At the limits of possibility

The grass is unnaturally green in that late autumn way. As if every drop of chlorophyll stored in the roots is being squeezed, rationed perhaps, out to the tips of the blades. I look from down to up, a stream of exhaled smoke like a tower above me. The tree arms bend and sway in their infinite combinations. The black of wet trunks contrasts with the bright leaves still clinging. Yellow and black, like a wasp, I think.

Why does nature resonate with the deepest parts of our souls? Why are there millions of members of the Sierra Club passionate to save our natural treasures? Why do I look up and feel peace as I watch the curvature of the tree limbs swaying in the wind?

The kids come crashing out of the house as I silently ask one last question of the tree, "Where did you come from?" They are as bright as the trees in their Halloween finery. With aunt and grandma in tow, we carouse the neighborhood snatching candy at lit doorways and running to the next light. Katy in her "Thing" costume rushes down the street, a box wrapped in black table cloths that flap sinisterly behind her.

I've heard so many arguments against Halloween in my decades at fundamentalist churchs. A pagan holiday, they say - as if Christmas is not steeped in paganism? I look around at the flushed faces and flashing eyes and the variety of the costumes. I think to myself, today is about welcoming the innocence of childhood back out into the streets and into the neighbors houses. It's about adults pausing one day a year to laugh with the next generation and celebrate their diversity and creativity and the joy they bring us.

Tears spring to my eyes. Life faltering, faith gone, this family is the last treasure I have left outside of my own brain. I feel that fierce, Mama bear guttural response as I watch them span longer and longer distances. THESE ARE MY BABIES, I want to shout to the rooftops with pride and happiness. My husband and I swirled together in four unique ways and here they are, growing up slowly, one more block trick-or-treated this year than last. They waited until dark so they could see the big kids' "scary" costumes. This year they laugh at the zombie, skeletons, vampires and ghosts.

For a moment, everything seems possible. I could stay and we could make things right in our marriage and we could keep doing just as we have. But here I stand at the junction of the possible and impossible and I find there is no line painted here in the valley of the heart that demarcates one from the other. I can only go on the instincts, that feeling of rightness when I'm planted in the possible and the immediate unrest that comes when I cross the line and my soul screams her dissent. I cannot keep the person inside me silent much longer.

I feel it, like the chlorophyll in the autumn grass blades, rising in me, this deep and private truth that ties all of my life together and explains most of the unanswered questions and illuminates the darkness of long periods of depression and self-harm. With each day, I step a little closer to myself. I makes lists of things I love. I make lists of dreams I've never vocalized. I make lists of reasons to stay and reasons to go. I make lists of beautiful things I've seen. I make lists of good thoughts to replace bad.

Though the emotions remain high, my days filled with wild swings between utter joy and complete desolation, the razor blades don't wink at me from the cupboard, the knives stay neatly in the butcher block, the pills sleep in their bottles. Something about this journey back to being me has lifted the spectre that has hovered over me for 25 year now. I ask this strange soul that has taken up occupance within me, "Where did you come from? What took you so long?" And she says back to me, "You are beautiful. You are worthy of love. You are necessary, too."

It would be an easier world if the people we are evolved earlier in life. But in truth, I've needed all of those 25 years to find my way back through the twists and thorns of the personal path of pain I journeyed down. I needed a new perspective to recognize myself, finally, at 34. It's as though the Picasso painting of my life that has perplexed for years in it's fragments is reorganizing it's parts into something I can finally see. The reflection of a face that I have missed and loved and grieved over for 25 years.

It isn't innocence returning. It's the ability to look right at the innocence lost and say that every experience of life has melted into the mosaic I admire on this day of triumph when I can open my arms to the world and announce myself unabashedly. It's moving past forgiveness to acceptance. That radical kind that knows those things shouldn't have been, but are, and it is what it is. It is the past, unchangeable, irrefutable, and I have stopped pounding my fists on the confines of time trying to shatter the glass behind me and go back and make things better the second time around.

You, with the knife in your hand:

Please stop. Just for a moment. Read. You are not alone. Someday the sneers will turn to cheers as you bring others deep into your life, as you reveal your struggles. I know you can't be brave right now. I know how badly life can hurt. But maybe, just maybe, after reading my story, you can cry instead of die. 

