I wanted to puke making dinner but it passed in about a half hour, until I had to take that pill that makes my blood feel like it's burning me. When is bedtime, again?"

I've spent a lot of time sleeping, a lot of time trying not to panic about the future, and a lot of time just wondering what in the world will bring this utterly annoying and exasperating time in my life to an end, so I can get on with things.

The truth? Things aren't going so hot. The longer this season drags on, the more I realize this may be something I have to deal with for the rest of my life. Yet, God is still good.

It's been hard to keep my focus on what I know is true, when anxiety-caused depression lies to me at every turn. I've never been more aware of the spiritual battle being fought behind the scenes. It's not the clashing of swords that fills my ears, but the whispered lies and twisted truths that attack me when I'm down. And as fast as I can beat one away, another takes its place.

 

Anxiety asks, what if it's like this forever?

Depression whispers, it WILL be like this forever.

What is the truth here? It may be I struggle with this humbling thorn in my flesh until Jesus comes. Who am I that I should be immune to trials and sorrow? No one gets through this life without scars and heartache. It could be this, it could be something else. Any weakness only serves as a setting for His grace to shine. "Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me." -- 2 Cor.12:9.

The truth is, I may not be ready to "glory" in this illness yet, but I can look for the good in it, and hope for someone else to be blessed by the way I choose to handle it.

 

Anxiety asks, my beautiful life is slipping away, what if it never comes back?

Depression whispers, your life is gone for good and it won't ever come back.

What is the truth here? I will never regain what I once held so tightly, and I honestly don't want to. It wasn't good for me and it so often didn't honor God. But there's a good life, a quieter one, yes, but one that brings glory to God in so many more ways than the glitzy Instagram existence I chased after.

The truth is, I wanted all the blessings without having to honor and obey the God from Whom they flowed. If that's what my life before illness consisted of, then it is better lost.

 

Anxiety says, I'm trying so hard and I just can't make these changes.

Depression whispers, quit trying so hard. Nothing will change.

What is the truth here? I can do all things through Christ, Who strengthens me. I must make the effort even when I don't see progress. I can never stop the struggle against sinful thoughts, against the terrible, ingrained pride that stops me from seeking help. And His all-sufficient grace will keep giving me the strength to continue even though the journey is long and the pathway is hard.

The truth is, I can't make these changes alone. It is not within my feeble powers to fight the good fight by myself and never has been. This illness just shone a light on that fact. But His strength shows up in all its perfection in my lowest, weakest moments.

 

Friend, will you pray for us? Pray for healing, yes, by all means. But pray that those of us who struggle with anxiety and depression will be covered in the day of war, as we fight a battle not of our choosing. Pray that we will be strengthened to respond with praise and trust and obedience instead of fear and discouragement and sin.

Pray for us to be spiritually and emotionally empowered to focus on what we know is true.

Our God is good. Our God is faithfully working all things together for good.

we don't talk about this

It happened again yesterday. Someone I haven't seen in a long time asked me how I was. Next comes the part where I ramble my way through an answer that is both honest and not too depressing for either of us. Then I admit I'm still having major problems with anxiety attacks. And she responds.... me, too.

The most mind-boggling of all the mind-boggling things that have occurred to me over the past seven months is the prevalence of the problem I share with so many other women. We are now, or have been in the past, dealing with life-altering anxiety or crippling depression, and sometimes both. That makes me simultaneously really glad and really sad at the same time ("You might experience mood swings," they say. Umm, no lie).

I'm glad because it means I'm not alone. That is big.

Depression lies louder and longer than any other sin except Pride. And the two of them, combined and egged on by Anxiety, have us convinced we are completely, totally, irrevocably alone. That no one else has ever had these ridiculous thoughts, these fearful episodes, these crying jags.

And it's simply not true. We aren't alone. Believers never are, even if there actually were a situation in the world that no one but Jesus could possibly understand, there is always Him.

But it also means that you know from personal experience how I'm feeling right now. How tired I am and how I struggle to stand there and make small talk and what a big deal it is to even get dressed and leave the house. The little coping mechanisms like coming in late and sitting in the back by the door, those are familiar strategies to you.

