sweet surrender

The other day a dear friend said something to me that just won't leave me alone. It keeps reverberating off the walls of my heart and echoing through the halls of my mind. You see, I've been wrestling with surrender.

I can already hear those of you who will tell me that wrestling with surrender is counterproductive. I get that surrender is about releasing. Letting go. Relinquishing. That's exactly why I'm wrestling with it.

I need to get this right.

Anyway.

Ked's words seemed to get right to the core of the surrender issue for me. In all honesty, I'm simply not there yet to wholeheartedly tell God, "You pick!"

But I'm gonna keep wrestling with surrender until I can.

How about you?

meet gym

I've been hanging out with Gym a lot lately. Like five or six times a week. And let me tell you, he's been kicking my butt. Kick.Ing.It. With a name like Urban Active, how could I resist joining? I knew I needed to do something not only to get in shape but also to improve my mental/emotional health. So I hooked up with Gym.

To say I was intimidated on our first date would be a ridiculous understatement. My chest tightened with anxiety just looking at all the equipment that I had no clue how to use, and seeing all the people who very clearly knew what they were doing.

But I dove right in, expending more energy in one 20-minute session than I had in weeks. Months.

And I hobbled for days afterward. No lie. Hover-peeing was completely out of the question, and walking down a set of stairs nearly ended in catastrophe on more than one occasion.

But I kept seeing Gym.

And the I-can't-believe-it-hurts-this-much soreness gradually subsided---for the most part.

Now Gym and I spend an hour together just about every day. I work hard; I sweat a disgusting amount; I huff and puff all the way to the bitter end. Today I pushed myself really hard. And I've had jell-o legs ever since. [Note to self: Hold the handrail on the way downstairs.]

While I don't expect I'll ever say, I love working out!, I do walk away feeling exhausted proud of myself.

So for that reason, I can say I love Gym.

Even though he kicks my butt.

iWrite

My depression seems to have kidnapped my passion.

Right now it feels impossible to dream big or plan ahead. Most of what used to excite me isn't stirring me or making my heart leap anymore. At least not like they used to.

But one passion has remained. It's flickering like a candle near an open window, but it's still there.

I love to write.

Writing helps me process my own thoughts. It's therapeutic. Cathartic. My scribbled notes in my Moleskine, unpolished and unkempt, tell me my heart's still beating. My Gritty thoughts sent out through the cyberwaves remind me I still have something from Him to offer.

Despite the fog that envelops me, I still love to write. And the significance of that isn't lost on me.

Pay attention to dreams that don't die.

I'm trying to pay attention. And keep writing. Even when it's all I'm able to do in a day.

So while I wait for the ransom to be paid on my other passions, I'll guard what He gave me and use it for His glory.

And I'll trust that---somehow---He'll use it for my healing.

undone

I've written less emails in the past month than I used to write in a single day.

You gotta understand something about me: I'm a doer. I manage to get stacks of things done in a day. I figure out ways to tackle the to-do lists and push through the projects, even under tight deadlines. I know how to work my tail off when I need to. And even when I don't.

At least I used to anyway.

Right now, I simply don't have it in me.

My days are fairly empty, so I find myself with more time on my hands than ever before. But what I've gained in time, I lack in motivation, energy, and concentration. And one result is an overflowing inbox.

It's difficult for me to reach out right now. I feel unable to be the kind of friend I used to be and want to be---the kind of friend you deserve.

If you're one of the many who've emailed me but haven't heard back yet: I'm sorry for making you feel unimportant to me. I'm sorry I haven't explained until now.

Your emails aren't burdensome. My inbox is filled with reminders that I'm loved! So please don't hear this as a request to stop writing.

I guess it's just a request for patience. And understanding.

Because while I'm struggling to show it well right now, I still love and care deeply.

Even when I don't answer your email.

something better

When I let go, I closed my eyes tightly---only me and Him.

I held out my clenched fist, slowly opened it, and let it all just slip through my fingers.

I looked at Him and my heart sighed in simple repentance:

I've clung to my sin more than Your grace.

Exposed and uncomfortable, I looked away.

Ever so gently and gentlemanly, I felt His hand slip into mine.

He didn't leave me empty-handed. He just gave me something better to hold on to.

letting go

Sometimes it's easier to feel guilty than forgiven. All-too-often I choose to cling to my mistakes, my shortcomings, my depravity rather than to embrace the forgiveness and freedom that God has for me.

It takes effort to make that exchange, and---honestly?---sometimes I'd just rather not put in the effort. How pathetic is that? Especially since He already did the hard part.

But God's power has no effect in my life if I don't choose to receive it and rely on it. I don't want to nullify His power with my apathy.

I recently spent time letting go of some things I've held against myself for way too long. As hard as forgiveness can be, I find it most difficult to forgive myself.

Sitting alone in a "service" at St. Arbucks Church, I made the choice to let go. To forgive me.

After all, He already did.

And what I hold against myself, I'm ultimately holding against God. I'm basically slapping Him in the face and telling Him that His redemptive work isn't good enough. That I can do a better job atoning for my sin than He can.

Pride can't often see herself in the mirror. But I saw her loud and clear.

So I acknowledged that His work was final---that my sins are not only forgiven but paid for. And I made the decision to step out of the prison I'd locked myself in for so long.

I left a lot of crap in Starbucks that night.

And I got a venti cup of forgiveness to go.

[from a post on this day last year]

time to talk about it

Depression is a sign of weak faith. I don't know that I was ever told those exact words, but growing up, it was certainly conveyed to me that a depressed Christian is a bad Christian. A depressed Christian obviously lacks a strong relationship with God. A depressed Christian just needs to pray more, speak words of faith, and spend more time in the Bible. A depressed Christian gives Jesus---and the Church---a bad name.

That kind of thinking kept me bound in a prison. Forced me to suffer quietly. Because... Well...

I'm depressed. And I have been for a while.

My life is rich in many, many ways. I love God; I've followed Him my whole life; I've served Him passionately on the mission field for over a decade. I have people in my life who love me deeply and whom I love deeply in return.

But I'm also facing the hardest thing I've ever had to endure. And it's left me struggling with depression for almost two years.

Do I have weak faith? Sometimes. (So thankfully all I need is a mustard seed sized dollop of it.) But I know now that my depression isn't a reflection of my faith.

And I'm so sorry for ever thinking anyone else's was a reflection of theirs.