It’s hard to look at others who have directly caused suffering and affliction through their actions and find a reason to honor them.

As a young teenager, I was on my own. I lived mostly normal-went to high school, work, sports, after school activities-only I wasn’t “normal” at all. My life was chaotic and often uncertain. The 8AM to 3PM block of time was the only consistent schedule I had. My “home” life was a wreck and then it got to the point where there wasn’t a physical home for a while. And then I became a social orphan having to navigate money, shelter, and food.. and everything in between.

Life had not always been that challenging. There’s a very brief time when I was very young, before parental mental illness surfaced. Things were calm. I remember a few traditions. A tiny bit of warmth still comes over me when I think of it, the faintest feelings of nostalgia I think. A time when I not only loved the people who then called themselves my parents, but I respected them.

My mother was fair, honest. My father was hardworking, sacrificial. They were respected in our community, courteous. There was much integrity in their actions and the ways they cared for others. I suppose I received some of those qualities from them. And to be fair, they still have some of these qualities, but perhaps not in the same ways.

The idea of honoring my mother and father has not been clear to me. I’ve wrestled with how to honor someone I don’t agree with, someone I don’t always respect, someone I can not always support. How do I honor others when I am hurt? When I am hurting? When I’ve been hurt by the same people whom I am asked to honor?

And I have come to realize that though I do not always respect or support their choices, though I may struggle with hurt, honoring someone is less about what they are to another, less about what they’ve done and more about who they can be at their very best. We all want people to believe the best in us, to see the best in us even when we are at our ugliest.

Those early glimpses of  my parents before the hardness and suffering of mental illness and grief and generational sin struck and took root, that’s who they are at their core, their  best selves. It’s the image of God they hold and it’s that image I can honor. I can honor who I see they can be in Christ and hold that hope until they can see it for themselves.

It’s hard to honor those who have hurt and offended, belittled and slighted us. It’s hard to look at others who have directly caused suffering and affliction through their actions and find a reason to honor them. But maybe honoring a parent is less about their role in “parenting” and more about seeing them as humans, fellow bearers of sin and suffering, but also Image bearers of God, wholly and dearly loved in the same way I am. And the ground is level, for all of us to commune with God and one another.

31 Days: HONOR

But the truth is, we’re all fighting a battle.

It’s Invisible Illness Week. I don’t think most people know that. But I do.

Somedays I wake up sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I live with chronic, progressive illness. I have since I was very young and it became much more pronounced as a late teenager. And somedays I cry just from being tired of being sick.

I was first hospitalized for it as an “adult” when I was 17. I would not stop internally bleeding. I could not hold food in. I saw glittery stars all day long. The first few weeks out of the hospital was my first time needing a wheel chair. I used those little electric carts at Target. Mind you, I could walk, I just needed to reserve my energy and it was painful to move. All my joints hurt, my head would pound, and I would be fighting to breath. But I so desperately wanted to get out of the house…

You see, I had lost a full sports scholarship to college for my illness. I had to stop working. I did not drive but now I could no longer walk many places so I was completely reliant on friends to drive me to and from. I could not eat much and I also had to be careful when I ate, how much I ate, and what I ate. I had to take over 50 pills a day.  And my mother moved away with my little sister too. My whole world shifted again. At 17 years old. All within the same 3 weeks.

So here I was in target with an older friend, driving around the cart. And I received so many stares from others. They felt like judgements.. judgements that I shouldn’t be using that cart, that my leg wasn’t broken nor was my head bald (as if damaged limbs and cancer are the only forms of debilitating illness). I felt ashamed and thought maybe I should push through it, push through the pain. I have always been sensitive to what others think, to their judgements. To this day, I still struggle to use those motorized carts even when I need them.

I have a host of invisible illnesses that include: chronic pain, chronic fatigue, chronic dizziness/vertigo, ulcerative colitis/Crohn’s disease, asthma, migraines, arthritis, TMJ, Ricketts, visual field loss, PCOS, PTSD,  pseudotumor cerebri, depression/anxiety,  and sensory processing disorder… to name a few.

