Whoever said a day wasn’t enough to change a lifetime?
So much can change in a day, in an hour, in an instant. Life can end, worlds can crumble, and love —
can die.
Nothing is for certain and nothing… is forever.
And perhaps that’s the beauty in living a messy life; all the lessons you learn along the way can fall into place at exactly the right moments.
I used to grow up wondering why God would allow homelessness to be a recurring theme in my life, but now I think its because He knew that by the age of 26, I would have to make a decision that chose confronting homelessness over clinging to a life that was no longer meant for me.
And just like that, any youthful resentment I’ve harbored over the decades have turned into a gratitude that’s fueling all the strength I have today.
I’m not happy to leave, but happy I left.
God places conflict in our lives that we can endure and that’s something I’ve come to appreciate. I know now that if something is placed in my lap, it’s there because God knows I can handle it, and I take comfort in the fact there’s a lesson here that, if I can remain faithful enough to learn it, I’ll understand its purpose later when I need it most.
So here I am, picking up my mat, surrendering all my steps to the Lord, allowing Him to pave my way, and taking it one day at a time.
And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? Matthew 6:27
But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble. Matthew 6:33-34
And one last quote to finish, a quote I take everywhere I go, from a show I’ve loved forever.
“Move, change, do something; if it’s a mistake, do something else.” Frasier, The Good Son
The only way to honor the death of your old self is to live the self the old you always dreamed of.
I’ll admit, some days I look back. I’ll look back at the part of me that was always sad, always dreading the next day, always anxious without rest, trapped inside a box labeled depression without a destination or home that would open me up and take me out. I’ll look back at that part of me and wonder, if in another world, I’m still living that ruin; that even though I have officially transitioned into a better life, is there a space that exists where I haven’t arrived yet?
The thought makes me sad because I hate to think there’s someone out there that feels the way I used to.
It happens most when I’m dancing, making a new tune on an instrument I never thought I could play, or singing my lungs out in the car; it happens most when I’m alone. I’ll look back and wonder if she’s there. The old me still suffering. All the things I find myself doing now I never did with her, my old self. I wouldn’t dance because I was afraid to overstep; wouldn’t play as if that one spot on the wall, I’ll check to see if she’s watching; as if my old self is in the room with me. Hiding. No one can see her anymore.
Sometimes, I think — that if I could just see her again, maybe, just maybe, things could have been different.
The thing that draws me back to my old self the most is the thought of my new-self. The self that is me, now. And when I’m actively thinking about my life now, all I want to do is tell my old-self to be patient; as if there’s a world where I’m the future, the thing I had been waiting for all my life.
I didn’t realize it was a prison, I’ll look back at her and wonder why she’s always in a cage, and then I’ll realized it’s because something doesn’t want her to get out.
But I got out, and it was the best decision, I wonder why anyone wouldn’t want someone to experience this.
And then it hit me, no one good would want to keep us from experiencing happiness, joy — peace. No one good.
That means if we’re in a cage, it’s because someone badis keeping us here. And if its hard to get out, its because that someone is really good at convincing us the cage is for our protection.
I’ve shed my oldest layer of skin; the layer I never thought would come off, the mother skin. The invisible weight that pressed down on my shoulder every time I wanted to do something different; something new, something daring. To be bold enough to surrender your shame regarding The skin that didn’t want me to grow, the layer that told me I’d never be good at anything at all.
I’ll never not come back to her.
Such a toxic trait to miss her, mourn her, grieve her. To want to talk to her one last time after crossing over to the other side; the side where its water, where its green, where we don’t have to worry
anymore.
It’s the feeling of, how did I end up here? I look around and the ground is crushed by my landing yet I myself, am fine.
How did I fast-forward all this time when it seems like just yesterday, I was suffering from depression? It’s like I skipped all the work it was going to take to heal because life no longer feels like work, it just feels like living.
