The Sanctity Of Tears

This year I learned of an ancient Hebrew practice that I've been mulling over ever since.

Just before and during the time of the Roman occupation of the Jerusalem and the surrounding vicinity, women mourned in a sacred way. When a loved one died, they collected their tears in a bottle to lay in the grave of the deceased as a last act of honor. Tears were holy.

I can think of two other places in Scripture that mention tears: a) Psalm 56:8: "You have taken account of my wanderings; put my tears in Your bottle. Are they not in Your book?" b) the 

"woman of the streets" highlighted for her reverent faith in Luke 7. She washed Jesus' feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair all the while kissing them.

Tears are holy.

I've cried a lot over my broken dreams and broken body the past seven years, but most of the time with an utterance of hatred toward God on my lips. These tears were not holy so they couldn't perform what they were designed to do: dignify and honor my grief and that which I was grieving.

Recently, I've nestled into the mystery that is God; I made a conscientious decision to dare to accept it and see what happened. And life has become lovelier.

If you read my last post, you know I've been crying a lot lately but these times, instead of being burdensome, they were my very source of relief; I haven't cried cursing God; I've cried in his lap.

But there still remains the questions: Why do there have to be tears in the first place?

This brings me 'round to the whole mystery-of-God thing. Reading On Job by founding liberation theologian, Gustavo Gutierrez, has brought great insight into this relational reality. God is a self-disclosing, loving Mystery and it is the honor of kings to search him out (Prov. 25:2). I dare you, in the midst of your grief, to practice this theology for a week and see what happens. In the introduction, "Jose Maria Arguedas poses the question, 'Is not what we know far less than the great hope that we feel?' p. xi"

This Irrational Season

This time is very strange for me. I cannot currently regulate my emotions (Bipolar I Disorder), and while usually I have a cocktail of psychoactive drugs that lessen the sometimes crippling effects of this deficiency, I asked my doctor if we could lessen the amount of medicines that I'm on. We compromised and he cut the dosage of my Effexor in half (I was at the highest dose possible). The day I began my new regimen, I cried a lot...for no reason. As the days wore on (I believe I'm on day five but nothing appears quite calculable in this irrational season), it only got worse. My two worst symptoms? Mood swings and lethargy. Unfortunate is the man or woman that has crossed me, unfortunate am I if I think of anything remotely sad, and unfortunate is the person who tries to have a conversation with me because I may very well fall asleep.

Right now, I don't live by time; I live by pathos. I can only determine space by what I am feeling. Quite irrational indeed.

In my moments of coherence, I ask the Lord why he has afflicted me with a disorder that has prevented so much in my life. I don't ever get an answer, but I figure the squeaky wheel gets the oil, right?

But perhaps there is a reason for this irrational season, for this season of feeling completely bonkers out of control. There is a passage in The Heavenly Life that reads: "Sorrow reveals unknown depths of the soul, and unknown capacities for suffering and service... Sorrow is God's tool to plow the depths of the soul, that it may yield a richer harvest... God never uses anyone to a great degree until he breaks the person completely... It takes sorrow to expand and deepen the soul." Hope, yet!

Maybe my five years of Arabic study have not been for naught! Maybe, through this irrational season, God is preparing me for some form of service among the Arab peoples: a service which I've dreamt of for six years. Maybe this irrational season is no waste at all!

Cancer and the Incarnation

I didn't do anything different today. I was just praying for someone who has cancer. And then the tears started. Having long been jaded that god is willing to perform miracles, I sobbed, "Lord, I have a mustard seed of faith; please, please perform a miracle and heal him."

Then later I replayed my Georgia mama's final, laborious, horrible breath (due to cancer). I hadn't witnessed it but was told about it in great detail and can barely bear to imagine it.

I am coming to terms with mystery, particularly divine mystery. You know the answer I got from my prayer earlier today? Nada. Zilch. Nothing. Like trying to move the Great Wall of China.

I googled the etymology of "mystery" and it surprisingly had a lot of religious influence as being some thing hidden my god.

I used to hate god for being mysterious, but now I think he might be doing the hiding for our own good. I'm slowly warming up to the idea that god might actually, in fact be good.

I don't understand, but in the spirit of exhaustion and Advent, I listened to a local church's Christmas album, well, one song in particular, that seemed to budge the Great Wall of China.

Here is the link to Earth & Stone by Alex Priore sung by TJ Lents:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ah09d1ED6Cw

I don't understand much about the harder parts of existence on planet earth, but the Christmas story, the Incarnation seems to meet me and say, "That's okay."

In loving memory of Lynette Washington 

What It's Like To Have A Manic Episode

My breathing is slow and shallow. I am trying not to have a panic attack. I forgot to take my morning meds and that's a big no-no in the world of big pharma. I didn't notice it til I dropped my last friend off. This pit in my stomach. I got home and curled up into a ball under my duvet. Oh, did I mention my new necklace got a lot of compliments today? It made me feel nice, not good, but nice. Anyways, I knew it was time for the psychosis playlist (I didn't make it explicitly for psychosis but it really helps). I entitled it Slavic with Oriental Influence because that's what it mostly is with some Debussy thrown in there;). I for sure over-romanticize Trans-Siberia, but when I listen to Russian composers I can't help but imagine myself as Anastasia Romanov escaping imperial overthrow via the Trans-Siberian Railway. It helps a little. I was just with some of my very best friends talking louder and faster than usual. Now I'm just trying to move breath between the air and my lungs. I am scared. I called my friend to pray over me. I described it like feeling like Alice in Wonderland: everything was shrinking or I was getting larger or maybe both. Tears well in my eyes but I don't let them stay there long because I know if I let one fall they will never stop.

Scars

I don't know how I had gotten to that point. The only warning sign I knew for sure was that I had wanted a beer once we got home from my friend's wisdom teeth surgery at a military facility.

I had the surgery at a military facility. As I waited and waited, the sight of surgeons confidently striding about later sent me into vivid flashbacks of getting called back by my own surgeon to go over the details of my highly-invasive Whipple procedure... the one that would change everything.

I called my dad as I waited in line to pick up my friend's meds at the pharmacy across the road. He said I sounded nervous, anxious. "Huh? I'm fine!" I chirped. Little did I know that with each passing set of fatigues, I was coming closer and closer to an encounter with my PTSD.

My dictionary app defines a scar, firstly, as: a mark left by a healed wound, sore, or burn. But it defines it, secondly, as: a lasting aftereffect of trouble, esp. a lasting psychological injury resulting from suffering or trauma. Bingo.