And that makes me sad.

I'm sad because when you tell me, you whisper.

You're still ashamed. You've come a long way, barreling past those early days where you couldn't even admit something was wrong, not even to yourself. You got help, you got rest, you made it through to the other side. But you're still not in a place where you can stand to say it out loud in a normal voice, where anyone but me might hear you. You can only open the door a crack and let your secret out, knowing that I need to hear it and when I hear it, it will help me. But that's as far as it goes.

I'm sad because when you tell me, your eyes speak, too.

They share a story that still makes you shudder. You're remembering that period, reliving the buried emotions, and you almost can't bear it. Because talking about it might bring it back.You may not suffer from daily anxiety attacks any more, but you've never lost the unspoken dread that it will return. That you never really got a handle on why it happened in the first place, so how can you prevent it from starting up again. And so that's as far as it goes.

Why don't we talk about this?

I feel reassured and betrayed at the same time.

No, I'm not alone. I can't tell you how many women have whispered to me of their own struggle. Dozens, I am not kidding you. Online and in person, late-night Facebook chats and deserted sanctuaries. Hand-written on cards and hearts poured out in private messages. I would never have guessed this. The one thing I am completely sure of is that you never know what someone else is dealing with.

I am in a club to whose membership I never aspired. Instead of a secret handshake, we have a secret confession, and we part with a pledge to pray for each other.

No one knows who the other club members are. Maybe one or two who have been brave enough to reference (safely-past, never ongoing) depression or casually bring up anxiety in the odd devotional or ladies' Bible study. Usually it's a nice polite version of an "anxiety" that would better be expressed by the word "worries." Not the kind where your lips go numb and you can't seem to get enough oxygen.

Can we not go deeper? Must we be this superficial with each other?

How can "not alone" still feel so lonely?

How I long for us to talk about this, to get it out into the light and drive a wooden stake into the stigma and silence. We're not alone, yet no one is willing to publicly stand on the stage and say it aloud to the spotlight and all and sundry. Our courage saw us as far as the steps and then deserted us.

I get it. I go through days when I'm good with being transparent about this un-wished-for journey, and other days when I shrink from even accepting, let alone expressing, the magnitude of how unwell I feel.

But I look at two especially dear friends, both recently descending into deep emotional and physical struggles of their own, and think of how sad it is when believers cannot tell each other the truth.

When we whisper instead of wrap our arms around each other.

When we save our stories for a "more appropriate" time, and then they wait, unspoken, as the season passes.

That makes me sad. We need to be past this, to step outside of our circle of pride and self-protection and be vulnerable and be vocal.

But I'm going to end with a "glad."

I'm glad because I know that my fellow sisters in Christ have discovered Him in the depths. Where we have failed to support and speak life to each other, He has not. When someday my pride or fear prevent me from speaking up when I should, there will be grace for that suffering child of God from some other source.

In gladness I'll let my present circumstances be informed by Scriptures that make it clear He is working all things together for our good and His glory. In quietness I can go ahead and let myself be dust and lean into the weakness on the hard days. My all-seeing, all-knowing, never-wasteful Heavenly Father will use this experience as mortar for the Kingdom work He is building.

 

"Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our trials, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God." II Cor 1:3-4

o holy night

Not my favorite Christmas song.

It's a solo, for one thing, with tempos and soaring notes not meant for congregational singing. What should be sublime descends into the nearly-ridiculous virtually every time. I'll admit to the internal sigh when the number is announced. Great. All these gorgeous carols, and we have to sing the one that inevitably dissolves into discord at least once per verse.

Sorry for the snark. You probably love it. I do, too--when it's a solo and I'm singing along at home, alone.

This year we sang it on Christmas Eve. Or rather, my church family did. I dropped out after a certain line on the second verse because I couldn't see the words through the tears.

O Holy Night was more than a song in that moment. It was a message, straight to my heart.

He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger.

The lines are from an 1843 poem, translated with much paraphrasing--not to say outright re-writing--from the original French into English, and not even authored by a devout man. But these particular concepts are backed up with Biblical truth (Hebrews 4:15 and Phillipians 4:19).

