When the Journey Gets Tough

It’s easy to get caught up in our every day struggle. Likewise, it’s easy to understand that sometimes we get so stuck that we forget that— even in our most difficult moments— it’s not about us. Francis Chan wrote in his book Crazy Love, “If life were stable, I’d never need God’s help. I am thankful for the unknowns and that I don’t have control, because it makes me run to God.”  That’s such a tough pill to swallow because most of us like to know where we are headed, how we will get there, and what difficulties we will face. Those of us who deal with anxiety especially worry about all the major and minute details of our circumstances. However, if we knew every detail of where our life was headed and the struggles we would face, perhaps we would not be so keen to face them head on. Still , God reminds us that in all of this we should always turn to Him— that through him we have strength and that we will ultimately be blessed. Often times we get so comfortable or confident in our own abilities that God has to give us a “gentle” reminder that we need him.  Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 12 that God allowed him to experience difficulty to keep him from becoming conceited. It isn’t that God wants us to suffer, rather, just like I often give my students challenging assignments and questions,  I want them to recognize that they do not yet know it all, that there is still much to learn, and that in that learning process there is growth. Our experiences, no matter how difficult, are an opportunity for maturity. God promises us this: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” He is there to teach, guide, mentor, and help grow us. As a teacher, I would never throw a challenge at my students without building them up, guiding, and supporting them. With even more reason, it is in those overwhelming moments where He is the most near to teach us what we may not yet understand, to guide us exactly where we need to  

My Act of Faith

I didn’t always wrap, and honestly, I hadn’t really ever planned to. It was something I observed with admiration—the kind of thing you appreciate but could never see yourself actually imitating. It wasn’t until early last year that I considered doing it at all.

Much like with other lifestyle changes I have made in recent months, my psoriasis has been a catalyst for many (at first uncomfortable) changes. Last year I suffered a serious flare internally and externally—internally, the effects made doctors think I was at risk for cancer (again) while externally my face, arms, legs, torso, and scalp were covered in psoriasis lesions. I could not escape it, and the worst part was that the more I tried different medications to stop the spread and ease the flare, the more I realized my hair was thinning and falling out. 

To say that I cried is an understatement. I cannot count how many times I wept and bawled with my husband because I felt like I would lose all my hair. It seemed every time I looked into a mirror or took a picture from the top of my head, I could see the thinness grow. My hair had gotten so frail and weak that I felt like it was just a matter of time before I lost all of it. I felt ugly, weak, and powerless to do anything to stop it.  A few friends mentioned wigs, but honestly I didn’t really like the idea. And I honestly couldn’t imagine throwing on another piece of hair on missing hair. So, after weeks of feeling hopeless, I remembered hair wrapping.

I was hesitant, but also had very few options that made me feel comfortable. And so, with lots of fear and apprehension, I dragged my husband to the nearest Burlington to buy my first two scarves. 

At first, I was really nervous to wear anything out of the house. It wasn’t only that I struggled to wrestle the scarves into something presentable, I just felt like I would get questioned, stared at, judged, and I felt absolutely ill equipped to explainanything at the time. 

It was a slow process that took practice, lots of love, and much, much spiritual reflection. I had to understand why I was so afraid of wrapping and what I was really holding on to (my pride included).

I realized that I was more afraid of wrapping simply because I was mortified of what others would say. I hadn’t ever wrapped before, so I didn’t feel ready for all the questions. But this was something so trivial, I later realized. After all, I was the one who had to battle with my condition, not anybody else. I alone knew the extent and the depth of how it affected me, and by that same token, I knew that wrapping was a way that I could focus more on healing and less on my appearance. 

As time went on and I became braver about wearing my wraps in public, my perspective on the whole of my situation changed. Not only was I able to learn about the rich and beautiful Jewish culture, but I also found an avenue to share my healing story with others who were dealing with chronic life diseases. That too, also found a way to evolve into a spiritual reminder for me—it was a real and tangible cover over my life, a reminder that no matter where I went, God’s love would cover me. In the middle of joy, He was there. In the middle of pain and flares, he was there. In the good and the bad, it was a testament of His presence over and within me. It is a crown that reminds me to stand tall even in what I may not yet understand. 