I take a deep breath like I’ve been under water for so long, waiting for this wave of clarity, this gasp of air, this moment that says I’m alive.
It’s the feeling of I made it, like when you take a picture you weren’t ready for but somehow managed to like. You made it, just in time. The right angle, face, clothes, moment.
I look up to my Creator and say I get it now. Everything adds up, it makes sense, joy exists, and no one can tell me I’m wrong.
I get it now.
And all I had to do was be brave, sacrifice suffering, and shave off the skin that kept me warm in a body of sadness. Sadness is so warm and oddly comforting that sinking into it seems like a good idea. Sad bodies crave the heat and any layer taken off makes us so cold, we can’t even imagine such devastation.
I look back and wonder if I’m everything she thought shedding that skin would be worth it for.
And then my heart aches over stupid things; like sometimes, when I feel really good, I feel guilty, because we both couldn’t live at the same time. Sadness doesn’t exist in the daytime, and one day, I chose to open the blinds.
I did do the work.
It’s been months now, almost a year, since I started the road to recovery from the depths of my sadness.
The age of this blog is proof alone that I have slowly committed to changing my life from what it once was.
And what it now is, is joy.
So, when I’m dancing, I feel this sense of freedom that’s so full that it’s like a balloon one pump away from overinflation — a balloon just about to pop, that’s how full I am. Sometimes, it’s so overwhelming that I look back at that point on the wall, where I just so happen to know that’s where she’ll be, and I look at her; she looks at me, and her eyes tell me thank you.
And it makes me sad because she was the sacrifice I had to make in order to get out of the cage, but she looks at me like she’s happy I did.
What about you? What layer of skin do you need to shed?
In order to move forward, sometimes you’ve got to look back.
Something I’m quickly learning is that you’ll never be able to revise a draft you’ve never written; meaning, if you don’t start something, you’ll never be able to adjust, change, or grow. You lose out on such a significant part of your nature — the ability to adapt.
The biggest win I had last year was the cure to my depression. I couldn’t tell you what Jesus did with me but after last year, no one will ever be able to convince me that God’s done performing miracles.
My happiness was God’s miracle — to me.
There is no other way around it. It wasn’t the food I ate, the water I drank, or the movement I made — it was Jesus.
All my life, I’ve wanted to get baptized; throw up my hands and surrender to God — though I’ll admit, I’ve always romanticized it more than I’ve ever been able to actually do. However, every day it’s on my mind and every day I’m learning; one day I’ll overcome the flesh I fight with daily.
For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Romans 7:15 ESV
The truth is, I’ve always known that if I tried to lead my own life, I would never make it out of the mud. There would always be sorrow and pain, no rainbows, just rain, and it didn’t matter how weak or strong my faith was, this I believed with all my heart.
And maybe a part of that stems from my own insecurity that I’m never capable, but even now that I’ve developed a belief that I am, the quality of my life could never come close to the kind of paradise the Lord has built for me if I denied Him just to see what kind of paradise I could create on my own.
I cannot save myself. I cannot preserve myself. I couldn’t even wish myself into existence. I am so small, but how beautiful that is; that even the smallest things in life have purpose — I just have to go to my Creator and ask what it is and trust that He’ll guide me down the path to find it. But the act of trust doesn’t mean to continue to walk through life the way I always have, waiting for Him to make a move. Trusting Him means moving myself in His direction; climbing up the mountain, breaking a sweat, enduring the flesh, and never giving up; paying the price no matter the cost.
The path to Christ is through suffering. This will always ring true. Whether the sacrifice is big or small, you hold your breath and go into the water anyway, just like Jesus did.
And that’s the miracle God worked in me. The ability to dive in. To allow myself to sink. To be afraid and do it anyway.
My depression lingered on the surface of deep water, and I got so caught up in the fear of drowning that by trying to stay afloat, it captured me so easily. I wasn’t willing to take the plunge and deny my flesh, so I stayed there and allowed it to convince me that I would never amount to anything.