That night, as I spiraled into a drunken stupor to escape the pain, I did remember my scar hurting in the waiting room. A counselor once told me that our bodies hold memories, too. Maybe my body knew this was a bad situation before my brain.

I hadn't gotten drunk in months. I had my drinking firmly under control (praise God). But this, this was too much.

Physical scars fade, but they can still hurt. What if it's the same with emotional, psychological scars. We think we're better but we end up tearing open the old wound. Besides flashbacks, I get nightmares that my nine-inch scar is wide open and I feel the pain of trying to hold my stomach together.

I asked my counselor if I would ever be a fully functional, contributing member of society with all that's fucked up in me. She said she didn't know.

Tragedies, "extreme" cases

I just copied John 1:1-14 in the NIV to "High and Dry" by Radiohead. It was subconscious and coincidental that I did the exact same thing in high school calculus when my first boyfriend broke up with me.

I remember that first month of college at Virginia Tech reading the passage aloud alone in my dorm room.

And now I did it again.

This week, I went to a highly recommended counseling association and they declined me because my case was too "extreme." I froze when the sweet counselor shuffled me out of her office. I told one of my friends today and she said she probably would have cried if that had happened to her. But I guess I'm used to it? Used to being different. As a quote Enneagram Four, some would say I thrive in situations like these. But mostly it just made me sad.

Sad that I was rejected because of a past I had no control over. Sad because of the pasts, presents, and futures that have, are, and will happen to people. Tragedies, "extreme" cases.

Anxiety

"In the sickness of his agony, the will of Jesus arises

perfect at last and of itself, unsupported now, declares--

a naked consciousness of misery hung in the waste

darkness of the universe--declares for God, in defiance

of pain, of death, of apathy, of self, of negation, of 

the blackness within and around it; calls aloud upon 

the vanished God."

George Macdonald

These words always chill me. I once had an experience, while deeply, clinically depressed of laying in an empty church chapel and crying out to God that I would be able to feel anything, even pain, because the depression had left me bereft of feeling. I cried out, I cried; nothing. I felt absolutely abandoned. The difference between my hour of great grief and his is that Jesus was truly forsaken by the Living God while I had his Spirit living inside of me and just couldn't "feel" him in that moment because my brain is a little screwy.

Currently, I'm sit-laying in my bed, surrounded by a dozen books that I've already read but bring me comfort in my anxiety. On a surprising and hopeful note: I left my room to go downstairs to the kitchen right off my room to get the dinner my dad made me. It lies uneaten, but still a victory in my book.

What is not a victory is that I practically live in my bed in PJs due to my anxiety. I'm not kidding. I rarely leave my house or change into normal people clothes. Only Starbucks and alcohol/dancing/psychic escapism get me to leave, occasionally a health appointment like a PET scan, but that's it.

Tonight was one of my best friend's birthday's about 40 minutes away in Norfolk. I had tried to drive to see her earlier in the week on her actual birthday to give her her gift but touched my car door handle and immediately walked inside, defeated. 'Maybe this night will be different,' I thought. Nope. I sunk deeper into my bed beneath the books that I've read a thousand times. Beneath caffeine, klonopin, and adderall: my crutches. I stare at the beautifully wrapped gift (I am an Enneagram 4, you know ;)) and am deeply saddened by my inability to celebrate my friend. But, on a deeper level, that my mental illnesses has won the day again. I thought Bipolar I, psychosis, and PTSD were enough to keep me busy for a lifetime, but throw in anxiety and it's a strikeout.

Karl Barth writes, "We must realize that all the paths of life upon which we walk are the same...in that they all lead to the edge of the precipice, We cannot bridge this precipice but its bridging has been made manifest in the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. Who would partake of the resurrection must first have seen this chasm, have discovered the pit. And life is not easy; on the contrary, it becomes deadly earnest and difficult whenever the word 'resurrection' resounds. Resurrection proclaims true freedom to us and lets us painfully discovery our personal chains [something I am thankful to all my health issues for] It tells us that the one and only refuge is God." Threatened By Resurrection.

In concert, but slightly less morbid, German theologian (and my favorite theologian-I would recommend his book The Crucified God) Jurgen Moltmann writes, "Is there an answer to the question why God forsook him [Christ]? Is there any answer to the agonizing questionings of disappointment and death: 'My God, Why? Why...?' A real answer to this question cannot be a theoretical answer beginning with the word 'Because.' It has to be a practical answer. An experience of this kind can only be answered by another experience, not by an explanation. A reality like this can be answered only by another reality. It is the answer of resurrection...Our disappointments, our loneliness, and our defeats do not separate us from him; they draw us more deeply into communion with him. And with the final unanswered question, 'Why, my God, why?' we join in his death cry and await with him the resurrection." Prisoner of Hope 

I may be paralyzed beyond rationality by some part of my brain going wonky (maybe it's the PTSD?), but I certainly can worship, pray to, and lean on God right from the edge of the precipice-my bed. 

Anxiety for no reason is not fun and is especially frustrating due to the lack of origin to blame it on. I truly am sorry if any of this applies to you.

But I find my only hope in the Lord Jesus Christ, and I pray you could, too.

"Christ has died.

Christ is risen.

Christ will come again."

Advent

My favorite liturgical season is Advent. Concurrently, my favorite natural season is Winter.

I think there is one reason for my preferences: hope. Yes, I love carols and gifts and FAMILY, just as much as the next person. But I am so wretched that getting an opportunity to actively wait for the arrival of my salvation each year makes me shed more than a single tear. To contemplate the wonder of God becoming a human to suffer an excruciating death and then raise again, well, that could take me all of eternity to contemplate.

It's currently rainy and windy from Hurricane Dorian (9/6/19) in Southeastern Virginia which seems the perfect unofficial way to begin this journey of active waiting on the newborn King. We are all so full of pain and hurt. Some of us would claim that that's not the case, but, in my short 24 years, I've never met a person who wasn't nursing some type, some degree of a wound. Wretched men that we are! Who will save us from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord (ref. Romans 7:24, 25).

One of my favorite, if not my favorite passage of Scripture, is Luke 7:36-50-the story of the woman of the streets (my favorite name for her since an old mentor called me a woman of the streets once as an insult... solidarity, y'all) anointing Jesus' feet and washing them with her tears and hair. Her heart was prepared to meet Jesus, clearly, because of her actions towards him. They were right.

Lord, help me await your Advent actively. Prepare my heart to meet you with my costliest spikenard in an alabaster jar, all I have to give.