He knows me. He sees me.

 Anxiety makes you very self-centered. You might appear to be listening or functioning outwardly but the inward dialog is a totally different story. During that service I was trying to control my breathing, keep a pleasant look on my face, pretend things were normal. You can't help but think people are watching you and wondering what's wrong. Because there's no way you can possibly look normal and have all this turbulence inside, right?

So no, I was not thinking about Christmas, or baby Jesus or grown-up Jesus or anyone else but ME as we sang. And then out of the blue, words leaping from the page, a message just for me.

Even in this moment, I see you.

I know you are weak. I know what the past six months has been like. I know how cruddy you feel, how badly you want to go home. How guilty you feel about everything you can no longer do. How afraid you are that this will never end. I know it all.

Behold your King!

Before Him lowly bend!

My focus this year is going to be beholding the King. Bringing my thoughts, ambitions, desires and plans into obedience as I study His character and more fully realize His matchless authority and absolute worthiness to be praised.

the new/old me

The new me bakes. As in cookies and biscotti and coffee cake and all that.

I find that mildly hilarious. It's so different from the me-that-has-been all these years. Who had time to bake? When I did, forced to by some school function or feeling guilty because it was Christmas Eve and there was not a sweet treat in the house, I often burned tray after tray, trying to get eighty things done while each sheet baked. 

Not baking was a survival mechanism. If there is no pan of brownies, I can't eat them all when I realize it's two o'clock and all I've had to eat so far is a cup of coffee. When there is massive self-sabotage of any possibility for self-control like that, the best way to make sure those binges don't happen is not to have it in the house at all.

So pitifully out of balance.

So, the new me bakes. The kids are thrilled. I even signed up for a cooking class by mail. Mike doesn't know what's gotten into me.

I've been attending a program run through our church, called newfocus, as part of my efforts to get a hold of my life and stop some of the destructive, idolatrous behaviors that have stolen my peace and ruined my health. It's a little sobering, pardon the pun, to check yourself in to an addictions ministry every Friday night and know that the next two hours are going to be painful but cleansing. I still haven't made it through a whole meeting.

But it's coming, and the new me loves it. Loves not having to pretend everything's fine when it SO is not. Newfocus helps by stripping away all the religious trappings, traditions and pretense we think of when we think about "church," and just leaves God's words, straight from the Bible, explained in the simplest of terms by someone who gets it. Somebody else who knows the Dementor's kiss of depression, who struggles as I do to listen to the Voice of Truth and not the whispers of inadequacy and failure and hopelessness.

I can't make promises for tomorrow or the weekend because it all depends on how the night went. The morning can be good and the afternoon the anxiety hits so bad I barely manage to pick up the kids from school. Or the whole day can be peaceful and then the muscle aches hit about eight p.m. and I can't change positions without groaning in pain. But this un-knowing is not all bad. It makes me seize the day when I do feel good. It causes reevaluation of what is important and what can wait and what doesn't need to be done at all. It makes me appreciate little things.

One of newfocus' main principles deals with recovery, and how you know you're making progress. One of those steps is regaining pleasure in the simple things in life. A walk in the woods. The pattern of frost on the glass. The smiling baby in the shopping cart in the checkout lane. Cold fingers wrapped around a funny mug filled with hot cocoa. The way the scenery is distorted through old glass panes. A homemade meal, plain but well-cooked. The array of colors when you walk into the produce department. Stopping to read the historical marker I've driven past so many times. A favorite song on the radio.

Baking.

Reading. I am almost embarrassed to say it: I stopped reading for fun.

I knew if I went to the library, I'd "waste" hours and hours of time that I "should" be spending on my business. So I never went. I love to read, but I went months at a time without doing it. Famous in my childhood for the stacks of books I went through in a week, always a finalist in the summer reading contests. As an adult, my dusty Kindle was a source of mistaken pride in my dedication to my work.

So out of balance.

So, the new me reads. And watches shows. Yep, that "#1 thing successful people never do"--I watch TV occasionally. Gasp! 