For years I remained above the water, watching everyone else be something great, yet I remained unwilling. I was so desperate; I knew what I needed but I could never bring myself to let go. And then a friend of mine told me something I will never forget:
God doesn’t call on the qualified, He qualifies the called.
[F]ear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10
He gave me all the air I needed. Pushed out the volume I had been holding in for so long and revived me with air so fresh it stung like mint. He cured my depression and instilled in me the courage to do what I had always wanted — to surrender myself to Him through baptism.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4
What about you? What was your biggest win last year?
What do you think your biggest win this year will be?
I grew up an uncomfortable kid; slow to learning, to loving —becoming.
When I look back at my life from where I am now, I struggle with the weight of each burden I forced myself as a child to carry; as a mother, I weep for the youth I’ll never get back and the possibility that my son might fall into the same fate. I mourn myself in a way I never thought I could. The memory of my brokenness remains vivid in my mind and the guilt I feel when I think about all the times I’ve purposely held myself back because I just couldn’t imagine a world where I was capable haunts me.
And of course, I’m still broken, but at least now I have Christ.
I wish I could explain it better, but Jesus really left the 99 to find me. It’s not a normalized thing — to sacrifice yourself for the sake of another, but that’s who Jesus was. He can’t stand by when one of us leaves the herd because He knows our purpose even when we don’t.
To Christ, every sheep is important — a heavy burden if you ask me; to have an infinite number of things in the world and Jesus has the capacity to understand the importance of each and every one of them; I’m overstimulated just thinking about it. Everyone has a story, everyone is unique, we are all handstitched by God from yarn He chose on purpose.
When I look at myself, I see someone who had such an unlikelihood of existing, but was created anyway. And I tremble when I realize that none of this, none of what I am, is random.
God chose me to love Him. He could have literally chosen anybody else, but He put His heart in my chest. His soul in my body. He didn’t raise me in the truth but built a path for me to find it. He didn’t force me to come home but waited for me to walk there myself.
He waited for me on the mountain, allowed me to roam the valley, and when I came home, He gave me His blessing.
Again, Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life. John 8:12
It feels like this past year I have been working towards refining what I’m now calling volume two of The Processing Mind Blog, SoiledRoot — a cute name for what I hope will be a groundbreaking year for me in terms of experience and exploration.
The truth is, we are not born into our perfect environment, but we are given the freedom to step out and find it. I used to view myself as a seed waiting to be watered but what I didn’t realize is that it’s the soil that can keep me from growing. So, this year, I’m dedicating time (again!) to developing a sense of awareness for my environment (aka, my soil) and the role it plays in my identity and how it shapes me overall as a person. The more I understand, the better I can adjust and influence my life via the places I surround myself in, and the better I can live.
To kickstart the month of Mei and my second lap around the sun as a blogger on The Processing Mind, I’ve uploaded my very first podcast episode to my YouTube channel, soiledroot. I pinned the video to the top of this page for you to watch and enjoy and hopefully take away something that could benefit you as you continue to walk in your own life, on your own terms.
The truth is we are all seeds waiting to grow, but who ever said we couldn’t run ourselves to the water?
It’s not about where you’re going or who you want to be, it’s about where you are now and the person you’ve become so far.
It never ceases to amaze me how often I find myself having to come down to my own level; I somehow always think I’m better than I actually am or can do more than I actually could. My unproductive nature has always found it easier to spend more time wondering whose fault it is that I couldn’t live up to my expectations or simply resolving to try harder than actually pointing the finger at myself and lowering my standards for the sake of building discipline and setting obtainable goals.
Example, at the beginning of the year, my husband set out to do something that’s circulating the internet called, “The 75 HARD.” To break it down, every day for 75 days participants need to:
Follow a structured diet — doesn’t matter which, just choose, add in no alcohol and zero cheat meals, and you’ve got rule one all figured out.