Love,
Anna

"Future Days" (You Came Deep As Any Ocean)

I'm sitting here at 5am listening to "Future Days" by Eddie Vedder on repeat. I'm wearing my favorite hat-the purple one with the hot pink flower..my second mom Mrs. Amy got it for me in the Sea-Tac airport after she noticed that I just had to have it. I can see the array of purple flowers my sweet dad bought me after I was praying in my room and wanted a symbol of the royalty of Christ (the color purple). I'd been praying against persisting sleep paralysis and nightmares and all of a sudden just knew I needed purple flowers.

Anyways, I'm also writing this from my new computer; I'd had the last one for 8 years prior to this so my fingers are just getting used to the different spacing of keys. I had a green case on the other one that I bought at the VT bookstore.. I wrote most of my blog posts on that computer. Kinda bittersweet.

Last night I also listened to this song on repeat and cried myself to sleep. I do that a lot when I think about the cancer... watch or listen to things over and over again. I guess if I can control it, I want stability. Because when you're told you have cancer, all autonomy goes out the window. I'm reminded during my now only yearly PET scan. I'm reminded when I have to take tums just to drink a glass of water and not puke it up (yeah, Whipple surgeries are no fucking joke).

Cancer will always be a part of my story. Pain, immense pain, will always be part of my story. But, irrevocably, so will God. Gosh, I just started crying again, what a wimp lol.

As I listen to "Future Days", I always imagine Jesus and I taking turns singing the appropriate parts. Here are the lyrics:

"If I ever were to lose you
I'd surely lose myself
Everything I have found here
I've not found by myself
Try and sometimes you'll succeed
To make this man of me
All of my stolen missing parts
I've no need for anymore

I believe
And I believe 'cause I can see
Our future days
Days of you and me

Back when I was feeling broken
I focused on a prayer
You came deep as the ocean
It's something something out there here
All the complexities and games
No one wins, but somehow, they still play
All the missing crooked hearts
They may die, but in us they live on

I believe
And I believe 'cause I can see
Our future days
Days of you and me

When hurricanes and cyclones rage
When wind turned dirt to dust
When floods they came or tides they raised ever
Closer became us

All the promises at sundown
I meant them like the rest
All the demons used to come around
I'm grateful now they've left"

My favorite line to sing to Jesus is this one, "Back when I was feeling broken / I focused on a prayer / You came deep as any ocean".

He is truly the one my heart desires and through cancer, through pain, and I have found him.

Perhaps he's writing a new song over your journey through the exilic land of hurt. Maybe you could let him.

Much love,

Anna

My Oils Journey To Mental and Physical Health

Having had cancer in my pancreas, been diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder five years ago, and now PTSD a couple months ago, I could use a little help getting through this thing called Life (can I get an amen?).

About a month ago, I went over to a good friend’s house to catch up with her and meet her adorable baby boy for the first time. She happens to work with Young Living so I wasn’t surprised that there was a calming diffuser running and an abundance of YLEO bottles. My only experience with oils up until that point was diffusing Lavender from my dad’s YL starter kit to get rid of headaches and fall asleep easier, using peppermint on my sick friends to clear out their sinuses, and, unfortunately, ingesting Digize (idk what random website told me to put some in my water). I knew that some people swore by them and found it interesting that they seemed to have bypassed big pharmaceutical companies in favor of these plant-based remedies and preventatives.

As I was talking about mentoring some girls who are/were going through some devastating life situations and the toll it had been taking on little, ol’ empathic me, my friend said, “I’m gonna make you a roller.” I felt so loved! She mixed the White Angelica with the carrier oil and put in some little rocks to make it look cute and then gave me a vial of Valor that was running out.

Using just these two oils for a week I noticed I was calmer, more at peace with myself and the world. Less anxious (at some points prior, I had refused to leave my bed or drive anywhere). So I ordered some more YL oils and my dad got me a bunch of blends from The Vitamin Shoppe including THC-free CBD oils.

I made rollers and diffused blends and used the CBD oils for stress relief and physical calming. Since the operation left about a 9-inch scar across my stomach, I can’t feel about a third of my tummy (yes, still, even after six years). So I don’t notice often that my entire abdomen is tensed up, carrying my stress. I roll on the CBD oil and can feel a release of tension, not externally, since I can’t feel most of my stomach, but internally. It’s been so wonderful to have a healthy way to release stress from my body.

My favorite oils (after limited exposure to most of them): the Stress Relief and Zen blends from The Vitamin Shoppe, YL’s White Angelica and Valor, CBD nighttime and daytimes droppers, CBD stress relief roll-ons, and diffusible CBD oil for bedtime.

Oh, yeah. One more great thing about getting into a routine with oils is that my body knows naturally now when it’s time to wake up, when it’s time to work, and when it’s time to go to sleep. Which, for someone with Bipolar is invaluable since healthy sleep/wake cycles are crucial to avoiding episodes.

Overall, I’d say I’m an amateur fan of oils. If you want to get more involved with them, shoot me a message! I don’t have all the answers but I know and can connect you with people that do.

Much love,

Anna

Failure: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night!

I recently ordered a practice test from the American Translation Association. The test is supposed to simulate the certification exam that you have to pass to become a certified translator with the organization. It was professional grade and I failed… miserably. I got one sentence in six right. But still my gracious tutor encourages me, “you have a gift; you are supposed to be learning Arabic.” It’s so funny how you can give it your best, fall flat on your face, yet still have so much hope. It reminds me of something my old technical coaches used to say when they taught us lot a new soccer “move”… “If you’re not falling down from trying to do it faster, you’re not trying hard enough.” I have taken that very seriously in my life at large. I want to run like a free horse with my mane whipping in the wind, not afraid of failure, and I feel that when I translate (no matter how poorly at this point in time).

So many of us are afraid of failure, but I’m here to tell you: it’s not that bad. It’s not the end, especially if you have tried your best. That’s my definition of success: giving it your all; leaving nothing on the field, as sports people say.

I was really bitter at God for the past year and a half for cancer, bipolar, and now PTSD. But somehow, in all these seeming roadblocks, I can see that I am much more “rooted and established” in the love of God than I ever would have been had these things not happened. I’m a natural dreamer, but I’m much more grounded in my dreams now. I count the cost of what I want to do: minister to Muslims and Arabs, wherever they may be. I know there’s a cost spiritually, emotionally, and, in extreme cases, perhaps physically.

And my experience at Virginia Tech ministering to Muslims is that there is a high failure rate. But, as I’ve grown, I see it as me “falling over” because I’m trying my best for the kingdom of God on this earth and trusting the rest with Him.

Failure is only final if you let it be, friends. When you fall over, get back up and think of it as honing your skills for the next time. I’m so proud of all of you and am cheering you on. Do not go gentle into that good night!!!