{this is written for Suicide Prevention Week and may contain triggers}

Amy stands deep out in the icy surf of Lake Superior, her heart overflowing with joy as her muscles remember body surfing in the Atlantic Ocean so many times before. She spots the big waves and beckons her siblings to prepare. We are stared at - partly because we didn't plan ahead and the kids are in the lake fully dressed. Partly because no one here has ever seen kids body surf like this.

They are carefree and oblivious to the stares. They are looking out into the deep blue for the next rideable wave. This is what I want for them - so intense is their search for joy, beauty, truth, light, justice, compassion, mercy, grace, adventure, and wisdom that their eyes never waver from the path ahead.

My mother and father taught me this. There are memories of being comfortable being different: reading a college economics textbook in 5th grade that I brought everywhere with me; wearing a quirky hat collection all through high school; pouring my heart into art and poetry and music until I was in a different world myself - a world I was happy in.

Somewhere along the way, someone taught me to be self-conscious. I remember the whispered insults - "awkward", "too big for your britches", "lesbo", "weirdo", "too smart for your own good", "curious George", "giant", "you look like a boy", "nasal voice", "odd", "you don't play well with others". The paramount sneer on the playground, the stage, the backyards, the bike rides, the 4-H meetings, ball games, homeschooler playdates: "You'll never fit in; who do you think you are, anyway? Better than us?"

If only they'd known that the exact opposite was true: I was afraid I would never be good enough. For four long years, I hid completely. How many of us didn't in middle school? I became as quiet as a church mouse in groups. I continued being a leader only because my mother trained me to be. I pretended to be dumb, but random facts kept leaping off my tongue before I could haul them back in. I was an outsider, a lurker, always on the periphery and never in the circle. Many, many others share this piece of my story.

I've often wondered why I've been dogged by depression and suicidal thoughts since I was 10. Why did so many others weather bullying better than I? It wasn't until recently that I began to understand. Injuries make you vulnerable, especially to further injury. And I had a wounded soul.

It wasn't just words that had wounded me. It was derisive torment of a physical and psychological nature. I will never forget the twisted grin on my abuser's face when I experienced the most pain, the most shame, defeat and blood and filth coating my tongue. This. It started me out on poor footing, it started me out bandaged and bloodied, it started me out believing that angry and evil words directed at me meant physical torment was only moments away. I remember the visceral reaction I had to the taunts of others after her - tightening of all my muscles, the surge of fear in my stomach, the cold sweat, the dry mouth, the clammy palms, the sudden separation of body and mind as I drifted off into the sky to distance myself from the pain to come.

And with the surge of pain in those years came the suicidal thoughts. They trace their history all the way back to my childhood. It wasn't that I wanted to be dead. It wasn't that I wanted to leave the people I loved. It wasn't that I wanted to experience more pain at my own hand.

I just wanted - want- the pain of life, the inescapable pain, to be over and done.

When I was 10, I didn't complete it by protective grace alone.
And when I woke up, I couldn't try again because of my parents, my brothers.

When I was 17, I didn't do it because I held onto hope that college would be different.

The attempts that did come were usually alcohol-soaked. Occasionally stone cold sober, but out of body, my mind careening through the black hole of open space without substance to control it's flight.

When I was 21, I didn't complete it because a friend saved me.

When I was 28, I didn't do it because cancer and hopelessness wasn't reason enough.

When I was 30, I didn't do it because I looked into my children's eyes.

When I was 31, I didn't complete it because there was a holy cacophany of friends and loved ones shouting from the rooftops that I was loved, I was enough, I was desperately needed. Their voices drowned out the jeers of others for a short while.

Now, at 34, sometimes it's my counselor's voice echoing in the chambers of the mind, "You can't do this to your babies." Sometimes it's the verses quoted by friends. Sometimes it's a note from my Papa and sometimes it's my mother's voice on the phone. Sometimes it's the hope of a different life that fits my skin. Sometimes it's simply resolve. Sometimes it is knowing it is wrong. Sometimes it's out of pure defiance: I won't let you finish me, I won't let your words drive me to be someone I'm not.

Here I am. All 34 years of me, all the history of dark plans and nighttime soul riots, all the desperate prayers, all the bottles of pills and high places I've stood on the edge of, all the razors and all of the scars. I am begging you to find a reason not to. I know you have reasons not to - everyone does. Because each of us - however bent and bruised - we have a purpose. There is someone, somewhere, who will weep for decades if you take your own life. Maybe that person is still in your future. Will you give that up to stop the pain?

Hug someone.

Pick up the phone.

Go for a run.

Let yourself scream.

Be angry.

Be sad.

Be sorry.

