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.