The Terrifying Boat Ride In The Original Willy Wonka

I guess it began 6 years ago. Not all at once. Slow. Like a winding river. I would notice myself become paranoid about things that I, at one time, never would have thought twice about. Loud noises made me cry. Literally cry. To the point where one a friend opened a to-go box at a restaurant too loudly and there I was, back in the hospital, tubes up and down my arms. Tube coming out of my nose. Those leg compressor things to make sure I didn’t get blood clots. I tear up. “It was just a box, Anna,” she said, “get over it.” Her words cut sharp. But little did either of us know that I had just been triggered into having a flash-back. Motorcycles and loud cars did it too, made me have flashbacks. I had dreams that my stomach was still open and I had to protect it from being touched in any slight way. But it was okay for a while, manageable. Then this past year and a half happened. I guess it was a combo of bipolar and PTSD, but I went crazy trying to numb this phantom pain of which I did not know the source, nor could have dreamed that it would have been the surgery.

When people ask me what it’s like to learn Arabic as a primary English speaker, I say its like treading water with a brick. I would say the same now that I know what to call this silent foe, except I would add that the water I’m treading is in the middle of the Atlantic, no shore in sight. PTSD.

I wore a hole in my bottom sheet because I barely left my bed for about a month. I couldn’t drive farther than the Starbucks down the road for more than two. I would have panic attacks and nightmares almost every night, for seemingly no reason.

But now I have a name for this foe. I can study it, and learn how to defeat it. I just got an American Translators Association t-shirt in the mail… a glimmer of hope. I’m going to live. I’m going to live fully. I’m going to be a translator if I want, or a ballerina, or a pilot. I will not let mental illness stop me.

If you’ve read this far, welcome to my journey. It’s not always pretty, but I can promise it will be gritty and I will come out better on the other side. I hope you stay along for the ride (and for the record it will not be like the terrifying boat ride in the original Willy Wonka that traumatized us all as children.. maybe a little terrifying at times but no Oompa Loompas). See you all on the journey!

My PTSD Diagnosis

The last few episodes of season three of This Is Us dealt with Jack and his little brother Nicky’s PTSD from events in Vietnam. Silent tears rolled down my face. ‘I understand,’ I thought. The scenes resonated deeply with me and I had no idea why; I had never seen war. But maybe I have.

Today, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with PTSD. I can’t say I was shocked. These last six years and particularly year and a half have been the most painful, confusing, and scary years of my life. Since I heard the words from a genteel middle-aged doctor, “You have cancer.” One silent tear rolled down my face as my mom sobbed in the corner. I texted my three best friends at the time, Anna, Daytona, and Danielle. “What does a ‘mass in your pancreas’ mean?” Danielle asked. I didn’t yet know, but I would soon find out.

Surgery and recovery were brutal, and I’m not being dramatic. But over the course of the last six years, I would find myself having frequent flashbacks to the worst nights in the hospital and nightmares that my stomach was still cut wide open.

It got worse a year and a half ago: anxiety reared its ugly head. I couldn’t leave my bed for weeks except to see my boyfriend (for some reason, I could always get out of bed to see my boyfriend, I still don’t know how). I barely ate, I had panic attacks complete with hyperventilation. Flashbacks and paranoia. I haven’t functioned right for a long time.

While I later cried over this diagnosis—another hurdle to jump over—I also felt awash with a strange sense of relief. I finally have an answer for the past six years of hell. Like death in reverse makes sense.¹

I am still going to take my medications prescribed predominantly for Bipolar but they would be what I would get for PTSD anyways. I am working hard to find the right counselor to work through these traumas with.

If you think of me, say a prayer that I find healing and wholeness and can finally move on from my time with cancer and find life abundant. There’s lots of life for me to live and I want to live if fully.

To Him be the glory,

Amen.

1. listen to JMM's song Death In Reverse

Grief On The Fourth Of July

I feel weak. Physically weak. And nauseous. And my scar hurts… a “physical memory” my therapist says. I like to think it just makes me more like Harry Potter, except for the part that when his scar hurt, it was because Voldemort, Pure Evil, was near. Death is Pure Evil and will be the last enemy to be destroyed.¹ But man, I wish it would be the first enemy to go. I wish it wasn’t part of being human, but since the time of Adam and Eve, it has been.

Grief strikes at the oddest times. So today, I am weary. I am alone in bed listening to sad music (see my “On the Mend” playlist on Spotify). It’s the fourth of july but I feel like I have the emotional stomach flu. I am weary. My stomach tenses up. I have to conscientiously unclench it. It’s done that ever since surgery. I actually have been throwing up but I don’t know when or why it happens. I am tired. I slept for 17 hours last night. I think one way my body deals with grief is by physically shutting down. I was invited several places today for the celebration but I’m not going to any. It’s too sad… it’s all too sad. And that is okay. It’s okay to stay in for the night, sometimes. To curl up in bed with a book literally called, The Path of Loneliness, by Elisabeth Elliot.

I remember the fourth five years ago. Sitting in the home I shared with some friends Sitting alone and staring at a wall. I was in the worst depressive episode of my life (the worst because it was unmedicated). I think I called my dad and he drove across Chesapeake to make sure I didn’t kill myself (yes, it was that bad).

Celebration can be the worst thing for a grief-stricken person, embedding bitterness deep within his or her psyche. So I chose to not party today, to not celebrate with my friends. To not pretend to be happy when I’m not. And that’s okay. Sometimes it’s okay for the grief-afflicted to take a breather. I definitely did today. I stared blankly into space for hours before I called my dad up, so much like Father God, and told him all that afflicted me. But the end of our conversation I was cracking jokes. Grace.

I know I’ve had so many stream of consciousness posts lately and I’m sorry, it’s just the place I’m in. But if I could convey one thing to those that are grieving it would be that it’s okay to take a break. Breathe. Scream. Whisper. Believe. Don’t believe. You have permission. Much love, Anna

1. "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death" (1 Cor. 15.26 KJV).

My Struggle With Alcoholism

I never thought I would write about this publicly but it seems to be a topic that is under-talked about. Over the summer of 2018 and on and off throughout 2019, I have struggled with the demon of alcoholism.

I guess you could say it started with my diagnosis of Bipolar I back in 2014. Bipolar patients are likely to have a comorbid substance abuse problem.

It started in the spring of 2018: I had maybe had one budlight before that; alcohol just didn’t have that much of an appeal to me. But then the place to hang out with my friends, even Christian ones (not that I’m blaming anyone), became bars. I began to experiment with what types of alcohol I liked and didn’t like.