Be brave.

Write it out.

Draw a picture.

Send an email.

Call a counselor.

Call a hotline.

Drive to a friend's house.

Take a cold shower.

Go look at the sky and ask your questions.

Tweet or Facebook for help and encouragement.

Say a prayer.
Ask for prayer.

Listen to some music.

Make a playlist that says what you can't.

Tell a relative.
Do something you love even if you don't feel like it.
Look at an old photo album.
Believe it will get better.

Don't hide.

Don't use substances to numb out.

Don't pretend you're fine.

Don't think you're alone.

Don't believe this is best for everyone.

Don't listen to the lies swirling through your brain.

Don't do it today - make a plan to wait 24 hours - then another 24.

Don't keep your weapons.

Don't be silent about your plans.

Don't be afraid of going to the hospital.

Don't be scared to take a break.

Don't try to wait it out alone.

Don't hold it in, bottle it up, or push it away.

Don't grin and bear it.

If I am the only person you know who can speak to those dark places inside of you, then write to me at gmthul@yahoo.com. Tell me your story. Beg for help. I will listen, I will bleed with you, I will speak truth. 

Don't end your story with a noose, a bloody bathroom, a shattered form at the bottom of a cliff. Don't spend your last hours vomiting and gasping for breath. Don't lose the last precious moments of the only life you have to a coma or a crash. Don't let your loved one or your friend see the sight of your choice - they will never recover. Do you want a closed casket funeral that leaves all who you leave with no sense of closure? Do you want them to always wonder what they could've done differently? Wishing they had somehow saved you?

One true thing, a reason I know from experience: there will come a day when you thank God you didn't go through with it. Even if there are more attempts after that day, it will come again - the day you're glad you're alive. And again. And again.

There will come a day when the pain will fade a little. There will come a day when the beauty of life is greater than the torture of it. There will come a day when you look back at all you would have foregone, and call your own life - your broken, battered, tear-soaked life - good.

This brilliant light is brighter than we would've known,

Without our darkness to prove it so.

Still, we can’t help but to examine it,

To add our question marks to periods.

At the foot of our bed, we found an envelope…

“You are enough.”

These little words, somehow they’re changing us.

“You are enough.”

So we let our shadows fall away like dust.

When we grew up,

Our shadows grew up too.

But they’re just old ghosts

That we grow attached to.

The tragic flaw is that they hide the truth.

That you’re enough.

I promise you’re enough.

____________________________________________________

This week the world focused on suicide prevention in an international campaign to raise awareness. By far the most beautiful and gut-wrenching piece written was posted on A Deeper Story by attempt survivor Luke Harms. His simple title, "Your Story is Worth Finishing", settled deeply into my hungry soul. Perhaps because the story of this life of mine is so important to me. Perhaps because I want all the suffering and struggling and fighting tooth and nail to mean something in the end - to lift someone else up, let them know they aren't alone, or to show the capacity of the human spirit for courage and love?

I thought I was going to stay away from Suicide Prevention Week. I avoided social media on the 10th, Suicide Prevention Day itself, and didn't follow any links to the statistics, the infographics, the blog posts, the trending Twitter hashtag. Because I am still very much in the fight for my life. Because the scars of the last mistake are barely healed. Because I didn't feel brave, strong, or stupid enough to expose myself to triggers when I am still fragile. But Luke's title grabbed me, and I read, tears streaming, and I thought, I cannot let this year pass. I cannot be silent on this topic. I hope this reaches the eyes of someone who needs it. Please pass it on to those who are struggling.

When peace is a distant memory

Photo by Ann Voskamp

Sometimes I wonder, if this is how love feels, what would His anger feel like? Life seems an insurmountable pile of trials thrown together like dirty laundry, and you will never complete it all. If suffering is to be our food for the rest of life, are we willing? Oh, to skip back to the naïveté of childhood, before I realized the weight of this life.

How do you roll the crushing boulder off your broken frame? What could possibly give me leverage in this mire? I keep counting blessings, as if to make a rope ladder up from the pit out of these gifts numbered. But it is slogging work, to push away the dross of each day to hunt for the few jewels. Life is hard, times are bad, and it seems too much to bear.

Guilt piles up heavy as well. Every time the dark thoughts collide inside, more wounds are created, in me, in these children, in my husband who so tenderly supports and comforts me. How can I keep doing this to the ones I love? If it were up to self-control, if I could fix these broken places myself, I would have, a thousand times over. The problem is, I can only rely on the One stronger than I to heal me, and instinct makes me push Him away, as He seems, too, the source of my pain. By His allowing it feels as though He gives His consent. How can He not rise as my shield and make the sun shine upon my soul for a season? Does He really think I am strong enough to survive all of this?