I will say, the new me's hair sucks. I haven't been able to go to the salon since June, and it's pretty bad. I pretend I'm growing it out, but it's not true. I just can't sit for two hours in a chemical-laden, noisy room full of strangers and get my sleekly high-lighted professional bob done right now. It's also thinner, falling out due to see-sawing thyroid imbalances. So it straggles to brush my shoulders, and I part it a different way to disguise the color gaps, and that's all part of the new me, too.

I don't know where else the new me leads. We'll find out, I guess. I'm still discovering the OLD-old me, the person I was before my life got so crazily off-kilter. The person who used to enjoy playing the piano--she is still a stranger to me, buried under years of incredibly stressful church ministry I was neither qualified for nor willing to do. The piano keys are dustier than the Kindle ever was.

But the person who gardened, uneducatedly but enthusiastically, I caught a glimpse of her recently.

The girl that planted daffodil bulbs each fall, believing in the distant promise of an eventual spring, she reappeared this autumn.

Old-old, old, or new--the point here is not the girl I was, am now or will become. The point of it all is that Jesus loves her. That incredible mixed-bag of faults and failures, successes and silences, idols and good intentions--they're all me, and I'm all His.

I always have been.

I didn't notice when I quit baking. That book-that-turned-out-to-be-the-last, returned to the library did not spark a sad realization. The person who was too busy to stop at the park or who threw a tray of chicken nuggets in the oven as she dashed out the door was also too busy to think too hard about a life that doesn't even leave time for dinner. But Jesus knew. And he loved me anyway.

See, when the God of the universe loves you, He doesn't quit. There's no up-and-down with His love. It's steady, consistent, eternal (Jeremiah 31:3). He loves me when I'm a mess and He loves me when things are marvelous. Top of the heap, or scrambling to regain lost ground. He loves me even when I'm at such a low that His precious promises are naught but a blip on the radar of my despair.

He loves me even though it's taken me so long to learn this lesson. He loves me despite the fact that, lacking wisdom like a BOSS, epic-ally lacking wisdom to manage my own fallen-apart life, I only just now think of the verse in James that says He gives it freely, without reproaching me for lack of faith and past failure. (James 1:5).

The new me understands that love in a way I could not have unless I'd been the old me. Like the three foster children, pending adoption, who understand my brother and his wife's love for them in a totally different and deeper way than their biological children ever will.

It's a lesson I'll be learning over and over again my whole life long. He loves me. Old, new, in progress, stalled, stubborn, sinful--you name it.

Whatever else has changed, He has not. I am loved, and I always have been.

washed-out or worthy

Yesterday I got out for a short excursion with a dear friend. It was our first in a long time, because I don't go anywhere willingly these days. The panic is always right under the surface. My blood feels like it is burning me. Good stuff.

The plan had been to go out to lunch, but I have not been able to eat inside a restaurant for two months now. Not because of food problems, but because the restaurant itself feels like it's smothering me. My body dumps inappropriate amounts of cortisol and suddenly instead of a casual, yummy meal and relaxing conversation, I'm just as wired as if I knew Jeffrey Dahmer was sitting in the booth behind me.

I don't know how it is for every person with adrenal fatigue, but when you see me out and about, even if I look "normal," you can assume that I am:

• experiencing heart palpitations;
• struggling to control my breathing;
• running a slight fever;
• trembling internally and likely externally;
• exhausted, even on the off chance I did sleep the night before;
• calculating the distance and objects between me and the nearest exit;
• praying with all my might to just get back home without making a scene;
• this close to walking out/canceling

This is true whether the excursion is to get groceries or go to a health appointment. I'm tellin' ya, life is FUN right now!

So anyway, now you have a little idea of what a big deal it was that I was out with Penni yesterday. Penni is an amazing person. I'm not just saying that because she is my assistant and the only reason I'm keeping up with any of my business obligations at the moment. I'm saying that because Penni really is amazing, and I wish more people saw her for what she is.

Penni has fibromyalgia, which basically means she hurts everywhere, ALL the time. You would never know it, though, because she just doesn't talk about it. She's been in some bad places because of it, and because God never wastes anything, she has learned some mighty deep lessons from her illness. Yesterday she shared one with me.