Soon, I took my drinking private. With my mental illness of bipolar making it hard to hold down a job or do anything consistently and the depressive side of the illness giving me hypersomnia, I’d wake up at around 10am everyday and go to the local Food Lion and buy a six pack of Blue Moon and drink it the rest of the day before going on a Tinder date and getting blackout drunk at night due to the meds I am on. I still don’t remember half of that summer. Now, you might be saying, it’s just Blue Moon, a 5% beer, and people my age are supposed to go out and have fun, but I tell you, in all seriousness, that I couldn’t function without alcohol. It interrupted my daily tasks and made me feel morally deplorable. My dad (whom I live with) had no idea because I hid the bottles in my room and took them to the garbage outside myself. I felt awful.

I was mixing the WORST medications with alcohol and absolutely did not care about the consequences. I thank God every day that nothing horrible happened, except for the alcoholism itself, that I had enough presence of mind not to drive while under the influence.

But eventually I grew tired of being dependent on a substance not prescribed by a doctor and went to my psychiatrist. I was brutally honest with him and he prescribed daily doses of Klonopin to combat the anxiety that he suspected was lurking beneath my alcoholism. The day I started my 3x daily doses of the medicine, I quit drinking completely. It was a miracle. I didn’t need it anymore. I slowly began to have just one drink at social events and had my drinking under control.

But around the winter time of 2018-2019 I became severely depressed, not being able to get over the pain of having had cancer and I turned to the bottle again. I also had horrible nightmares almost every night for a month before I realized that a glass of wine fixed it. But soon one glass turned into three nightly.

Today, I am two days sober and not planning on quitting my battle against alcohol-use. I just returned from Lifeway (Christian bookstore) with two books on overcoming addictions. I didn’t feel any shame telling the employee who helped me find the books that they were for me when she asked. I will not surrender for less than Jesus paid for.¹

Some people think that since I got through cancer I’m somehow immune to struggling with anything for the rest of my life. But I’m in the fight of my life and would absolutely be thrilled if you would pray for me. I called my sweet friend, Alyssa, today when I was feeling anxious and thinking about the bottle of wine downstairs. She told me to go to starbucks instead (the girl knows me well haha).

I will leave you with one of my life verses that I pray desperately through tears at night. It comes from the book of Isaiah, the 26^th chapter, the 3^rd verse in the English Standard Version. “You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you” (Isaiah 26:3).

If you struggle with substance abuse, you are not alone. There are resources and there are Christians (and non-Christians) who would be honored to help you through your dark night of the soul. There are mental health professionals and rehab facilities. Below are links to Alcohols Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

https://www.aa.org/

https://www.na.org/

https://www.nami.org/

¹ adapted from the song “Generous Portion” by Rosemary Skaggs

Trauma: The Aftermath, Or, How To Live Cured

“Trauma and grief can get stuck in your body.”

Suleika Jaouad

I recently had a panic attack, or a psychotic episode, I don’t personally know which. I will most likely discuss it with my psychiatrist on the Second of July. But sometimes I wonder if I have PTSD. I mean, according to the Mayo clinic I do. All the symptoms are there: “flashbacks, nightmares, and severe anxiety.” Hello, from the girl who can barely leave her bed to go to the Starbucks down the road. Who drowns her grief in alcohol. Who takes sleeping pills and klonopin to hopefully dull the recurring nightmares.

When I got diagnosed with cancer, I honestly went blank. I didn’t respond at all. That’s what I do when something dramatic is happening: I zone out. All I remember is a single tear dripping down my cheek.

Today a friend recommended a podcast. I’ll admit, for the first two stories of this TED Radio Hour I didn’t really connect. But then the third story completely captured my attention. A girl of 22 years diagnosed with leukemia with a 35% chance of long-term survival. She went through years of treatment and eventually was “cured” but she said that “cured” wasn’t a state she knew how to deal with. She said that she didn’t know how to live life cured and that “Trauma and grief can get stuck in your body.” I immediately started weeping. The last six years since surgery have been the hardest of my life. Doctors say that trauma often instigates latent mental illness that otherwise might not have manifested. I was diagnosed with depression then Bipolar I, then was reported as being symptomatic of psychosis. But it all felt very connected to those months when I was sick and healing, before I was officially “cured.”

Suleika said she sometimes fantasized about being sick again, and I’ll admit that I do, too. To survive is much easier than to live. To live takes so much courage. Courage I often think that I lack. Like I wasn’t built for easy sailing but for rough seas. I only know how to cope, not how to live.

For a few months I’ve almost lived entirely in my bed, asking my dad to bring home wine after work to calm my nerves and stop my crying. Having completely abandoned the idea that I might ever work out again, friends and family gently suggest that I take a walk around my neighborhood. That would be lovely if I could even make the walk to the kitchen for food. On the weekends I typically stay one or two nights at my boyfriend’s apt. in Norfolk, the one drive I can always, unfathomably seem to make. Oh yeah, I don’t really drive anymore. I don’t know but the thought of driving more than ten minutes from home (minus my boyfriend’s) can almost put me in a state of hyperventilation where I sink deep into my bed, pleading with God to grant me the peace of nonexistence.

I don’t have a pretty bow to tie on this blog post. If you relate at all, please message me; I would love to talk. If you’re fine, healing, or cured, I pray you experience the peace that passes understanding and know the nearness of Jehovah Rapha, the Lord

Who Heals.

Grief

Hi. I’m not an expert on grief or a therapist or a psychiatrist or anything. But I have experienced trauma and tragedy and I have some thoughts on grief.  My one prayer for you, if I could only choose one, would be that you would feel not alone. Forget the Christian bullshit of, “You know you’re not alone.” When you’re in the throes of agonizing grief, you want to feel not alone. I remember when my cousin passed away and my whole family had gone up to Maryland a day earlier than me, I was sobbing because I didn’t want to be alone. I called a friend and asked if I could come over and sleep at her house, “I’m sorry, I’m going to a movie” (with a group of people including the boy she currently had a crush on). I was crushed by the rejection. I remember wailing that night. Wailing is in a category all it’s own. If you don’t know what it sounds/looks like, consider yourself lucky but brace yourself because none of us, unfortunately, escapes grief.

What sparked this blog tonight was a deep depression and me desperately listening to my favorite song in the world “Casimir Pulaski Day” by Sufjan Stevens. It’s about a teenage girl who gets cancer. It’s sad and haunting and beautiful. It has helped me deal with my grief since I was 16 years old, since before my own cancer, fortuitously. It has a whole new meaning now, but it will always be the song that got me through.

Life doesn’t have to be happy to be good. Full life can be experienced in the grief.