Today I am to be at a women's conference, but I cannot drive, I cannot think, and I cannot be in a group of women - anathema to an introvert's bleeding heart. It would be like walking back into the fire the day you get out of the hospital with your old burns still weeping. I cannot make myself participate.

Oh, how I beg for deliverance.

Grace.

Peace.

Healing.

When will my Lord hear and comfort me?

Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for mine help. Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me: say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. (Psalm 35:1-3)

Life is easier when you can fly

My friend Ann wrote today what she wished the Church knew about mental health. It was salve for wounds worn dry and dirty from the rub of shame, guilt, disgust. I am perhaps even more saddened by the death of Rick Warren's son Matthew than the general Christian public, having so closely walked that dark path he found himself upon just a week ago. Everyone seems to be talking about it - and I'm thankful for that. Part of me also wonders - what about the thousands upon thousands who have silently slipped away without notice? Did anyone hear their earlier cries for help? Did anyone acknowledge and validate their pain and offer to walk with them through the experience?

We - Aaron and I - refer to our time at Valleybrook Church as our time in the spiritual hospital. This church opened it's arms to us with incredible grace when we were most wounded. A pastor opened her door to welcome me into her office once a week just so I could talk about things I had never told anyone. They hosted a network of small group studies based on the Wounded Heart book by Dan Allender. Through this experience our eyes were open to a different kind of church - one where people walked like Jesus as much as they talked about Him, where you could come for sanctuary. Do you know why we call our worship spaces "sanctuaries" today? Because from the 4th to the 17th century, you could run to a church and be safe as long as you stayed within it's walls - safe from lawmakers and their police, anyone wishing to harm you, safety from legal prosecution and even the death penalty. Back then, if someone violated the Right of Sanctuary, hassling or hurting the fugitive in any way, the perpetrator went free, and the punisher took his penalty.

Life - and by extension, faith - is so much easier when you're soaring. Clear blue skies and a sweet summer breeze are what we Northerners think about and long for the better part of the year. But this type of weather rarely comes - and so it may be with the mind, too. For me, it is like the undertow of a river, or trying to carry something heavy through water. I remember that time back in 2011, when I was drowning, and a few who were soaring above noticed and joined me on the water. By the flapping of their wings beside me, I was comforted in the reminder that I, too, have wings, and someday would soar again. Since the healing that came to me last year, I've had long stretches of few symptoms - and yet, here I am in the middle of a relapse of sorts.

What you may not realize, when you see me bleeding all over the church floor, is that I've confessed each sin a thousand times if I've confessed it once. A thousand times I have not felt that relief of release that should accompany confession. My heart and soul were so torn by the break that came with childhood abuse that it still feels black and muddy and shameful. It is the weight of that millstone around my neck that I cannot break free from - yet. The time may be coming, but for now, I'm still bleeding and it's still a mess all over my church's floor, the floors of my home. Dragging around wounds everywhere you go messes life up all over again.

Is someone in your life struggling with mental health issues? Won't you be the one who sits down beside them, or takes them on a walk, or offers them a space in which to heal every now and then? Can your church be a hospital for the wounded? Are you willing to bind up wounds and bear the stink of surgery and the long, slow road to recovery?

When we say YES - personally and corporately as the Body of Christ - then, truly, we are the hands and feet of Jesus' love for His people. In Galatians 6, in a section of the Bible titled by English translators "Bear and Share the Burdens", God says it this way:

...let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith.

.................................................................
Still counting gifts...
2008 Snuggling my son
2009 A moment of pure joy in a rainstorm with my Aaron
2010 those caring, willing hands of my family
2011 the rescue and release that is confession comes for a moment
2012 a true conversation with my own mama

The narrow escape

I have been in the hospital for four days. Dealing with chronic illness lays your soul bare and opens an ear to the whispers of evil. There are times when you go dancing with the inner demons, the triumphs of sin in the expanse of your life. You lift the ruby red blanket of Christ's sacrifice and allow those demons to jump back out from underneath, cackling and carrying you on their backs down the path of dangerous thoughts. I am not good enough. I am not worthy of the life I've been given. Look at all these awful things I've done! Do they not condemn me forever? Am I not marked as a wicked one?