What you do not see are the 12-15 doctor visits a month, iron and nutrient infusions, or the scar from my breast bone to my pubic area. People who know me, KNOW I push myself, because if I didn’t, I would go no where. I’d live sad, or worse, angry at the state of my life and all the dreams I will never fulfull if I didn’t push myself often. Not many people expect or hope much from me or for me. If I didn’t push myself, I’d lose myself.

I live in a certain amount of pain regularly that I believe many of those around me can’t comprehend, physically and emotionally.

Then there’s a dear friend of mine. We went to get pedicured a few months back for my birthday. She could not keep her leg in the angle required to get the pedicure. She has a neurological disorder too. She barely makes it around. She fights depression. She longs to be a friend and a mother in a way she’s not able to always. Oh how I love her. Instead of going bowling, we go to McDonalds and use the new computerized bowling games there. It’s the only way she can bowl with her young daughter.

This past week has been terrible. I acquired a cold on my plane ride home from a trip this summer. I have not got rid of it yet. I have a low immune system. I had to go into the hospital for a day to get “buffed up” in hopes of fighting it off. Many weeks later, I’m still fighting it. Now it’s my allergy season. It’s worse than I have ever experienced. This past week I had a couple days where I could do nothing. I was in so much pain from allergies and sneezing. My body ached. I needed pain medicine to make it through. And now I have a huge hernia from sneezing so much. And a flair of tendonitis and shingles and asthma. Oh yea, I’m not allowed to sneeze. And I burst a vessel in my nose. And we’re hoping I don’t get pneumonia. And I got a letter from my oh so lovely neurologist that I love. She’s leaving. And I am sad and nervous about that.

Saturday I went apple picking. And it cost me a lot physically. But I did it and I loved it and I am glad. And some days, I will do other things that will cost me physically. Or I’ll help a friend and her newborn when they aren’t well, even if it’s just making dinner and playing with him while she naps. Because it feels good to give, even when I’m not at my finest. And somedays I need the handicap parking, even if I don’t limp when I walk or have some other noticeable ailment. My body and my mind bear the scars of the illness underneath my clothing, underneath my skin.

There are stigmas attached to invisible ilnesses. Sometimes people don’t believe you. Sometimes they say it. Sometimes not. Sometimes you get looks, or worse, they outright ignore you. Sometimes I don’t get the help or care I need. And I’ve learned to push through and care for myself. Sometimes it’s hard that there’s not more physical help. Sometimes it’s hard when there is help that I don’t need at that time.

I cried when I got the letter from my neurologist saying she was leaving the practice. She would validate my physical and emotional pain and try to help me fit in the mold of how modern society works (bigger, better, faster, more). I struggle and battle in a culture that rarely rests or stops or considers that someone (like me!) might not be able to do or participate in the same things in the same way as others. It’s often felt like a constant game of catch up for me. Catch up to how far others are walking, catch up and push through the long shopping day with others, etc. I’ve learned that I can’t easily be accomodated. So unless I know I can either push through something or make an easy accommodation myself, I just don’t show up. And my neurologist, she’s the one who gets how the U.S. functions and how lost I get in trying to find a quality of life in it.

I have an uncle with MS and a friend with MS. Another friend with a rare breathing issue that could kill her if she gets pneumonia. I have another uncle with cancer and a grandfather that’s dying of a brain tumor. My mother has several diseases as does my biological father and two of my sisters. I have had several housemates over the last 5 years that battle depression and GAD and several more close friends with it. Two friends are fighting addictions. And this last month alone I had a student have 4 panic attacks on the soccer team I coach. Yesterday another student confided in me how she often has them about academics too. And last week a student that I coach told me how she witnessed her parents death and was later adopted and now struggles with mental health. You’d never know it looking at these people. Not one. You could go out for pizza with them and it wouldn’t come up. We all adjust. We all fight some days and rest on other days and laugh about it here and there.

But the truth is, we’re all fighting a battle. For some, it’s invisible, unseen to the naked eye and fierce. And we could all use a few kinds words here and there reminding us that we are seen and not invisible, not someone to be mocked or second guessed for using the electric cart or elevator instead of the stairs or because today we can walk up and down the hill but tomorrow we can’t get out of bed. We could all use a little bit more compassion in our hearts and out of our lips.

