use your words

"Come on... Use your words."

I loved/hated that he was turning my own phrase back on me.

I'm a words girl. I value their weight, their gravity, their depth. I love how words can be beautifully strung together in a way that moves my soul. 

I'm a slow writer. Painfully slow. The words don't come easily for me. I have to mine for them, laboring over each syllable.

I want my voice to be true, my words sincere. So I try not to rush the process. I take my time, often only discovering what I truly think or feel as I'm writing it out. This "free therapy" is neither quick nor painless, but it's (usually) oh-so-worth-it.

Backspace is my closest friend. I never get it right the first time. Ever. I edit, chop, change, add, remove, abandon, start over... I rarely land where I imagined I would when I began.

Write.
Delete.
Repeat.

Using my words to talk? Now, that's a whole other story.

I've gotta be honest: I hate that talking lacks the luxury of time and backspace. (Maybe this is part of the reason I'm not a phone person. Hmm...)

When I feel uncomfortable, or want to say something important or meaningful, or attempt to share something vulnerable, I can never find words — the right words — quickly enough. I pause at great length. I hesitate. I sit silently. I get awkward. Really awkward. 

My mind trips over itself, stumbling around my internal dictionary, trying and failing to find the best words to say what I mean.

All the while, growing increasingly embarrassed and annoyed with myself, imagining that whoever I'm with is surely losing patience as I try to lasso my escaping thoughts.

"Come on... Use your words."

It jarred me back to reality, to the long pause I couldn't figure out how to break. Cheeks flushed with awkwardness and frustration, I finally just made a ridiculous face and shrugged. I think I said, "I don't know just yet..." or something else equally flat-lining...

I want to get better at using my words — written or spoken. I want the fuzzy brain fog to lift and for clarity to return. I want to be more aware of my truest thoughts, and less afraid of my own voice. I want to speak and write with honesty, sincerity, and heart. 

I want to be brave enough to always use my words.

a change will do you good

Change tends to come slowly, and this case was no exception. 

Welcome — finally! — to Grit & Glory 2.0. 

Anyone who's been to my site in, oh, the past three years knows how old, stale, and stagnant it seemed. Ugh. I cringed every time I saw it, hating this formerly-cozy space that no longer fit me. 

It was so 2008. (Literally.) 

I finally got up the gumption to attempt a complete makeover on my own. Countless hours, a crash course in CSS code (ohdearlord!), lots of Googling, and multiple freak-out emails to a developer friend later... Voila! 

My brain is sufficiently exhausted, and there are countless tiny things I am still working on, but It was time to go ahead and launch it. 80% there is still lightyears better than my previous site. (Can I get an 'Amen'?)

I love my new online home. It looks and feels so much more like me.

And I have to admit that I feel like a badass right now for conquering something I didn't think I could. What was my One Word 365 again?? Oh yeah... Brave. I'm feeling that today as I kick this thing live. (We all need to celebrate our own victories more, don't we?)

So take some time and poke around. I hope the site feels as warm and comfortable to you as it does to me.

(And if you run into any glitches or find something that's wonky, pleasepleasePLEASE let me know so I can fix it!)

Here's to hoping my new space will inspire me to write more often! But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you...

hurt hurts

"When I asked you how you were feeling, you said it was a high-pain day. But you looked to be having such a great time — talking, laughing, mingling with the group. So it just doesn't add up."

I couldn't believe a friend — one of the few I'd candidly opened up to about my chronic health issues at that point — had written this to me. And had already spoken to other mutual friends about me. Out of "concern," of course.

She was calling my integrity into account. For my health issues to be as severe as they are, she decided I should always be forlorn. Quiet. Listless.

And all at once, my back was up against the wall, with me defending what shouldn't need to be defended.

"I can push past it when I need to, for limited amounts of time..."
"A smile on my face doesn't mean I'm being dishonest about how I'm feeling..."
"There are plenty of days when my health determines my plans..."
"When you feel something constantly, it's not what comes to mind when asked how you're doing..."
"I can feel awful, and still have a good time..."

I immediately hated myself for scrambling to explain, for working so hard to make her understand.

::

Sadly, she wasn't the first to respond so hurtfully about my health issues.

And she wasn't the last.

I've been treated as though I'm crazy, or, at the very least, exaggerating wildly.
I've been called a liar.
I've been told to stop being so dramatic.
I've been scolded for not having enough faith.
I've been preached at, talked down to, pitied.

Enduring chronic anything—all day, every day, in varying degrees—is crazy-making, lonesome, and challenging all on its own. Skeptical tones, judgmental eyes, critical words—all they do is make me regret opening my mouth.

And they heap more isolation onto an already lonely road...

::

I still feel tremendously uncomfortable talking about my chronic pain and health conditions—though I try to force myself to open up about them more than I used to.

My breath quickens as I struggle to find words for what seems indescribable and yet is, at the same time, my "normal". With each syllable, I grow increasingly anxious that I am being judged. Criticized. Unheard. Misunderstood.

And being misunderstood is just about the worst feeling in the world—and one of my greatest fears.

::

I can't help but think of Saint Francis of Assisi's poignant prayer—

"O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek...
to be understood as to understand..."