The Jews of ancient times ascribe Lamentations to Jeremiah, the "weeping prophet". In my darkest times of soul distress and distrust, the words of this book scream like dervishes confirming my worst fears about myself:

All who honored her despise her, for they have seen her nakedness; she herself groans and turns away. Her filthiness clung to her skirts; she did not consider her future. Her fall was astounding; there was none to comfort her. All your enemies open their mouths wide against you; they scoff and gnash their teeth and say, "We have swallowed her up. This is the day we have waited for; we have lived to see it." As if it were a feast day, you call enemies to terrify me on every side. (from Lamentations 1 and 2)

I've danced in the minefields for one day too long. I am weak and weary. If I were writing a Psalm, I would repeat the words of David, Do not cast me from Your presence, but grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. (Psalm 51:11a & 12b) I gather things around me, books, Bibles, my thumbprint cross, the tattoo on my wrist that says, Choose life (from Deuteronomy 30). As talisman against the darkness.

I think back on this present trial, the worst of it 8 weeks long now, and there are a few things to rejoice in. I suffered 8 weeks of impulsive thoughts pushing me toward the place I have chosen not to go, and at the end of the 8 weeks I chose triumphantly with all the weapons at hand. I believe this turning, this repentance - the Hebrew word  שׁוּבָה transliterated "shubah", meaning a return or a turning away from - is counted by God above as gold, silver, and precious stones.

I return home stronger, although despair and hopelessness still nip at my heels. I have seen redemption worked out in my life again, and I have lived to tell the story, I love to tell the story -  because I know 'tis true; it satisfies my longings as nothing else can do (I Love to Tell the Story, by Arabella Hankey, 1860's).

Are you dancing with your demons? Are you surrounded on every side? May the blanket of white snow that is Christ's covering salvation return your demons to dust, and may you find peace in the sanctification of the Holy Spirit. My prayer for myself, and for you.

"After"

Walking back into the light

I've been walking in the dark. Honing my night vision, spiritually. Psalm 51 has been a great comfort: Open my lips, Lord, and my mouth will declare Your praise. My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit. A broken and contrite heart You will not despise. I am reminded of a time such as this when repentance healed my broken heart, so broken it felt dead and silent inside me.  I "turn my mind", words so similar to the definition of "repentance", the Hebrew word  שׁוּבָה transliterated "shubah", meaning a return or a turning away from.

I remember, too, that I counted gifts then, wrote them down with paper and ink so they were there, indelible, monuments of God's faithfulness to bless me even in the dark night. And so, again, I pick up notebook, the one with pages and pages of the sins I've committed, the one I wrote my heart out in this past week. Spewing sadness. On top of the new page I tape the template for the tattoo I got on my wrist on Monday, covering up scars: Choose Life, from Deuteronomy 30 - the chapter of Scripture with the heading "The Offer of Life or Death". And then I begin again, at number 2,000, to number gifts. My therapist calls this "accumulating positives". Life hangs in the balance, and I choose to pile more on the side of Life and Joy than on Despair and Death.

The sunlight streams back into my soul, and I have 3 good days in a row. (I whisper this, as if hope may truly BE the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, and perhaps would will take wing if startled.) I have chosen the long, slow road of faith. There are quicker ways to peace, but none other that lasts for eternity. In the carbon black days of depression, I pray the fire in my brain is forming diamonds. For today, I simply give thanks for a good day. A reprieve, a relief, like the sigh as you lay head on pillow after a hard day's work, muscles melting and pain fading as you rest.

Photo credit: Sarah Bessey

#2001 breakfast in bed

#2002 children's morning smiles as they serve it

#2003 skills lab with 50 eager students

#2004 laughing with my mama

Rebuilding

Here, my dear

This is where

We'll shake the nightmares free

I dream to hold you in my arms

I dream to hold you in my arms

To hold you in my arms

Wide awake in my arms

I think I figured it out

We need to be together

Like the shore and the sea

We are not one thing

We're drawn here together

My ocean and me

Love we sleep apart

For the last time

For the last time

~Jon Foreman, Hold You in My Arms~

I keep waking up pummeling my husband at the end of a nightmare. Rape. It's a word we don't say out loud very often. Hush, hush! Who wants to admit it happened to them, too?

Rebuilding the house is difficult, draining, stretches me to the end of my perseverance. I celebrate small victories: no self-harm for over 2 weeks now, laughing at a joke with my husband. family sing-alongs around the piano, giving Rosy her piano lessons in spite of the turmoil of my soul.