Conduct two sets of 45-minute workouts (one must be done outdoors). You cannot do them back-to-back; there has to be at least three hours apart. Doesn’t matter the type of workout — just be intentional and you’ve achieved the second rule.
Drink a gallon of water — A DAY! Side note: Y’all crazy.
Read 10 pages of a book that is meant to make you better; nonfiction, self-development, work-related, etc. Oh, and audiobook do not count.
Take a progress picture, every day. If you’re truly following the challenge right, you will want these pictures to look back on. The act of taking the picture alone is meant to develop your ability to sit with discomfort. If you don’t already have a good body or a body that you’re proud of, you will be uncomfortable, despite only you having access to the picture (isn’t it interesting that there doesn’t even have to be a single person in the room for us to feel this way about ourselves? That’s why a task even this miniscule is important).
Five rules, 75 days. No substitutions, no compromises.
Y’all, my husband was a real player at this game. His longest streak was 14 days while I couldn’t even make it past day 1. It was wild, especially because I even did what the challenge said not to do.
Substitute, compromise, and without remorse, mind you.
Dropped the gallon down to half a gallon, the two sets of 45 down to one, and the rest seemed easy enough. And it was…
until I couldn’t even get half a gallon down…
Turns out what I needed to drop was the challenge itself, not the rules. I’m not ready for a challenge like that and what’s worse is I even discouraged my husband from the challenge himself. I sabotaged him, unintentionally of course; by getting back the time that was supposed to be dedicated to my workouts, I was adamant about allocating that time towards spending it with him. I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend time with their partner? Well, that translated to me being unsupportive because it was while he was conducting his workouts or even his read time that I had the time and wanted to spend it with him.
I threw him off, and he hasn’t come back to the challenge since. And that’s something I sit with often and with a resolve to mend things, I even attempt to re-encourage him to try again, this time without unwarranted obstacles (aka me — sad face). Alas, to no avail, but it’s like what I mentioned in my previous post, one day he’s going to wake up, and it’ll be easier to want to try again — and actually do it. I just need to give it time.
So, in the meantime, the best thing I can do is work on myself and the first step I’m taking towards that goal is to, with a heavy heart, lower my own standards and come down to my own level.
I made a 75 day challenge of my own. It’s not hard, in fact it might even be a level below soft, but it’s a start.
Here’s what I’m going to do.
60 oz of water a day. This is almost laughable, in fact, I’m laughing as I write this. It’s not even half a gallon, it’s 4 ounces less… come on, b, but hear me out. I’m actually drinking from a 25 oz water bottle and have been refilling it three times a day (mind games, you know?). Anyway.
Bible study, every day, every morning, first thing’s first. I can do all things through him who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13).
30/15/15 — 30 minutes of German practice, 15 minutes of reading, 15 minutes of daily movement.
And lastly, instead of doing it for 75 days, I’m only going to do it for five.
My intention is to do more, but in order to do more, I have to start with less. That’s the stage of life I’m in right now, and if you ask me, it’s against my will. My heart tells me to grab the bull by its horns and by all means, I want to do it, but my heart isn’t as disciplined as my mind or maybe the two just aren’t aligned, that’s a rabbit hole for another time; all I know is I’ll get there.
The best thing I can do for myself right now is to be honest.
Because there’s no one else in the room right now, you know? It’s just me, and there’s no nook I could possibly hide a piece of myself in where I won’t find it. The best thing I can do is admit that there’s a piece of myself that likes to hold myself back; that likes to sabotage or is just too scared to try. And if I can admit that much, then the source of the problem no longer becomes a shadow I cannot find but one I can see and can work with.
Then Jesus said to him, “Get up, pick up your mat, and walk.” John 5:8
I honestly used to think I could get up and walk away, leaving my mat behind, but that’s not what Jesus calls on us to do. He wants us to carry it with us, as testimony that something that once held us back is now something we can use to actively glorify His name. He wants us to carry our brokenness, to allow others to see what we once used as crutches, so that they too might one day be able to follow behind Him with confidencethat nothing will be impossible with God (Luke 1:37 ESV). So, from this day forward, I’m going to pick up my mat and walk.
“Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” Matthew 19:24
***
I get this sort of pain in my throat every time this verse comes to pass. It’s as if all the air in my lungs release to the point that my body becomes so small, smaller than it’s ever been, and then it’ll just stay there; in child’s pose, waiting for whoever was there to leave the room.
And it’s in that moment when I realize, that’s my body telling me it feels shame.
And it makes me so sad to feel like I’m watching myself in third person, because I find myself practically drowning in empathy, just for my heart to sink at the realization that I’m not the bystander, I’m not the witness, I am this.
I’m not the jury, I’m the victim.
And as I write this, I’m winded, my breath — nonexistent.
It’s the pain of holding back tears that are strong enough to break a damn, the pain of pretending that everything’s okay because for some reason, it’s more important to me that everyone thinks I’m fine instead of knowing the truth because the truth is, and it’s a pain to know, that deep down, I’m way richer than I say I am — and that’s what’s going to keep me out of the kingdom of God. *** “Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me. When the young man heard this, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. And Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly, I say to you, only with difficulty will a rich person enter the kingdom of heaven. “ Matthew 19:21-23
On my knees, I fold. My heart tussles with the flesh; my mind falls down to it — like a beggar. We don’t need it [possessions], my lord, it cries. Surely, we could do without. But then I get whiplashed with craving, with urge, and somehow in the mix of it all, my lungs sneak in enough air to last me until the next time Matthew 19:24 decides to make an appearance.
It covers up the pain, it covers up the problem, and God’s Heavenly Kingdom.
“No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and [flesh].” Matthew 6:24
It’s the flesh, for me. I’m not rich in money, I’m rich in flesh — and it’s the flesh that’s going to keep me out of the kingdom of heaven.
I’m ashamed to love the flesh, the reward of the flesh, and how immediate it is; how its currency is so accessible that it’s overflowing — a land of its own milk and honey.
I’m hopeless. I can’t rub my eyes hard enough to see through this tunnel of darkness. They never tell you this is what faith feels like. To fall down on your knees, bow your head, and truly mean it when you say, “Lord, have mercy on me.” How broken you can feel and how desperate you can be; there are nights when you can’t sleep and days when you can’t breathe.
But this shame is meant to tell you that the beauty of feeling this way is that it means you care what God thinks of you.
And why would someone care about God if He wasn’t real? It’s because you believe that He is.
And I hope this gives you clarity like it does for me, because it means the hiding can finally be over; I don’t have to hide anymore, because I can’t. I can’t hide from God.
“…even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.” Psalm 139:12
For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light. Luke 8:17
No one can make you change, but if you truly loved someone, you would. You would stop what’s hurting them and spend your days wondering what would make their better. Their problems would be yours and their goals would be too. When you love someone, your life stops being all about you and more about others. You find compassion, you find patience, and you find grace; add in forgiveness and that sums up the Lord Himself.
And just when I thought this post would be a bottomless sob fest, there’s light at the end of the tunnel after all. Kind of makes you wonder if that’s the whole purpose; to know more, to love more, to change for, to live for.
And Lord, you’re worth living for. You’re worth changing for. I surrender.
And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Galatians 5:24
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. 1 Corinthians 10:13
I can do all things through him who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13 ESV
I was rich in flesh before, but I won’t be anymore. in Your name, I pray, Amen.
What you are today is what you are becoming. You are today what you have been becoming. Every day is a little life, and our whole life is but a day repeated.” — Elizabeth George
…
I hit the ground running this month; I started a book club called Holy Root, finished the Gospels, made attending church a non-negotiable, worked intentionally towards developing my femininity and womanhood, became more in-tuned with my home with a deep conviction to nurture it, and began incorporating prayer with my just-under-three-year-old son; now I witness in complete awe how he asks to pray more and watch as he often leads his prayers all by himself. It has not been an easy road, but one definitely worth taking.