 

I didn’t choose this, dear friend.

Dear friends,

I know you know this, but I love you dearly. I know you love me too, but I forget often. I’m filled with thoughts of how unloveable I am, how much of a mess I am, how unkempt and unpretty my life can seem. Many days I feel worthless, so I don’t always believe you love me. Somedays I believe depression.

Do not confuse my bad days as a sign of weakness, those are actually the days I am fighting my hardest

Depression has a nasty snarl around my life. I know you prefer the sunny days, the brighter ones, free from anxiety, free from worry, filled with wonder and exploration. I know you prefer these for me, and for us. Oh friend, how I prefer those days too. I wish I could have these days every day because depression terrifies me. It literally prevents me from life, from the brightness and joy I know Jesus has created me to be. Oh but friend, I try. I try, and I try, and I have not given up. I hope you see the fight in me, that on my hardest of days, I have not given up, in fact, I am holding on with more strength than I knew possible. Please see how strong I am.

Behind my smile is a hurting heart, behind my laugh I’m falling apart, look closely at me and you will see, the girl I am… it isn’t me.

I wish I could have more days where I am more free, more present with you, more able to engage you. But I can’t. I can sense the heaviness come over me, clouding my eyes, heavying my chest, weighing on me from top to bottom. I try to push out of it, to throw it off, but friend the only way out is through.

Often the people with the strongest hearts carry the heaviest ones.

The journey through terrifies me. It feels like I’m losing control and losing my mind. Please, if you notice it happening before I am able to say it, please grab my hand and say you’re with me and you love me. If you ask me if I am ok, I will likely say yes. If you ask me how I am, I will likely say good/fine/okay. Please notice my pain and I am not able to articulate it. Please meet me there. Please help me to understand you are not scared of me or these feelings of mine.

I’m so broken that I can feel it. I mean, physically feel it. This is so much more than being sad now. This is affecting my whole body.

I know I seem to overreact at times. I know it’s confusing. I know sometimes you feel like your trying is never good enough or what I need. I know you sometimes receive anger from me when it’s not justified. I know you understand why it happens. And I know it’s hard for you nonetheless. Depression makes me angry and I can’t think well when I am angry. I am so sorry for this. It’s not an emotion I’ve felt often enough or seen handled well enough to know what to do with, so I feel more distant and disconnected.

Friend, when you notice I seem disconnected, please reach a hand out and connect with me. Tell me you love me and you are FOR me. Rub my back, hug me, sit with me. Remind me you are for me, not against me. Remind me you are on my side, that you know I will make it through, that you aren’t leaving me. Remind me that you can see how hard I try. Believe things alive, right into my very heart.

People think depression is sadness.People think depression is crying. People think depression is dressing in black. But people are wrong. Depression is the constant feeling of being numb. Being numb to emotions, being numb to lie. You wake up in the morning just to go back to bed again. Days aren’t really days; they are just annoying obstacles that need to be faced. And how do you face them? Through medication, through drinking, through smoking, through drugs, through cutting. When you’re depressed, you grasp on to anything that can get through the day. That’s what depression is, not sadness or tears, it’s the overwhelming sense of numbness and the desire for anything that can help you make it from one day to the next.

It can be hard to understand depression when you have not experienced it. I get that. I was like that too. Please always know that I respect you most when you ask me questions, because too often I am not able to just say what I would like to.

There’s many times when I feel like you are better off without me, that I have ruined you, ruined me, ruined others. I feel like you deserve better than me and I can’t ever be enough, no matter how much I try, I will always struggle, and sometimes I wonder if you are better off without me. I rarely will tell you. I fear you’re already too tired to hear from me. Sometimes I may not think it for weeks, other times I fight those thoughts every moment for months. Please watch out for me. Please tell me you see me. Please tell me I am worth it, worth this fight, to you and know that I won’t believe it on the dark days, ever. But don’t hesitate to tell me. I need it. Those are never wasted words, ever. I do remember. And they do fill me. Please hold hope for me.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad

I feel like there’s a silence that I keep, one that has me balancing feeling “too” much for you and also not enough for you, one that teeters on wanting to look normal, but feeling so isolated and crazy. Depression is ugly. Most days it takes so much courage for me to get out of bed. No one knows. No one sees that. I force myself to eat sometimes, because I know it’s good for me. I shower and wish I didn’t have to. I make it through. There’s a silence I have to keep. Help me to break the silence. Please know I try, am trying, to find healing in Jesus.