There is a God to scream at, to lay into, to lean into, to rest your weary head on. I believe it with everything in me.

But tonight, if you’re experiencing grief, I know you don’t want to hear about that, you want to experience it as a real, tangible, Savior-right-in-front-of-you.

Dear Lord, for the grieving, myself included, I pray they feel not alone. Thank you, in Jesus’ name, amen.

Nights like these are rough because all my unprocessed, unfelt grief catches up with me seemingly all at once. Oh, I've tried running through alcohol, sex, and drugs, but you always have to ante up and pay the price for your grief. I would say pour yourself a glass of wine and forget about what afflicts you but I know that will only work for a time but you'd soon become a full-fledged alcoholic. Feel the night as Strahan sings. I am so sorry if you are grieving. I pray you face it and feel not alone.

As I journey through my own season of grief, I just try to get by day by day. Tonight, as I lay down to sleep, I prayed, “Lord, sedate me.” Sedate me from the nightmares and sleep paralysis and insomnia and terrorizing thoughts. I don’t fully know your story but I’m sure we can relate on some level. I’m just making it moment to moment. Just like you. We can do this.

God bless. Love, Anna

5 Things Cancer Taught Me

Hi. So, I was probably drunk on the 5^th anniversary of my surgery. I had friends over for charcuterie and reminiscing about what my life held because I got to experience it the past five years. Anyways, I wasn’t in the right state of mind at that time to make a post like this so here you go.

1. How to belly laugh

One of the first things my current boyfriend said to me on our first date was how much he loved my laugh. And I have cancer to thank for that. This one was in my post for year four as well because it’s so dang true. “She laughs without fear of the future” in Proverbs 31 is real. I have looked death in the face and can say that Jesus truly is stronger. Therefore I have reason to laugh at the tiniest things. If you’re around me for much time, you’ll hear me laughing, not because life isn’t hard, but because it is. Joy is our buoyancy.

2. How to cry

While I did learn the importance of a good belly laugh, I also learned how holy tears are. This year I learned that Jews during Jesus’ time collected their tears in glass vials (I forget the reason why except that it was because they revered tears) so when the woman “wept” at Jesus’ feet, it very well could have meant that she broke her lifelong vial at his feet. Weeping is holy. As Rumi and so many great sages have said, the broken places are how the light gets in. I cry easy now. And I’m not ashamed because I’ve looked death in the face and seen that Jesus truly is stronger. I can cry because he was weak for me, because he wept too. Let ‘em flow, y’all. Let ‘em flow.

3. I’m not that important

No, I don’t have a self-esteem issue. I just see clearly that I am one of billions of suffering, laughing, loving people that God cares about and that it is important to count others as more important than yourself. My mom’s nickname for me growing up was H.M.D.Q.—High Maintenance Drama Queen. But I can honestly say that’s changed because I’ve looked death in the face and seen that Jesus truly is stronger. I don’t have to be the center of attention. I find myself much more comfortable on the outskirts of the room at a party listening to the stories of whoever wants to tell me theirs than being in the middle with all eyes on me like I used to. I don’t have to be first place because Love is first place in God’s economy, not me.

4. Love is the reason for everything

I’ve always thought that Love was the magnificent ether, the Grand Unified Theory. But now I know it’s true and I don’t have to try wildly to convince anybody. It just is. Here’s a clip from a great movie from 2016 called Collateral Beauty: click here

5. Our time here is short but important

We don’t all get a full life (although I recently heard a report that the number of centenarians is exploding). Jack Pearson’s death is enough to teach us that *quiet sob. But our time here affects our eternity and everybody else’s. I can’t explain it but I just know how interconnected it all is now. We’re all connected: from the newborn baby to the dying chain-smoker. Your life matters, infinitely. I wish I could tell you how I know this but I guess you just have to trust that my glimpse beyond the veil afforded me this knowledge. Pay attention to how you treat people.

There you go. There’s my great wisdom of the age of 24, 5 years after I looked death in the eyes and saw that Jesus truly is stronger.

*Bonus point

Don’t be so certain about what you hold to be certain. Test your beliefs (or whatever you want to call them). If they’re true, they’ll hold true; don’t sweat it. And if not, do you really want to live in a way that isn’t true?

Hope In Some Strange Way

I’m sitting up in bed, having just had dinner and helping my dad sand the knots out of his latest wooden boat. I’m one glass of wine and two 1 mg klonopin in (this is not recommended but it’s getting me through this very moment of deep sadness). I put on Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens (yeah, that guy is a genius). Since I was 16 years old that song has helped me process my grief, and even more so after my own bout of cancer. I am sad tonight.

I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because I’m a manic-depressive. I went to Philly for three days, which was a high, and now I crashed. Yes, that could be it. I don’t process change from normal, daily life very well. Or, I could just be sad like millions of other humans are right now. I don’t need the special label of bipolar.

Anyways, I guess I’ll share a memory here since you all have shared your time in this microcosm of infinity with me.

I had come out of an eight our surgery successfully (I was a dashing youth with a body in good physical condition to endure the rigors). And I was doing one of my three daily walks around the ICU ward, IV pole in tow. When I was stopped cold, dead in my tracks. “I’m sorry,” said a male nurse casually yet sympathetically. An elderly Asian man stood next to an empty hospital bed with a woman’s cardigan in his hand. Next to him, I assume, his son was standing. I put it all together within an instant: their beloved wife and mother had passed on just two doors down from me. What had I been doing when she died? Complaining of pain probably. I did a lot of that. Or maybe blogging. Or maybe it was the Fourth of July when my two childhood friends came and watched the wicked nurse force me to get into bed from my wheelchair without any assistance: “It will speed up the healing process,” she said. And my friends, decked in red, white, and blue gear cried. Watching me pitifully struggle to go from sitting to lying down. Why, in America, do we place such precedence on efficiency. Couldn’t I give my body time to heal? Probably not enough beds. So, maybe that’s what I was doing when she passed.

My life profoundly changed after seeing the helpless, hopeless look in the husband’s eyes. It changed me forever. Seeing grief up close for the first time at 18 years old, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, with an excellent prognosis and Virginia Tech on the vista of my near future. I won’t be cliché. But seeing the fragility of life really does change you. I have never been the same since that moment. An internal shift. Goggles to see life the way it really is. Perspective. Pain. Real pain.