And I find there’s something to say about stamina and how consistency cannot function long term without it. But stamina — it’s built, it’s lived, experienced, not gifted. You work for it, fight for it, and the battle — it’s never over. I quit just about every day, no matter what it is, whether I want it or not, I fall to my knees and I say I don’t want it, hoping that somehow it cleans my hands of any effort requiring me to forfeit my idleness. Every day I suffer in this dark desire for idleness over something that would undoubtedly serve me ten times better; I suffer because I know it. It’s a disease, really, which is why the fight for stamina is necessary: you have to fight the flesh. Every day. There’s no other way around it. We can’t escape it, but we can endure it, and that’s a blessing that comes from the grace of God. He says:
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation He will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. 1 Corinthians 10:13
We are builders. Nothing in life comes without building, and nothing that’s built comes without choice. And it’s easy to be persuaded that things happen to you instead of because of you and that’s because some things are easier to assemble — so easy that you do it without thinking. Sin is so accessible that it’s available in every language, every instance, every moment; while we’re asleep, while we’re awake, with or without thinking, we can build with as little as our hands. Sin is no-bake, no-refrigerate, and one ingredient only: flesh.
You want to read a book? Write a book? Lose weight? Run a race? Climb a mountain? Finish school? Break a habit? Start a new one? Whether a want or a need, whatever it is that it may be, the cost remains the same, you need to choose to fight the flesh — a lifetime war, and you’ll lose some battles, but with every morning you choose to get back up from your fall, the victory is already yours. It’s when we completely surrender to our flesh that the war ends, without negotiation, without compromise, we lose.
But all it takes is a mustard seed of faith.
It is like a grain of mustard seed, which, when sown on the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth, yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes larger than all the garden plants and puts out large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade. Mark 4:31-32
I planted my mustard seed in Mei, and only now has it begun to sprout, but it is growing faster than I could have ever imagined. So fast that I find myself convicted in the littlest moments, in the littlest things. So fast that I hardly recognize myself when seen in the mirror. I’m different, as different as I assumed the person I’ve always wanted to be would look like.
And that’s hope. Regardless of how sensitive it is or how fleeting — when it’s here, it’s addicting, and now all I’m thinking about is what next to plant here in my garden.
And I don’t know how it happened and I don’t know what to say other than something is changing; that for once in my life, I’m finally awake enough to witness how tangible change can be. That I’m emotionally aware enough to realize I’m living a moment that’s going to change the rest of my life. Tomiee and I never used to share the same interests before and yet an era is evolving in which this might no longer be the case at all.
So sensitive, so fleeting, yet absolutely addicting.
Dear Lord, bless my room, minimize the worldly things and replace them with Your Presence. Send me Your Call and prepare me the way You did John and Jesus; Abraham and Moses; Paul and David. Have it take 30 years, 40 years, 80 years — I’m patient. O Father in Heaven, how hungry I am for Your Flame and Your Kingdom. Day in and day out, I find myself hungry for Your Word. O Selfless One, trembling am I who yearns to be Your child, Your student, Your faithful servant. Instill in me Your Spirit and Your Will for the sake of Your Works. From now until my purpose is fulfilled.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
…
I’ve wanted this for a while now; a clean room — and not just clean, but empty. Empty of all the worldly possessions that don’t serve my walk with God and rather, keep me from Him all together. How easy it is to engage in the pleasures of ‘nice’ things, and yet, how heavy they are — like cuffs around my spiritual soul. How heavy, though how strong I must be to carry them, and I do carry them.
Like in the morning, when I wish most to surrender, my surrender gets interrupted by miniscule things.
And in the afternoon, when I wish most to serve, my service gets interrupted by trivial stuff.
And in the night, when I wish most to pray, my prayer gets interrupted by digital devices.