So on this high-pain day, I am going to swap my fear of being misunderstood for a fear of misunderstanding those I love. I'm going to be more intentional to put aside my own experiences and opinions so that I can truly listen and open my heart to understand even that which is unfathomable to me.

Because though our pain looks different — physically, emotionally — at the core, it is all the same.

Hurt hurts.

And that I can understand.

Originally posted on A Deeper Story.
Read the comments there »

remembrance

Every year, my heart struggles to find somewhere to land in this sea of remembrance.

I always eventually drop anchor in deep gratitude for those who ran into harm's way when tragedy and terror struck. Even in the face of horror, fear, pain, and uncertainty, love runs toward, not away.

And despite everything else I'm feeling today, this anchor holds.

//  In memory of Michael Vernon Kiefer  //

depression is real

I.

I began and abandoned this post a month ago. I couldn't find the words—or the courage—to finish it. For so many reasons.

Then came the heartbreaking news of Robin Williams.

Which was quickly followed by a tsunami wave of God-awful responses from Christians, flooding the internet with harmful, ignorant, and abusive bullshit in the name of Christ.

So, it's time to find my words and use them.

II.

I think I was in seventh grade when he took his life. I didn't even know the much-older boy in my school, but I remember being deeply shaken. I remember everything growing eerily silent when we were told the news.

I had questions I didn't even know how to ask—or who to take them to even if I did.

"Join hands. Let's pray."

My Christian school didn't know how to handle all the questions. The fears. The grief. The heartache.

Understandably.

How could they? How could anyone?

But for the first time, I heard the cruel whisperings that would echo the halls of my Christian culture-bubble for years.

And they echo even still.

III.

The ones who say "suicide is selfish" and "if only he'd turned to Jesus" and "depression is a choice"... They simply don't get it. They just don't.

I know, because I used to be one of those ignorant people.

I grew up with a pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps-of-faith kind of theology. We hid our realities behind platitudes and trite clichés and Scripture-quoting smiles.

We lived in denial, and called it faith.

We named it and claimed it, clinging to a Prosperity Gospel that of course covered even our mental and emotional health. Doctors, counselors, and antidepressants were for those who didn't believe enough...

IV.

But we were never promised health, wealth, or emotional well-being in this fallen world.

All He promised was that He'd be with us.

V.

What I know now is this:

Depression is real. Mental illness is real.

They don't signify weak faith. Or distance from God. Or unresolved sin.

They can't be willed away by words of faith, hours in prayer, deliverance, repentance, prayer lines, or praise songs.

In no way am I saying God never uses those things to bring healing. But the conclusion that He only uses those things is so unbelievably damaging.

God also uses doctors, and skilled therapists, and treatment centers, and supportive community, and medication to bring balance to instability and hopeful illumination into darkness.

He made light from nothing; He can certainly make it from Prozac.

VI.

I know what it's like to want out...

I've been there.

I understand those feelings of hopelessness that suck all the air right out of the room.

The darkness that presses in close.

The nights that are so bleak it seems as though the sun will never rise.

The depression that sits so heavily on your chest, your lungs imagine they'll never expand again.

VII.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the empty bottle, tears staining my cheeks.

It was only my second year on the mission field, and life had suddenly grown impossibly hard. Inescapably dark. Everything caved in, and I saw no way out. No way through.

So handful after handful, I'd swallowed, wondering to myself exactly what a full bottle of ibuprofen would do.

I spent several days vomiting relentlessly.

Everyone thought I had the flu.

I didn't correct them.

VIII.

A decade later, I found myself in an even darker night of the soul. One that mercilessly persisted for years.

Clinical depression, the doctor said. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Weighty words.

I wanted to resist them—I could hear the echoes of righteous disapproval, reminding me that I should be able to praise my way out of my funk. But I didn't have enough fight left in me to resist.

So I learned to swallow my pride each morning along with my Prozac.

And my eyes slowly began to see the abusiveness of some of the tenets I'd held onto for so long.

IX.

It is devastating to me when I realize again how many still see a conflict between faith and therapy/treatment. They are not at odds with one another, but when we imagine them to be, it doesn't eradicate depression or mental illness. It only shames us into hiding behind a mask.

When we imagine them to be at odds, it keeps us from seeking help when we need it.

And it keeps those around us from seeking the help they need too.

The Church should be an arms-wide-open safe place for the broken (and by "the broken", I mean all of us). Instead, all too often, the Church holds stones in her hands, ready and eager to cast them at those already wounded.

X. 

Reaching out, getting help, taking medication, seeing a therapist... Those are not signs of weakness.

They are enormous steps of bravery. Of strength. Of courage. Of—dare I say it—faith.

Yes. Faith.

Faith that acknowledges God can work through anything.

Let's start being known for championing these brave, faith-filled steps. We need to shake off the stigma by speaking of them more often, more boldly.

Let's begin being more honest about our own experiences and struggles and journeys. Let's be people and communities who are safe for masks to be dropped and brokenness to be revealed.

Let's be those who generously lend faith and courage to our fellow comrades who might need to borrow some. In our empathy, humility, and love, let's shine the light on the next brave step someone can take.

God made light from nothing; He can certainly make it from us.