I guess the first time I had really experienced pain was when my mom told me that her and my dad were getting a divorce and she was moving out in two weeks. I screamed, shouted, hit the wall over and over, and sobbed. My worst fear at the ripe old age of 14 had been realized. I remember sitting in our dark sitting room (which we never actually sat in) in the formal red chair listening to my ipod that night. On repeat: Cape Canaveral by Conor Oberst. Man, I had good taste in music. Lol. I’m just messing with you. My sister, five years younger than me, came in and asked what I was doing; she didn’t know yet. I told her nothing and to go away now. I remember two weeks later holding a sobbing nine-year-old in my arms as she was forced for the first time to choose between staying with mommy or daddy. Oh, my sweet girl, my little sister, for whom I would do anything. I can’t stand to see her cry to this day. It’s like it breaks of a piece of my soul, a horcrux in each tear shed.

Anyways, enough rambling. This nice little stream of consciousness was more for me to process my emotions than anything else. But I hope it helped you, or gave you hope in some strange way.

Nihilism and Christianity

It’s 3:10am on May 19, 2019. I’m listening to my favorite album of all time “Stay Gold” by First Aid Kit. It came out in 2014 and its nihilistic lyrics put words to my traitorous Christian thoughts for the first time, to beautiful melodies, as a gift. Oh yeah, I had a panic attack today in public today that triggered a manic episode for me, so yeah, no sleep. I’m not tired at all. So I just find things to do while the normal people sleep.

Nihilism is an interesting party topic, but to really study it is a great joy. Nihilism appeared in 1817 defined as “the doctrine of negation.” From Latin nihil “nothing at all.” The term has ties to the Russian Revolution. I have experienced the unrequited (on His part) love of God. I just know it and He is real. But if I weren’t a Christian, and even as a Christian, I lean extremely towards the nihilistic side of life. I don’t think there’s a problem with this as long as I am willing to weep at the feet of Jesus in gratitude.

I can’t tell you how many klonopin I’ve taken to fall asleep, sweet sleep, away from the suffering. (And don’t worry, I am well under the overdose margin; I am not trying to kill myself, so please don’t be alarmed.) I’m on my third glass of wine (over three hours). But I pour heavy, and the bottle’s empty. There’s a great Andrew Bird lyric that come’s from his song, “So Much Wine, Merry Christmas,” that goes, “Listen to me, butterfly, There’s only so much wine, That you can drink, In one life, To save you from the bottom of your glass.” I love that affront to the numbing of the pain of true nihilism. You see, most people aren’t true nihilist’s; they’re existentialists. I’m not knocking existentialism, but coming up with your own meaning to life is different then embracing the vast wasteland of life.

I am mad at God. I truly wish this wasn’t the case; I do devotionals and read books by devout Christian authors, but I can’t shake my rage at the sufferings of this chaotic, lonely planet. Let alone my own sufferings. So, to the utter dismay of my Christian friends, I fall asleep embracing the Chaos. Or I completely numb myself with drink and dance and end up somewhere safe every night, God only knows how. I know there’s a God. I’ve irrevocably felt him in the depths of my core. But sometimes it’s easier to embrace what seems utterly obvious, that “shit gets fucked up and people just disappear” (to quote a First Aid Kit song) then to have the integrity to uphold the goodness of God. I admire you, you followers of Christ, who can live, day in and day out with no questions, but that’s not me. That’s never been me. I do believe; help my unbelief.

Why I Study Arabic

It all started with a book, but quickly became much bigger. I read A Thousand Splendid Suns in 2014 and my life was marked by the beauty and tragedy of life in Central Asia (Afghanistan). Come summer semester 2015 at Virginia Tech, I had enrolled in an Arabic class. At the time, I mistakenly thought that Arabic was spoken in Afghanistan, but it was a happy mistake that I would never take back.

Arabic is by far the hardest undertaking of my life; they have 15 ways to say everything and the poet in me longs to know the nuance of each variation, but it would be an impossible task apart from complete immersion in an Arabic-speaking country which isn’t feasible for me at this time. As I’ve thought about this post, I realized that it isn’t the language itself that keeps me going (although, I, for one, think it to be the most beautiful language in the world)… it’s the people I’ve met and grown to love along the way.

It started with my very first professor, Dr. Azzam. He was a devout Muslim that was constantly trying to make us see the error of our Christian ways, but boy, when he laughed, time stopped for a moment and you knew everything was going to be alright.

Then there was the venerable Dr. Ragheda Nasserdine, the oldest of my three professors. She required more from us than Dr. Azzam and for that I thank her. She lived through the Lebanese Civil War but carried herself in such a way that you would never know it. Maybe that’s the reason she carried herself with such dignity. She knew she was tough, but she had nothing to prove. She was elegant and made fun of me constantly: “Why are you making that face when you say that letter?” I’m glad I could provide her with some amusement as I toiled away to learn this strange but lovely language. She was the mother in Blacksburg that I needed.

Perhaps my favorite and longest-standing professor was Dr. Nadine Sinno. She, younger than the rest, was the head of the Arabic Language Department. If there’s a Beiruti version of a Southern firecracker, this lady takes the cake. Her job was to teach us about Arabic lit. (in translation), but what I came away with most from her was the dignity of every human life. She enraptured us with stories of living through the aforementioned war and ME life in general. She was FULL of panache and could easily keep us captivated for hours. I will always brag that she said I had a great Lebanese accent J. We moved from student-teacher to mentee-mentor the day she saw my necklace that had myrrh from Jerusalem hanging from it. We talked about what she believed, coming from a predominantly Muslim family. And let me tell ya, for a girl that came from a culture that oppresses women, she was not going to believe anything or do anything she didn’t want to. I remember the guts she had to return my final paper to me and say, “Habebtee, this material is above your paygrade; I’ve pulled some articles for you to look through to help you rewrite this paper.” Coming from anyone else I might have been offended but Dr. Sinno was different; you knew she had your best interest at heart. I still email with her occasionally and hope for her to write the foreword to a book I write one day.

Then there was Saud. I met Saud because in 2015 I was a creepy, mega-evangelist who approached anybody and everybody in hopes that they would listen to me talk about Jesus. I’m not knocking this approach, heck, I met one of my best friends, Saud through it, just saying it’s not for me. Back to Saud, I first noticed him when he fought with our Egyptian teacher twice in front of a 50 person class. I admired his audacity. He had a different opinion on ME history than she did, coming from Saudi Arabia. One day, nervous, I approached Saud after class and asked if he would like to come to an int’l student dinner that Chi Alpha was putting on that night. “Sure,” he said like a soft breeze. From there we hit it off like Bonnie and Clyde, instead of stealing physical things, we were stealing ancient secrets from both of our languages. He is, to this day, the most poetic person I have ever known: “Anna!! I can’t believe you don’t understand this yet.. the poetry is UNREAL,” he said of a Kazim a-Sahir song. He was one of my biggest advocates in continuing my pursuit of this bear of a language and for that I am eternally grateful. Finally, Saud had to return to Saudi and begin his job at Aramco. We keep in touch when we can. I miss him dearly. Also, we have a half-serious marriage pact that if we’re both not married by 30, we’ll tie the knot lol.