Today, as I look at my collection of scarves, I am reminded that I am just a small thread in a tapestry larger than myself. And while there are still days that are incredibly difficult, uncertain, and terrifying, I am comforted in knowing that this too, is part of the process. As I tie my scarves, the trouble, the wrestling in place, the pulling, tugging of seams, the small tears and rips, remind me that even though I may be flawed, even that is used to create something beautiful. My sickness, anxiety, depression and all the things that inevitably come with chronic diseases are still there, but every day I wrap is my unyielding act of faith, hope, humility, and healing. 

Today I am..

Today I am broken. Today I am pieces like shattered glass or broken pottery. Fragments too small to piece together without losing part of me.

Today I am a vessel drifting on an river heading somewhere unknown. I am the captain of the unamed and the lost. I am the listless sails, the silence of the wind blowing through the reeds. I need something I cannot seem to find.

Today I am the notes drifting from solemn songs: I am the harmonies barely audible, the infinitesimally small reverberation in a chest that can hardly breathe. Today I dance on my grave and let it sweep me off my feet; the quiet simmering blood unaware of the loneliness, the vastness of an empty mind.
Today anxiety whispered my name and said "come with me." Today she dressed herself in
of what ifs and alluring silence-- and I, willing followed like a motherless child.

Today I lost-- my sensibility is an unstrung kite running without direction. Today I screamed but all I heard was silence in the auditorium of my chest. I prayed but forgot to whom and why and for what. Today I was an island enveloped in mist; I was sand pulled helplessly from shore. I was pencil too faded to be read, the dust of bricks falling from these broken walls. Today I lost myself somewhere. Today I forgot that these fault lines unleash chaos.  I crawled because that's all I could do to keep from falling.

I've spent my whole life patching holes with words too frail to stitch together. Time binds my hands quietly until I can no longer tear myself away from its embrace. Why do the things I hate come so naturally? This constant companion that sings me to sleep.

Today I let you see me-- a broken promise, an apology overused, a breath caught in my lungs unreleased. I'm sorry. And while apologies will never suffice nor heal either heart, it's the truest word on my lips today. This feeble note, this seemingly empty phrase is my love letter to you-- reminding you that I am not alright, but I will be. Today I may have lost, but tomorrow....
Tomorrow is a new day.
And tomorrow...
Tomorrow I'll be alright.

Heartbreak of Breaking

I have a lot going on in my head recently. No, not recently, it's been going on for a while-- a long while now. Sometimes it's easy to ignore; sometimes the train in my head slows down and lets me breathe for a while; but sometimes, most times, the train is loud, unrelenting, and terribly unforgiving.
I worry. I worry about small things. I worry about things that matter so much I shouldn't even bother worrying about them. But alas, here we are-- and I'm spinning around in circles again.

So I have to make a list in my head, again. I make lists all the time, really-- lists that help me remember, lists that remind me to breathe, lists that remind me there are good things to be grateful for. God knows, I forget often. I forget to breathe. I forget to stop. I'm on a one way collision with my consciousness.

Yesterday I couldn't breathe. I had to stop. I wanted to stop. I wanted the whirring to cease. I wanted a lot of things-- the bathroom to be clean, the guinea pigs to stop burriyng under the blankets, the food to make itself, the bed to be made, rent to be paid, grades placed, medicine bought, bills to disappear. I wanted to disappear. I felt crushed underneath the weight of it all. Suddenly, I was bombarded with all the questions I shoved into boxes and threw hastily into the back of my mind. Was I doing enough? Was I doing too much? What if I needed help? Should I ask for help? Should I be so quiet, should I talk more, am I being diligent enough, am I being irresponsible? And what if I was all of these things? What if it was everything?

I'm still simmering. I can't say the feeling has gone away-- yet anyway. There's still something about all this that is slightly discomforting. But I am trying.
Thing is, as much as I want to be understood, I often don't understand myself. My train of thought runs past me long before I have a chance to catch a glimpse of the issues...