There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds

Please know I am being healed. I want you to be a part of this, dear friend. A part of the healing. Please stay with me and fight this alongside me. You know who I am. You’ve seen me love fiercely, give lavishly, extend mercifully. You know many of the parts of who I am in Jesus that are fighting for healing, for greater strength. Don’t hesitate to remind me of those things, to remind me of who I am, of how good I am, of how good God has made me.

Please be with me. And know I am trying and I am fighting, for me, for us, for healing, for the Kingdom. But mostly, know I don’t want to be here and I didn’t choose this. And know I love you, deeply.

FMF: TRY

 

That’s what celebrating is, we bring relief to broken places, and it reminds people that they are worth all of the struggle.

A couple of years ago, in the midst of a dark place, I started spending some nights at a friend’s house. I considered this friend, her husband and kids to be family and I think it was likely reciprocal. I loved spending time with them and it was the very first relationship where I felt understood and known. There’s nothing quite like having people get you.

She didn’t have a room or a bed to offer, but her couch was available and it felt like such a privilege to spend time with her and sleep over. The couch wasn’t anything special by far. I don’t remember it being particularly comfortable either, but it was the notion of hospitality that it symbolized… I felt like another part of the family that was being loved and supported in such a tangible, practical way. And that was what it was all about for me. In a way I so needed it. I needed a place to belong.

I had been having trouble sleeping and at some odd hour in the morning, I opened her computer to occupy sometime before I could fall asleep. On the screen I saw an email with my name on it. I read the email, her email. It was an email about me that someone had sent her. And it wasn’t pretty.

I wish I could say the email was kind, lovely, encouraging. But it was far from that and I instantly wished I hadn’t read it. I was sick to my stomach and threw up. I cried alone all night. I had been in a hard place and now I felt even further from hope, further from where I wanted to be. I felt more shame than I thought imaginable at that time. So few people hoped for me and this email came from someone I respected and loved more than anyone else at that time. And the email crushed me.

Irony was that the next day, we were going out to dinner to celebrate me. I’d never been celebrated before just for being me, for enduring in a hard season, for doing hard things, just for being me. When you’re not an ingrained piece of a family, when you don’t have people you belong too, you don’t often get celebrated. Your growth and hurt and pain usually fly under the radar and you get used to it. It becomes okay. So to be celebrated was both foreign to me, but was also an unaware longing I had.

I didn’t sleep much that night, ashamed of the way this email described me, hurt that it wasn’t sent to me, and afraid that no one held hope for me anymore. The next afternoon friend and I were on a drive to the grocery store when I sheepishly told her I had read the email. I probably said something about how I was sorry and I know it was wrong.. I won’t do it again.. It’s okay if you’re mad.. we should cancel dinner.. it’s okay to be ashamed of me..

And she did one of the most gracious things I can remember, she grabbed my hand and said she was sorry…That I should never have read that email and it wasn’t fair to me to read such words or hear them, that they weren’t true or accurate and didn’t depict all the growth that had and was occurring in me. She wanted to know if I was ok. She said we certainly will not be canceling dinner and even more so should be going. She held my hand and said, “you have fought hard and you deserve to be celebrated. We will be going out to dinner.” I saw anger in her, but not anger towards me. Anger at the injustice of how the email spoke of me.

In a moment where my shame and humiliation felt suffocating, this friend showed both grace and mercy and protection into my very broken and fragile self. Her concern wasn’t first for the breach of privacy I had committed, it was for my well being. She wasn’t interested in tearing me down (even if she had the right..), she was interested in restoring me. That’s what celebrating is, we bring relief to broken places, and it reminds people that they are worth all of the struggle. Celebrating allows us to take a moment away from the effort to reflect on the creation. We join God in enjoyment when we celebrate one another in the hard and high places.