Then, I came home from Tech and was dejected. Studying Arabic alone is VERY hard and mentally taxing, let alone negligent. Then, I met little, Miss Gigi. A native Saudi, I cannot tell her full story here for safety reasons but you can know that her full name was Hagir-Arabic for the Hebrew HAGAR. Hagar has a huge place in my heart as the mother of all Arabs. I mark up her story every time I read it. So when I found out that this was her great name, I wrote a quick three-session bible study on Hagir, Arabs and God. I would love to expand that one day. Gigi became more stable and I see less and less of her but we still keep in touch and she is now engaged! How exciting.

Last, but not least, is Christian. I met him at a birthday party for one of our mutual friends and he almost jumped ten feet back when I told him I know what “wasta” is (under-the-table money and dealings that make traveling in the ME a whole lot easier). He soon became my tutor but, more than that, a friend. I’ve met his whole family and fell in love. It’s like a giant group lesson where I’m the only student gleaning ancient wisdom from these native speakers. When I’m over there there are always tea and cookies. And don’t even get me started on his nephew who might just be the cutest one-year-old IN THE WORLD. And he just got a new baby sister! I am quite, quite thankful for the Agha’s and how they’ve taken me in as their own; you can tell they have a knack for making people feel like they belong.

And now we’re here. I try to study Arabic for four hours a day and have one to two lessons with Christian a week. The work is hard but the payoff of being able to communicate on someone else’s terms is immeasurable. I hope to write a worship album in Arabic one day: lullabies for children. We’ll see how that pans out as I can neither sing nor speak Arabic fluently. A girl can dream. Well, that’s all I have. Find your people and you can do anything. God is love, Rev Run¹.

 1. if you don't understand this reference, don't worry about it lol

Bonfire of the Vanities: A Dream

I was dropped into my grandmother’s house. It was the eve of Christmas day and my grandmother’s sister, the matriarch of the West Coast, was visiting for the holiday so everything was more extravagant than usual, than I remember. My grandmother’s sister sat in the where my grandmother usually sat, while my grandmother herself occupied the place where my grandfather had once been long enthroned. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought, ‘Gammie would never giver up her royal position.’ But, everyone seemed so full of mirth that I didn’t think much of it. Then I saw him. A boy, about my age, with a blue shirt and thick curly hair. I at once knew he was my cousin, but had never seen him before in my life. He greeted me as if we had grown up together, going on family vacations, visiting for special occasions, doing all the normal things cousins do. ‘Do I trust him?’ I wondered. He seemed so nice, so congenial. I took my normal seat to the immediate left of where my grandmother usually sat but soon realized that I needed a drink. My grandmother’s sister flashed me a winning smile and said, “In the kitchen, dear.” I had seen deep red wine scattered across the table, but I can’t stand the stuff so I search for white. All I could see was a pitcher of red and turned around, acquiescing to my fate, to get a glass. When I returned to the drinks, there was a pitcher of white wine sitting next to the red. I was very surely confused for the first time since my arrival, who had put it there? Nevertheless, I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have to drink the blood red wine and carefully poured myself a glass. All at once, my Aunt Joan was at my side, and, before I knew what she was doing, she had put some herbs and spices in my drink that looked more appropriate for a Bloody Mary. “It’s all the rage now,” she assured me of the curious condiments. It looked disgusting, but I took my seat to finish my lamb, the traditional Kirchner delicacy. Suddenly, we were sitting on the floor in the sitting room all gathered around to watch home movies and open a few presents. The cranberry carpet was so familiar yet so… distant. They started playing a video of me, the foreign cousin and a new player in the mix, a baby cousin, one year old, on the beach. Again, he was wearing another, lighter blue shirt. Out of the blue came a giant, cartoon crow with big yellow eyes. I could now feel myself in the video, in the scene. I was trying to discern if the crow was friend or foe since my little cousin was just the size to become carrion for this frightful animal. The crow walked slowly past her, my alien cousin closer to her than I. I could tell from the way he sauntered that the crow had the cruelest intentions of consuming my little cousin so I yelled at my older cousin to protect her, he wasn’t moving fast enough, it was like a dream where you’re moving as fast as you can but it feels like running through gelatin. Again, all at once, I was out of the video scene, hung in suspense. I returned from my reverie to the entire family destroying every CD, vinyl, and tape recorder in the house for fear that the cartoon crow was hiding in the mega pixels and had it in mind to obtain my cousin for food at any price. The affair had the urgency of preparation for war. I thought of all the family videos lost, all the music that would never be heard again, and I joined in. I was vigorously shattering an old CD when I looked up at my odd cousin and said, with a winning smile, “This is fun.”

Contentment: Reflections On Lent

I was lying in bed staring at the sparkly lights across the room when I realized: I don’t feel sad or anxious or bad at all. I’m not manic or even necessarily happy but content.

I looked up the word “content” on my dictionary app (my fav app) and its history is long and distinguished but one of its early meanings gave me the language to express what I’m feeling right now: “Sense evolved through “contained,” “restrained,” to “satisfied,” as the contented person’s desires are bound by what she already has.”

This Lent, I gave up extraneous noise and devotionals that I discerned I was using to satisfy my anxious psyche. It took real discipline to sit in silence with the Lord day after day. Now, at the culmination and release from Lenten commitments, I find myself craving silence with the Lord. I’m okay just being alone, he and I, again.

But this contentment didn’t come without trial. It was a fight to be present to the Lord, and, in opening myself up to Reality, opening myself up to my pain. Two verses keep running through my head as I type this. James 1:2,3 in the Weymouth NT translation: “Reckon it nothing but joy…whenever you find yourselves hedged in by the various trials. Be assured that the testing of your faith leads to the power of endurance.” I feel stronger now. Less like Much Afraid in the Hannah Hurnard’s classic Hinds’ Feet On High Places. I can feel that more power of endurance has been forged in me during this sojourn through Lent. It didn’t come easy, without nightmares or anxiety attacks or depression, but the Lord saw me through these 40 days and galvanized my weak little spirit with strength like a lion. Because in my weakness he is STRONG.

Thank you, Lord, for reigning me in and making me truly content on this the day of my Lord’s Resurrection. The journey is far from over and I am far from being “perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” but the Victory is won!