I feel exhausted. My psoriasis has been acting up again.
          See, I am quite literally falling to pieces. My body is falling. Every nick and scratch becomes a bruise both mentally and physically. My body is at constant war with itself, and by consequence, so is my mind. They are not mutually exclusive.
   I've read countless articles constantly describing psoriasis sufferers having a greater risk of anxiety and depression. Harvard even published an article called the "Heartbreak of Psoriasis" where they state "People with psoriasis also had significantly more “mental distress” and were about 1.5 times more likely to report mild to severe depression than those without the disease." So if everything is pointing to how I'm feeling, you can imagine why it's so hard to overcome.

But I don't want to be a statistic. And life, quite frankly, is so much better lived if I focus on the positives rather than the constantly nagging negatives. I need to be intentional. So here's a start. Here's the truth.
I'm not okay. I'm exhausted. I often prefer not to feel. I spend too much time worrying about what I'll look like if things get worse. I cry sometimes when I'm alone. Sometimes I don't know why I cry, it just happens.
Still, there are other truths:
I have a husband who loves me more than I can fathom. I have a home. I have a car. I have food. I have the ability to work. I am alive. I can breathe. I enjoy time alone. I enjoy time in the company of family. I must build this protective barrier of positivity lest I fall back into distress. I must be purposeful.
This is my start.
Again.
For the millionth time.
And even if I have to start over again and again. I think, at least for now I believe that hope is so much better than this worry...

From the Outside Looking In

I grew up in the church; better known as cradle Christian. But my family didn’t always attend church. There was a span of about four years that I cannot remember stepping foot at a place like that. After our first church, and my grandmother’s bout of breast cancer wherein nobody came to my family’s comfort, I remember bouncing around for a while. We went to huge mega churches and small family churches in hopes of finding some place to call home. We didn’t find anything.

My family and I wouldn’t be consistent in a church until I was about nine—and from then on, we continued to attend the same place. My parents are still there ‘till this day.

I’ve had an interesting experience with church. I spent almost 15 years in one, served in over five ministries, helped loads of people, went consistently as much as I could, built relationships with people, brought some people over, and then… I left. I left because I moved cities, but honestly, I wonder at the last few months I spent at my former church.

I wonder at the few months I’ve been at my new church.

Here’s the thing: over the years that I have been a part of the Christian faith and the church, I have consistently heard about the issues with brining people. I’ve heard countless preachings about how best to reach the needy and lead them to a church “family.” I’ve been to countless workshops on evangelism and “outreach.” I use the word family and outreach lightly because it is exactly what I’ve been questioning since leaving my former church.

What are we really doing to reach people, and are we really doing what we intend and what we preach? Are we effectively walking the talk?

Coming from the sincerest part of my heart, the last few months at my former church were brutal. The relationships I thought I had built, quickly came into question; as I became less involved during my move to a new city, the more I began to feel like I was looking outside in. And boy, was that outside cold.

The less I was around, the more difficult it was to have a real conversation with people. Whenever I did show up to a group event, I felt as if I was being overlooked, or at least given only superficial conversation—just enough to keep me there but not enough to make me feel at home or part of a family anymore. The less I was around, the more people started becoming upset at the mistakes, my attempts to continue growing; I quickly learned how quick to judge we can be.

I never said goodbye. To anyone. Not really.

Without going into detail, I felt more and more like an outsider, and began to wonder at how we make others, who may also be on the brink of leaving church or the faith altogether, feel.

Now that I’ve come to reside permanently in a new church family, I’ve got to say, the transition has been just as difficult. Don’t get me wrong, I can see people try, but the thing is, often, just like at my old church, I find that along with a few other outsiders, we are left alone. We sit alone. We are left in the back benches, the corner table, the edge of the stairs.

You know how we make people feel? Alone. We make people feel alone.

Funny thing is, in all the lessons and preachings that I’ve heard in my life, I’ve seen one common characteristic about the God we profess: He pursues us. I mean, God really wants to get to know us. Verse after verse reveals that we believe in a God that knows every detail about who we are, that even when we feel alone, He is there, and that he stands at the edge of our hearts and knocks, relentlessly until we hear Him.

Psalm 139:1-4 O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me. You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my thoughts even when I’m far away. You see me when I travel and when I rest at home. You know everything I do. You know what I am going to say even before I say it, Lord.

And aren’t we supposed to be imitators of the Christ we profess? What happened along the way that we have forgotten what kind of love we should give unto others we want to reach out to?