FMFParty:RELIEF

I mourn the lack of Jesus in my own heart

Last year, almost a year to the date, I went to a two hour Christian seminar with my roommate. We had both been in a rough place and struggled in a season when we were tired of church, and churchy people, and churchy music, and Christian books. We lost interest in things that once fueled and filled us. Don’t get me wrong, we loved Jesus and knew Jesus loved us, we just felt burned by a lot. She angry and me significantly depressed and physically sick. We struggled with all things church-related feeling like “church” and “church activities” and “churchy people” felt nothing like the Jesus we knew or the Church we first loved. You’ve probably hit that point during some season of life. Most of us do.

Dr. E Stanley Jones says that the greatest hindrance to the Christian gospel in India is a dislike for western domination, western snobbery, the western theological system, western militarism and western race prejudice. Gandhi, the great prophet of India, said, “I love your Christ, but I dislike your Christianity.” The embarrassing fact is that India judges us by our own professed standard.

The seminar was about discipleship. It was the first church-like thing I DESIRED to go to in over a year. The roommate thought it interesting. We both hoped it could restore to us some of the joy that had been lost in the preceding year. We wanted to be with people who were excited about Jesus, about caring for the marginalized, about breaking bread and eating with them. About REALLY living among them and becoming one in the same, and not just knowing of them or occasionally meeting with them for a pre-appointed period of time. The truth is, we desired this because we needed this sort of community in our lives.

In reply to a question of Dr. Jones as to how it would be possible to bring India to Christ, Gandhi replied: First, I would suggest that all of you Christians live more like Jesus Christ. Second, I would suggest that you practice your Christianity without adulterating it. The anomalous situation is that most of us would be equally shocked to see Christianity doubted or put into practice.

After the seminar, we got into the car and talked a little about it and what we enjoyed and appreciated about it. It was encouraging to meet more people who were similarly minded. So many young adults and some older adults who were passionate about Jesus AND caring for the “least of these”. People who were really doing something that had eternal significance in a way that resonated with the giftings and desires that roommate and I both had.

Roommate complained of the “long” 30 min drive home, of getting every red light imaginable, of being hungry and having to work in the morning. I sat silent in protest, frustrated at how much she was complaining. My attitude was not right. We were about 10 min from our home and hit another red light.

Third, I would suggest that you put more emphasis on love, for love is the soul and center of Christianity. Fourth, I would suggest that you study the non-Christian religions more sympathetically in order to find the good that is in them, so that you might have a more sympathetic approach to the people.- Ghandi

There was an old man (or woman, we honestly couldn’t tell) pushing a grocery cart across the road. It was 10:30Pm. He or she had probably 8 layers of “clothing” on. Truth is, it didn’t look like clothing. It looked like brown rags strung together over and over again, ratty and torn. This person had random items tied to the cart with the same dirt clad material he/she was wearing. And no shoes. It was April and he/she wasn’t wearing shoes!

Jesus said in Matthew 25 that he was going to get rid of the “play it safers” who won’t go out on a limb. They would be thrown into darkness. He would separate the sheep and goats, putting the sheep to right and the goats would be tossed away.

 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what’s coming to you in this kingdom. It’s been ready for you since the world’s foundation. And here’s why:

I was hungry and you fed me,
I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
I was homeless and you gave me a room,
I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
I was sick and you stopped to visit,
I was in prison and you came to me.

Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’

There have been many times in my life when I’ve been the overlooked and ignored one, where I’ve been the “least of these”. I’ve been hurt and injured and needing. I was the hungry. I was the thirsty. I was homeless. I was shivering. I was sick. And I was in prison to my own concepts of who I had been told I was. And sometimes people came to me and loved me, imperfectly and well. They gave.

So roommate and I are at this stop light. This very homeless person is walking across at 10:30PM with not another car or person anywhere near. It’s almost too perfect to be true. There’s a nudge in me. Roommate and I are dead silent, as if we are both aware we are supposed to do something but not sure what. I had nothing to offer but my flip flops on my feet. I felt the nudge. I reached for the door, but slinked back several times.