But this is an eternal house I'm rebuliding. Reeducating my soul is one of those few building projects that will last for all eternity. It's worth the time, the energy, and the perseverance.

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. (Romans 5:1-5)

I desire character and hope. I want to emerge with more of both. Right now it feels like tug-of-war with evil every day and every night. Through the flashbacks and the nightmares, I know my soul is processing memories that are too big to simply think about. Looking forward, I may need medication for a long times...years even. God didn't give me stubbornness for no reason. I'm digging my heels in. This enemy is gaining not an inch from me anymore. My commander is the Lord of the Universe, my infantry Christians who stand shoulder to shoulder, shields in front and helmets on tight, swords held high (Ephesians 6:10-20).

This verse is a sharp thrust right in the gut, the sucker-punch that you don't see coming. The reminder that God is not happy-clappy - He has big things in mind, and you are part of them. Build with the right materials and your life will make a lasting, eternal impact.

....each one should be careful how he builds. For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ. If any man builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw, his work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each man’s work. If what he has built survives, he will receive his reward. If it is burned up, he will suffer loss; he himself will be saved, but only as one escaping through the flames. Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him; for God’s temple is sacred, and you are that temple. (ICorinthians 3:10-17)

don’t give up tonight

I know you’re going through the valley, 

but you’re gonna make it out alright

Hey, tell your troubles goodbye

Go on and leave it in the valley,

leave it in the valley tonight

So you think He don’t know what He’s doing

You think He ain’t by your side

Well, God knows when you’re broken

And He’s loving you, He’s holding you so, so tight

So let the rain fall

He’ll be standing there getting wet with you

You might get cold but you won’t be there alone

And when you’re hanging by a thread hold on

You know the darkest part is right before the dawn

So when your fear has worn you out

Feels like the sky is on the ground

He ain’t gonna let you down

He’ll never let you down

~Mandisa, Leave It In the Valley~

The fallen sisters

I could talk about self-control, rightly so. I could talk about doing the right thing and what my conservative opinions of a Christian life should look like. I may even get a lot of encouragement from other well-meaning do-gooders. We could have our own club, totally separate from ‘the world’ and draw the shades to our heart while we enjoy how Christian we are. Meanwhile, we suffocate a fallen sister because our lives don’t offer hope, they offer moral standards. You know you’re sending the wrong message if one of your members leaves the group when they make a moral mistake. God set up grace so that He would never lose anyone. Set your life up that way, too. ~from the incomparable Serena Woods at Grace is for Sinners

I've known a thousand of them, women struggling. Women losing babies. Women saying goodbye to their dead children. Women struggling through pregnancy, or grief, loss, limitation. Women wounded deeply, ignoring their wounds and living in a twisted world. Women at odds with their families. Women deep in depression and plagued by anxiety.

Last week, in the hospital, I met so many fallen sisters, sisters who saw no reasonable excuse to continue their sad lives. Sisters who had overdosed, wounded their own bodies, carving out flesh for sins past, sins present, sins they dreamed their future filled with. I walked with them, as one of them.

How do we, the church, respond to fallen sisters? How to carry them through their grief, loss, pain, and dependence? How to help them see sunlight again? To feel the small and large joys that await each of us on this long walk we call life. How to let them know that life is not hopeless, nor are fallen sisters powerless or voiceless.

Like the glimmer of the yellow crocus petal, I feel myself in the world of fallen sisters, but rising for beauty. Beauty for ashes. Gladness for mourning. Praise instead of a faint spirit. (Isaiah 61:3)

Lord, help me walk back into the sunshine.

Note from the wilderness

Close-up of crack in broken tire chock

 We don't think of ourselves as fragile. Especially as Christians. We're strong in the Lord, right? (Ephesians 6:10) Yet, over the whole span of scripture, we read of mighty people becoming broken so that they can serve God in amazing ways: Adam, afraid in his nakedness; Jacob, who wrestled with God, and limped always afterward; Abraham, whose health and vigor failed long before God granted him the promised son; the prophets who retreated to the wilderness to be fed by ravens as they had squandered their last bit of strength trying to carry God's message; the many people Jesus healed, the weakest, sickest, most shunned - the social misfits and pariah.

We are fragile. Sometimes we envision ourselves as warriors fit for battle, but there is always the thorn in the side (II Corinthians 12:7), the fact that God's greatness is made perfect in our weakness (II Corinthians 12:9).