If there is one thing I have learned about my God is that he never gives up on me. He is always there to reach out to me, genuinely and profoundly. My God does not care whether I have served two days or twenty years, he loves me the same in my weaknesses and strengths. My God does not leave me in the emptiness, the quiet, the loneliness; he comes and makes a space right there next to me until my strength and my joy has been renewed.

Going from one church to another has shown me what a serious problem we have on our hands. Until you are an outsider, you cannot truly imagine and understand the reasons why so many people leave dissatisfied from churches that claim to be the most modern, most compassionate, most outreaching, or even most evangelical. We are missing the point. We are missing the pursuit that makes outreach, out reach, and family, family.

We need to reach out, truly, to the people on our peripherals. We need to sit beside the homeless man, the quiet woman, the seemingly angry teenager in the back row of our church. We need to stop ignoring the person standing on the edge of our sanctuary, the person with headphones in, the kids who hide out in the back of classrooms and media rooms. We need to really pursue them. You need to pursue us. Talk to us, really talk to us. Get to know more than our names and what we do during the week. Learn what we love, what we fear, what we hope and desperately pray for outside of those four walls. Stop asking us “how are you,” because you’re always going to get “good,” of “fine,” or “okay.” Because everyone always asks that question. Ask us instead “how is your heart,” and stick around to listen, to ask questions, to dialogue. Just as we cannot escape God no matter where we go (See psalm 139:7-8), let us make it impossible for a person to feel alone at our church.

And when you have really reached out to us, hold on tight and be a real family to us. Mentor us, guide us, explain why things happen the way they do. Don’t get upset and assume things, don’t get upset and disappear, and don’t get upset and give up.  Show us what it means to be a part of Christ family: to build, to work together, to fellowship together, to cry together, to be there together in times of need, to be there in times of joy, to hold on in times of weakness, and to uphold in strength.

I have been within, and without, inside and outside, family and stranger. From an outsider still working my way home, be as relentless as the God we, you, I love. 

Of All the Changes

this year, getting married and moving have been the biggest ones. A year ago, I wouldn't have imagined even close to being where I am today. A year ago I didn't think I'd be packing my bags and moving to a completely new city with new people, new experiences, and definitely new challenges.

I've never been one to miss home too much. As much as I love my parents, home has never felt like a permanent place for me. Everything seemed on the verge of some irrevocable change, some abrupt end. For most of my life, I've lived with this notion that my sense of security would be shattered...
And so I never truly let myself attach to a place-- not really. Some part of me always knew better.

But things are much different when everything changes quickly. That, I was not prepared for. In a year's time I graduated, began my career, fell in love, married, and moved out of my family's home.

I wasn't prepared for the drastic shift in pretty much everything.

Sometimes change hurts. Despite the self-preparation and the amount of time I spent convincing myself that it would be easier. It's still not.  There are times when I miss being around people, around others. There are times when I miss how close everything was-- little things. I miss the way people smiled no matter where you were, and breakfast tacos were a short drive away. I miss the way food was always made in company, and the way breakfast and dinner could last hours at a time. I miss the local coffee, and the Madeline's that always knew my order-- the library where I owed $7.80 but they still let me check out books because I'd always go often.

I miss the way the living room smelled when mom hung the laundry out after a wash. The way I could always smell a hint of cinnamon and lemon in the air. How she'd argue with my dad over who told the story of the day better, and how many bags of flaming hot chips he'd brought home. Or how many Oreo's he'd eaten, or how many episodes she'd binge watched.

I say all these things, and still there's a small pain in my chest that won't go away. I say these things about this past life with fondness, and yet despite all these things, I am eternally grateful for all the new in my present.

I'm grateful for the new family that I've made here and the small memories we are still creating. I'm grateful for how everything's a drive away-- it always give me a chance to meditate about how blessed I am along the way. I'm grateful for how my husband smiles at me every time he comes home from work. How I'm showered with love and kisses after being apart for what feels, always, like forever. I'm grateful for the pantry and our fridge always being stocked and the way it never matters whether it's frozen pizza or a homemade meal, my husband is always right beside me laughing and sharing life with me. I'm grateful for instant coffee and cinnamon and evaporated milk that has made many a frothy drink in the company of those close to me here, the gas station that always knows what chips I'll buy and, so far, keeps them stocked.