The light eventually turned green. We continued on, roommate in a rush to get home and me feeling like a hypocrite. Never had I been so sure of a prompting from Jesus. And I allowed fear to grip me. I was a “play it safer” in that moment. I ignored the overlooked. I pretended this person didn’t exist because I had much fear. And I felt intense grief because of it. I mourned the lack of Jesus in my own heart.

In that moment, I was a goat, not a sheep of Jesus. So much of the disdain I had for the “churchy” way of life, I had somehow become and I grieved that. I wept, alone in my room. And I begged God to change my heart. I had a lot to learn.

I don’t know what I’d do in that situation again, a year later. I hope I have a deeper love for Jesus and his Kingdom than I did a year ago. I hope I’m more scandalous and giving and extravagant in how I live. I hope some of the things I do and ways I give and love don’t make sense to others in a way that honors Jesus. I hope I have endurance and trust in Jesus to decide not to walk away, from the marginalized, from the struggling, from hard relationships, from the things in life that make us want to quit. The truth is, I am weaker and more afraid then I want to be.

The grief I had from saying no to the prompting of the Spirit was unlike anything I had experienced before. I had to admit that I was not so different from the same “churchiness” I was struggling against and I had to admit it to Jesus. But He didn’t leave me in that messy, hypocritical place. Jesus taught me to mourn the lack of Jesus in my very own heart, and by doing so I realize more keenly how much messy, sticky, self-righteous junk is still in there. I need Jesus. Every hour I need Jesus.

Time for Changing Seasons

Friends,

I have been devoting A LOT of time to reading, praying, thinking, and healing with the Lord the last few months. More and more my heart feels pricked and burdened towards justice, towards reconciling, towards something I can’t quite name just yet. I remember this feeling like a long-lost friend… one that I had to say farewell to years ago due to internal and external pressure to conform, to know, to survive in the church. It’s a feeling that something more is coming, something great, and important in my life. Maybe it is the next season rolling in. Maybe.

I can’t quite name it yet. I don’t quite know how, but I know whatever it is, whatever this Holy Spirit is creating in my heart that I yet to have words for, is being pricked at each day. I am more and more finding rest and compassion and fierceness in me that I hardly knew was possible for me.

I suppose that’s what happens when heaven gets into your world and starts creating hope in your heart.

“Unyielding gratitude to God-is how God makes us unstoppable.“

I’m a work in progress my friends, not yet whole, still quite wounded, but thriving and living more than I knew possible.

As I was reading these articles, I wanted to share them with you brothers and sisters. Maybe because I feel the same injustice the authors feel, for their words and the truth they write of. Maybe because I can resonate with what they wrote, the good, and the really really hard stuff. I can resonate with both perspectives. Maybe because I have been the judger, the evaluator, the one to isolate others, the critical self claimer and distributer of this “grace allotment”, the one to actually turn others away from this beautiful Christ likeness.

And maybe because I, too, have been the isolated, the out skirted, the forgotten. I have been the shunned, the “they/them”. I know what it’s like to feel like a shadow of person, to feel the pressing weight of depression and loneliness. Maybe you’ve felt it. More than likely you have. Christians aren’t immune to depression. Maybe I am more like Paul and more like the Psalmist than I ever knew. Maybe you are too.

The World Health Organization named depression the second most common cause for disability, second to cardiovascular disease. At any given time, 15% of American adults are taking antidepressants.

I am the result of a depressed culture and a depressor in my own culture. Maybe  somewhere in between my spectrums of church experience, I am finding the true Christ and learning that it’s the little Christ in you and the little Christ in me that make the Church of God. Maybe, just maybe we are far more depraved and far more capable of love and wholeness in the Lord than we ever imagined. Maybe there’s hope for us all.

Here’s some articles to read. They speak a lot to not just the one topic they discuss, but a spectrum of struggles. Church, I hope they bless and move you, because they did that to me. Maybe it’s time for changing seasons.

• My Train Wreck Conversion
• Distorted Love
• Why I Can’t Say ‘Love the Sinner and Hate the Sin’ Anymore