She told me she learned she couldn't trust what her mind was telling her.

Her mind told her that her life was over, that she would never ever feel good again. It told her that her kids were going to be scarred by all the games and recitals their mom couldn't attend. It told her that her husband might wish he had married someone who didn't have all these issues. It told her that her ministry days were over. That she might as well give up.

She said that the Holy Spirit taught her that in those moments, she needed to speak to herself, not listen to herself.

She went on to explain: listening to your BODY is a good thing. But listening to your MIND? Not always so great.

The Bible tells us in Jeremiah 17:9 that the heart is "deceitful above all things." We've been warned. It's going to lie to you regularly, pathologically. It's going to keep up a steady stream of absolute drivel, complete dreck that goes directly against the truths found in Scripture. The Word plainly reminds us that trusting in our own heart is foolishness (Proverbs 28:26). It simply cannot be depended on to consistently speak life and truth.

So what can be depended on? The Bible. It is:

• Trustworthy: Psalm 19:7
• Steadfast: Psalm 93:5
• Tested & Tried: Psalm 18:30
• Pure: Psalm 12:6
• Eternally Unchanging: Psalm 119:89

And when she quit listening to the untruths, and started speaking truth, Penni said--everything changed.

Oh, not the pain. That's still there. But everything else, the fear and the grief and the self-pity and the bitterness, was suddenly loss, compared to the excellency of Christ and the perfection of His plan.

Her mind had told her she was not enough, that she was a failure and she would never measure up. The truth of God's Word told her she was His beloved, accepted in Him, known since before conception, that her life was planned and pleasing to Him. That instead of being weak and washed-out, she was worthy and wanted.

I'm so glad Penni shared those thoughts with me. I know now that it was the reason we went out yesterday, despite how desperately I wanted to turn around and go home.

Sometimes, less listening and more speaking is the answer. But only if what's spoken is truth.

Eternal Father, Giver of Life, Mighty to Save! Your Word is life itself. Thank you for a friend that speaks truth at a crucial moment. How good it is to have the balm of Scripture to sooth in times of pain and distress. Grant wisdom to discern when our minds are spouting repetitions of the Deceiver's subtle lies, and strengthen us to combat the constant barrage with truth from your Word. Help us desire to hide Thy Word in our hearts, that we might not sin against Thee even in secret moments of great upheaval and bitter anxiety. Thank You for giving us the Bible, every word of it profitable for daily life and health. We pray all these things in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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musta got it wrong, God

You got it wrong, God. It wasn't supposed to go this way.

You messed up, Lord. I'm not the weak one. I'm the one who ministers to the weak ones. Don't You know that?

Why did you mis-cast me in this minor role? I'm meant to be the lead! Get with the plan, God!

I'd like to think You've got this, God, but did You notice I'm too weak to go to church? I know that can't be right. What gives?

Hate to mention it, Lord, but my hair is falling out and I'm quite sure that wasn't part of the plan. If You could fix it pronto I'd appreciate it.

Umm, God? I missed another event at my kids' school because I couldn't leave my house. Do we have a timeline here? Because I'm not gonna lie, I think we got a little off-track.

***********************

Kinda silly, right? Yet isn't it how we think?

We have it in our heads that He is not Who He said He is, that He is not capable of taking care of us. We might say otherwise, but inside we're quite sure He got this particular circumstance wrong.

We say we're ready to go "anywhere with Jesus," but only if the path is well-lit, free of debris and no more than a 4% grade.

We may think we're onboard with the plan, and we are... OUR plan. Not His.

Because there's no way this can be the divine plan, right? This pot-hole-riddled, trash-strewn uphill path that runs through the wrong side of town?

Where's the park benches? The planter boxes? The bunny rabbits? The sunshine?

What do you mean, "this IS the plan?" This painful valley, this debilitating weakness, this grim diagnosis? Oh no, You got it wrong, God!

God had a divine plan for the Children of Israel in Exodus 33, and He communicated that to the man He had chosen to lead them. They were to head out into the wilderness and quit hanging around the area where they had been enslaved so long. THAT was a bad neighborhood!