I love the way there's always just enough light in the morning and as the sun goes down, the way our home smells like home and perhaps a pinch of this morning's breakfast. I love how arguments with my husband consist of who loves who more and how "horrible" it is to have to make beds and do dishes. How he'll pull me closer when watching TV while we binge watch shows with pan dulce, or ice cream in our hands. I love the way I'm never alone when I sleep, and even when my dreams try to convince me otherwise, I'll always, in perfect timing, feel his arms around me.

I love how home, this... new home, is consistent, peaceful, and truly feels like home. Even through the imperfections, I'm grateful that we've been given a chance to build together and build well.

And while sometimes my past comes knocking and wanting to remind me of the things I'm missing, it has also worked to give me that many more reasons to be thankful for what I've been blessed with.

Truly, my God has blessed me in plenty. Then, here, there, now.
Of all the changes this year, growing in gratitude and appreciation for what I've had all around, in all my life... that's what I've learned to cherish every day.                                                                                                        

Holding On

If there's one thing that I can say with absolute certainty, without an ounce of doubt, is that as far as my career goes, everything I've achieved or received has been absolutely through God's grace. It is the one aspect of my life that I can't say I had input in, the one thing I watched God  unfold even against my initial reservations and doubts. For years I had my plans for something completely different than what I am doing now. I laid my heart on a path and gave my everything until one day I decided "God your will be done."

If I only would've known how loaded that phrase was.

Everything changed. My career, my ideas, my outlook, my heart's desire, my passions... it was like everything I had so earnestly worked for had suddenly been plucked out of my hands only to be given something completely different. 

Looking back on that now, whenever someone asks how I've been able to deal with all the obstacles and hardships related to this career and education, all I can say is, through God. 

I mean honestly, as wonderful as recognition and grades and certificates and positions can be, what I do is not for myself. In my heart, God placed a burden for my career, and so in everything that I do, it is to show how grateful I am of His blessings and faithfulness in my life. The least I can do, after all this time is to give my best.

This was the one thing I had to learn to completely let go and let God. It was the one thing I completely trusted Him in and knew it was only because of Him.

Until now.

For two years there was a decision that I'd been set on, it had been a commitment, something I was very careful and cautious about. I did a lot of praying, and even when I was completely at peace with it and things seemed to be going in a positive direction, things just didn't work out in the end.

For a while, I was upset that I'd wasted my time. I felt cheated, like I'd been teased into believing something only to have it taken away. I felt, much the same as I had felt when God completely switched my career. After years of dedication and hopes and dreams, once again I was left without explanation.

It wasn't until this week that I reflected on the fact that a couple of months ago I had once again uttered those very loaded words. I had meant them, of course, I had simply forgotten the depth of their meaning.

When we pray, "God your will be done" we essentially tell Him, "Even though I've given you my list of hopes and desires, even though you know what I long for and wish for, even though I want certain things, all that doesn't matter. Forget what I said. In fact, I said absolutely nothing. Actually, it literally is what You deem best."

I had asked for it. Once again, I had let go of another area of my life. I'd set myself up for change.

How could I resent Him for what I allowed?

I realized, it wasn't just that I had allowed Him, but that when I had done this in the past, I'd actually been completely and utterly blessed beyond measure. Time and time again, God proved His love for me in the way things worked together once I had surrendered my will. All I had to do was trust and push forward.

All the time that I had dedicated in both instances was not in vain. In the past, God used my experiences to shape my outlook, dedication and commitment in the present. Today, I understood that it would be much the same. 

Time had not been wasted, as much as I felt it. Time had molded me, matured me, and prepared me for the things God had been wanting to give me all along. 

 Once again, I am being pushed to grow, believe, trust, mature, and hold on.

On the night that things changed, I heard the words "hold on," and today I've learned...

Hold on for the ride.

Hold on to hope

Hold on to the promises

Hold on to Me. 

I'm holding on, because I'm confident in the God who made everything perfect in the past. Even in the middle of all it's challenges He remained. I trust that He will continue to do the same today, and while I trust, I'll hold on to His promises and continue running the race. While I await God's plans for me, I'll give my best, remembering that in the end it's truly all for Him.

Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. 

-Hebrews 10:23