This is a season of brokenness for me. I don't know what God has ahead. Frankly, I am too exhausted from the recent battles to even care much about what the future holds. I know He has a plan, and I'm sunk back in His arms just waiting for it to unfold. I am sure others who've struggled with depression know this feeling. Wishing there were heaven-sent ravens coming to feed you while you rest in the sand (I Kings 17:6).

The story of this battle

Jesus took me on an amazing journey in the past 2 weeks. After struggling, struggling, struggling with depression for months, trying this medication and that, I was suddenly plunged into the depths of the dark pit of my own past sins and Satan's wrenching grip. God felt so far away, like a satellite makes it's slow orbit around the earth - He, making His silent orbit around me a million miles away, just checking in those darkest hours of the night. Faith fit me like a clumsy second-hand coat and I couldn't find my battle armor. Faith is lost, and is carried away out of their mouth (Jeremiah 7:28b).

I hurt myself, people who care deeply about me, loving and respecting and believing, sometimes, I think, in the "writer Genevieve", not the real and battle-worn Genevieve standing before them. The cost of believing in little snippets of joy is that sometimes the darkest sorrows spin underneath beyond the glimpse of anyone but yourself. I should have reached out for help much sooner. I never want to forget that. My past sins seemed to surround me, drowning out hope. You summoned as if to a festival day my terrors on every side (Lamentations 2:22 exc.).

And so, dying on the vine, hope squashed and faith seeming nothing but mirage, I asked God for heaven instead of this bleak earth. Those people I hurt - they were crushed this time. I broke the trust of my caregivers at the hospital where they tried to titrate medications to bring me out of the fog of disillusionment and grief. As I saw what I had done - laid waste to every dream I've ever had, forever scarred those I love best, traded ashes again for beauty - I never wanted to do that again.

A dear pastor came and spoke Truth into my weary head, and I began to sense myself re-entering the war for my body. My soul claimed long ago by the blood of the Cross, Satan was there to steal my body and my story so that I could never touch another person with the power of my life redeemed. My pastor pleaded with me, Beloved, I urge you as sojourner and exile to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul. (I Peter 2:12)

But warfare is infinitely more difficult than giving in to Satan. Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose. (Philipians 2:12-13)

I slipped again, and the pain was new for all surrounding me. In a solitary room, four green walls and a bed bolted to the floor with slots for restraints, without Bible or friend to comfort, just two red-eyed video cameras analyzing my every move, I praised God for His foresight as I had memorized Psalm 73:26 the night prior: My flesh and heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

I leaned on Deuteronomy 30:19-20a: I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life, that you and your offspring may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying his voice and holding fast to him, for he is your life and length of days. However mindless and mind-numbing those days in the solitary room were, me pacing around the bed, stretching, doing push-ups, even singing at the top of my lungs in the corner ampitheater squeezed tight into what felt like a more private space - God was at work.

The day I chose life, when death was just another slice away, I sensed God knew my limitations, for He has promised that He is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it. (I Corinthians 10:13)

He stepped in to lift me up and fight for me. I felt like we were still flying low, but I could feel the wind in my hair, feel the flutter of the eagle's wing feathers as we floated above the battle and looked down at the vast sea of sorrow I had thought was so large. Now so little from the vantage point on His back. Yes, He seemed far away, as though He were the satellite in meaningless orbit just glinting in on the darkness of my days, as it says in Isaiah 45, In a surge of anger I hid my face from you for a moment, but with everlasting kindness I will have compassion on you.

But hope was not far off on a distant shore over an uncrossable ocean of tears.

 For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed,” says the LORD, who has compassion on you. “O afflicted one, storm-tossed and not comforted, behold, I will set your stones in antimony, and lay your foundations with sapphires. I will make your pinnacles of agate, your gates of carbuncles, and all your wall of precious stones. All your children shall be taught by the LORD, and great shall be the peace of your children. In righteousness you shall be established; you shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near you. If anyone stirs up strife, it is not from me; whoever stirs up strife with you shall fall because of you. Behold, I have created the smith who blows the fire of coals and produces a weapon for its purpose. I have also created the ravager to destroy; no weapon that is fashioned against you shall succeed, and you shall confute every tongue that rises against you in judgment. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD and their vindication from me, declares the LORD. (Isaiah 54:10-17)

Torment fled from my nightmares, and terror from my flashbacks during the day. Turn to me and be saved, all the ends of the earth! For I am God, and there is no other. (Isaiah 45:22) I began to rest well again, enjoy my days, and smile. God gave me this verse on one of my last days in the hospital, as I prepared to move my new-found confidence back out into real life and beyond the cloistered walls of a monitored unit of the hospital. Restore our fortunes, O Lord...Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him. (Psalm 126:4-6) Shouting for joy still sounds like a pipe dream but I do trust this God who once again showed up in my life in amazing ways.