He gave the instructions, and at the very end, remembering that we are all just scared little kids inside, He spoke a promise. He said, "My presence shall go with you, and I will give you rest."

Then Moses said to Him, "If Your presence does not go with us, do not lead us up from here..."

I love this passage. Moses is like, "I know You juuussst said that, Lord, but let's go over the plans one more time. You're with me, right? There's no chance I'm taking one step and there's a drop-off, correct? You and me, proceeding, in a forwardly manner. Right?"

I'm obviously not the only one here with "anxiety issues." Moses is afraid to leave his tent! And he was speaking to God Himself, as close to face-to-face as it's possible to be to the Father. Come to think of it, Moses is either very, very brave, or very, very dumb. Questioning what God is telling him? Step back and wait for lightning to strike! Who does that? Not me!

Oh. Wait.

Good thing our loving Father "knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust" (Psalm 103:14). That's why He reassured Moses even before he doubted, and then reassured him again when once wasn't enough. He knows our human fears and frailties, our inability to grow our faith bigger than a mustard seed. He also knows the stupid things we're going to say before we say them.

So He knows I'm going to freak out and try to grab the steering wheel away when we come up on this big curve. And He knows my dirty secret. I don't really trust Him a tenth as much as I say I do.

He loves me anyway. You know how I know that? Because God, Who cannot lie, told me He loved me so much that He gave His only child, Jesus, to die for my sins (John 3:16). So that the penalty would be paid forever and no one could ever take me away again.

I sit now in the palm of His hand and no power on earth, no illness, no wickedness, not even death itself, can pluck me out (John 10:28).

My position with God is as His beloved, precious daughter, for whom He would never plan anything but the best. There's no way on earth He doesn't have a plan, or that He got part of it wrong, or messed up the agenda in any of the other zillion moments I'd rather not endure.

Of course He has a plan. And it cannot be improved upon.

I'm the one who's got it all wrong.

Forgive me, Father! The dust speck exalts its wisdom above that of the Creator of the Universe. How gracious You are to allay my fears and reassure me over and over again that I am loved, worthy, accepted and redeemed. Snatched from the jaws of death and held in Your palm as a precious treasure You paid the ultimate price to obtain, You have a plan for my life that exceeds anything I could ask or think. I declare Your praise before the whole earth. You alone are God. Amen.

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welcoming the weakness

I've been the recipient of a lot of grace-filled notes, emails, messages and hugs this week. I am both helped and horrified by the number of women who have shared their personal struggles with anxiety, depression, and other "unseen" illnesses. How is it that so very, very many of us are out there walking around like this?

My friend, if you've ever doubted that we are not all broken people, every last one of us, I encourage you to come out and share your brokenness, and the floodgates will open. It's an epidemic. Our world is so fallen, so full of hurt...so in need of a Savior.

The apostle Paul wrote of a "thorn in the flesh," some sort of physical ailment that plagued him persistently and would not be healed. No one knows what sort of malady it was, although they make guesses. But I think that, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, the illness was purposefully left unnamed. Because if it was named, we'd focus on that instead of on how Paul reacted to this painful, ongoing problem of the body.

If God makes absolutely zero mistakes--which He can not, in order to indeed be the God He claims He is--then even a tiny detail like an illness unspecified is for a reason.

Instead, we can turn our attention to how the godly can suffer greatly, and still find a grace-filled path forward.

We can see an example of how someone could beg for deliverance that was not granted, and still have a Biblical attitude towards God.

Because Christians don't get any special "pass," you know. We don't accept what Jesus did for us on the cross and then magically get a smooth, painless life from there on out. The only difference between Christians and non-believers during suffering is that we know from God's word that He is still in control no matter what and He works everything together for good for His children. That gives us a hope that doesn't depend on circumstances.

I am physically weak right now, more so than I've ever been. My "thorn in the flesh" has definitely gotten worse before it gets better, as predicted. My good days are great, but the bad days are very low. Even as I am working on a second stab at this blog post, I am finding mistakes that my weary brain never spotted in the first draft. Every once in a while it really comes home to me that I am really not a well woman at the moment. I would really like this to be over.

But... "He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is perfected in weakness.”

This is what Paul wrote immediately after he shared about his biggest, most private, most torturous problem. He doesn't leave us hanging there without hope. He shares this huge ol' secret burden and then shares the trick to how he has managed to keep going.

I don't know about you, but I really like it when someone shares how they did something. I'm a DIY fan, and I see amazing projects all over the place. But not every one shares their instructions, and that can be frustrating. Paul leaves us with zero doubt about how he got through this.

GOD is doing the getting-through-ness. Not Paul. Not me.

It is GOD Whose grace is sufficient. It is GOD Whose power is perfected in the weak spots.

The trick is welcoming the weakness. Being close enough to God, knowing enough about His sovereign perfection, and allowing that truth to inform my soul enough that I am able to welcome what He has allowed into my life as being something that He will use for my good. Not just enduring. Welcoming is an entirely different matter.

A wise friend once shared with me, "You know you've finally learned the lesson of a thing when you have arrived at the point where you can not only thank Him for bringing you through it, but actually be thankful that it happened. Because you've come through the other side and you can finally see that it was all for His glory.

I don't know about you, but there are precious few trials in my life that I have reached this stage with. I have had a few hiccups in life by this stage in the game, and it's still unthinkable to me that I will someday be glad that some of those things happened. But that's where I'm headed. Because I have purposed in my heart that I will take God at His Word, praise Him as sovereign and only-good, declare His works before men....and welcome the weakness when it inevitably comes.

Father God, in Whom we live and move and have our being, I humbly ask You to reveal Your purposes in my life as You see fit. Give me patience and grace to wait and trust when I must needs be left in the darkness a while. Cause my tiny mustard-seed faith to grow and thrive under trials, so that my responses to the ups and downs increasingly mirror Christ. May my praise to my Creator be sung just as loudly to an audience of one as to one hundred. Be glorified in my life, Lord.

an embrace that never ends

I am not the first person to fall to her knees in a waiting room.

Sick with dread, awash in anxiety, unable to concentrate.

Incapable even of forming prayer beyond the opening phrase, "O, God..."

O, God! Hear my voice through the rising hysteria and the dreadful fear as Your child gropes for and clings to You as she has been lovingly taught to do. The Love that will not let me go clings back in an embrace that will never end as I sob like the heartbroken little girl that I am. 

O, God, our Help in ages past,

Our Hope for years to come;

Our Shelter from the stormy blast,

and our eternal Home.

Oh, child. God has already seen your future. He has already caught your tears, already pulled you into His arms and let you exhaust your sobs on His shoulder.

Knowing there is not a disaster, a diagnosis or verdict headed your way that will ever surprise Him does not mean we will never feel fear. But if you believe He is Who he says He is, then you must believe that He is omniscient. All-knowing.

Knowing your tears will be dried by the Comforter Himself does not mean they will not fall when we set out on our journey through the valley of grief. But if you believe He is Who He says He is, then you must believe that He is omnipresent. Always-there. 

Knowing that the One Who claims the power to work all things together for good does not mean we will not have to experience doubt that anything can ever, ever possibly make this right. But if you believe He is Who He says He is, then you must believe that He is omnipotent. All-powerful.

That is the One on Whom my salvation rests.

It's clear that I trust Him for that eternal security, but not for the problems of my daily life. Not for that pain from my past. Not for my financial needs. Not for my family's health. Not for... the list goes on. I believe He is strong enough to save, but not strong enough for this particular situation, or that painful subject.

On the floor of that waiting room... in the foyer outside that courtroom... at the side of that fresh grave... all this distrust and with-holding melts away. Instinctively, like a child, we reach for the embrace of the Eternal One.

And we always, always find Him there.

O God! How many times You have showed us Your mercy. How many times You have proven that underneath are the Everlasting Arms, and still Your anxious child asks for more reassurance. Never turned away, never impatiently reproved. Never, not once sent away empty and hopeless, no matter how many times the lesson must be learned. Teach us to trust that You are everything You claimed to be plus more that we cannot even comprehend. For Your glory alone, grant us victorious lives of faith, led close to the foot of the cross.

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