It is well with my soul,

Thou has taught me to say...

To you, O Lord, I cry, and to the Lord I plead for mercy: What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness? Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me! O Lord, be my helper!” (Psalm 30:9-12)

Excerpted from my gratitude journal, the weeks in the hospital, #312-541:
312. There is nothing in my room sharp enough to cut through skin
313. God only turns His face for a short time (Isaiah 54:8)
315. I am learning to ask for help.
317. I learned more about spiritual warfare now more than ever before
319. Being surrounded by the shields of faith of friends and family so fiery darts can't reach me.
322. What profit is there in my death? (Ps. 30:9-12)
324. A big bad biker dude borrowing my pink Bible to search for God
330. Scripture always ready on my tongue, even when I am a victim of the battle (thanks, Mama and God).
332. The gorgeous strawberry blond crowning the tired and lonely head of a teenager
335. The great, great God who stilled this anxious heart and fought for my life, sending terror far from me.
411. Souls won for Christ while I offer His words to them with my bleeding hands, spoon it into their chalk dry mouths and thirsty souls
537. Holding Mama's hand during my discharge planning meeting
538. Grandparents willing - nay, happy! - to help with my brood
539. Kristy always ready with a hand to hold and a prayer on her lips for me
540. The sweetest sentences I've ever read, from my Dad-in-law and Nate York
542. Sweet Sara picking me up with belly laughs and delight

Pasque Flower

I grew up on the prairie, ten years of my childhood.

            

It is a long way from characterless; "overpowering" would be a better word.  The horizon a dozen miles away is as clean a line as the nearest fence.  Across the immense sky move navies of cumuli, fair-weather clouds, their bottoms as even as if they had scraped themselves against the earth.  These prairies are quiescent, close to static; looked at for any length of time, they begin to impose their awful perfection on the observer's mind.  - Wallace Stegner, Wolf Willow

Every year, on the prairie, the Pasque flowers were the harbinger of spring.  A promise of growth, blossom and beauty.  Rest for the weary eye after the stark, bleak prairie winter.

-Aaron

Battle Wounds

My past was a blur and didn’t feel real, my present was a screaming siren of war and my hope was swallowed in the darkness. One thing I have learned is that Satan has little power over the believer. He can have his way with a person only under the jurisdiction of God. He can attack, tempt or torment only with a nod from the Almighty. God has given Satan a certain amount of freedom, but if God is always with you, then there is never a time where Satan is acting against you without God’s supervision. A lot of his damage is done with smoke and mirrors. He’s a creative liar who plays on your fears and emotions to manipulate you into a place where you are worthless and unable to produce. He wants to steal your story because he’s scared of the power it contains. In the vision that John wrote about in Revelations he says that he saw the believers defeating Satan with the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony. If Satan can’t undo the crucifixion, then his ultimate focus is to be on what he can do, He wants to get believers to a place where they are no longer heard. — Serena Woods

 Keep Breathing - Ingrid Michaelson

Cold is the water

It freezes your already cold mind

Already cold, cold mind

And death is at your doorstep

And it will steal your innocence

But it will not steal your substance

But you are not alone in this

And you are not alone in this

As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand

Hold your hand

And you are the mother

The mother of your baby child

The one to whom you gave life

And you have your choices

And these are what make man great

His ladder to the stars

But you are not alone in this

And you are not alone in this

As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand

Hold your hand

And I will tell the night

Whisper, "Lose your sight"

But I can't move the mountains for you

“Timshel” by Mumford & Sons

On Monday, I gave up. On Tuesday, God gave me the best day ever with my kids. On Tuesday night, I was admitted to the hospital. I re-engaged my will in this cosmic battle for my life. Life is dark, torment filled and fidgety. Pray for me, please. The battle rages on and I feel far, far away from God, with the claws of darkness so real and so close, digging in my back.

Prayer Request

Genevieve has been hospitalized, she asked me to apologize for the interruption in her writing and request your prayers for her healing.  Please check in for updates.

With Much Appreciation and Leaning Into Him,

Aaron