Material, material, material.
How material I am.
Lord, have mercy on me.
Because eternity doesn’t come from things, or stuff, or devices; from phones or fancy furniture; from Alexa or Google, Instagram or Facebook. It comes from Calvary and the crucifixion of Christ that bore all our sins in his body on the tree (1 Peter 2:24). And the more I read Scripture and the entirety of the Gospel, the more I find myself drawn to His depiction of love and sacrifice and selfless living; His touch and reassurance; His guidance and spiritual wisdom; His trust and faithful service; His confidence and humility; His forgiveness and endless giving. His posture, which is free from pride, and full of peace. These are the things I gravitate towards and ultimately the things I find myself missing; like a glove without a hand to fill it — empty.
And the truth is, I’ve been empty of Him for so long. In fact, I’ve led the past decade with a dimly-lit fire, a puffed up chest, and the pen to my story in the palm of my hand. And I’ll be the first to admit I hate my writing. It’s cluttered with anxiety and doubt; worry and fear; insecurity, dysmorphia, depression, and this constant penetrating thought that I’m not built to stand. I’m the seed that shrivels up on the rock; full of cheap faith and no root (Matthew 13:5-6).
And you know what comes to mind when I think about these things?
I’m a sinner.
I’m a sinner, and that’s exactly who Jesus came down here for.
“And when Jesus heard it, he said to them, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.”
Mark 2:17
He came for me. And so, to step into this new season of surrender, I release my hand from the glove of worldly things and replace it with an emptiness that allows Christ to fill in the space.
And the concept is easier said than done, of course. It’s taken me since Mei to actually take a step towards minimizing my space and originally, God wasn’t even the reason behind it. I wanted the aesthetic, the look — of being small. Needing less. But deep down, the look wasn’t enough to get me to move.
But God is.
Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. And Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly, I say to you, only with difficulty will a rich person enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.
Matthew 19:21-24
So, let’s go corner to corner, until it’s all gone, so that the Lord may be glorified with the space I leave for Him. Corner to corner. Room to room. Until all that’s left to to do is
rebuild.
…
He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.
Jim Elliot.
What does your space look like? Does it serve you well? Does it serve Him?
She covers her eyes out of fear, not because they will see her, but see the difference, and decide to walk away.
Hey, you. I know you might feel like I abandoned you, and though I don’t blame you, does it mean anything at all to say I just didn’t want you to see me like this? After every month and every revelation that justified me not amounting to who I spent the last six months saying I wanted to be, could you have gone another month of that? I became a leaking hose of shame; one the nozzle refused to shut completely. And I know you want it all. I know you want the highs and lows, whether it be for inspiration or simply entertainment. And the truth is, in the past I would have given it to you freely, because as long as someone heard it, I had proof I existed. But this time around, I didn’t want to exist, I wanted to change. And for that reason alone, there was someone more important I felt compelled to share my shame with.
And that was God.
I gave it all to God. I gave Him my shame, my burdens, and my sins, and from there He asked for my wishes, my hopes, and my dreams. As it turns out, He was the only one who could flip my switch; fill me with the Holy Spirit and deliver me to where I needed to be all along.
And where am I now? I’m home, in a season of stillness. I took inventory of my heart and the people in it that actually made me feel good and unfortunately, there weren’t that many. Not even the ones I found myself closest with. The ones I hung out most with. The ones that told me my back was covered when it wasn’t, but I believed them anyway.
They always say when you move up at work, there’ll be people who won’t be able to handle your success, and I knew that…I just didn’t expect it to be the people I kept in my backyard, or even my guest house. But I started moving up and a friend got jealous, and the more they saw me in my new role, it really took nothing at all for them to sprinkle their resentment in my direction. It took nothing at all for them to betray me but then turn around and say they loved me.
So, I stopped talking, stepped away from all the noise, and came to God.
And here’s what happened next,
I started reading, A LOT.
I started four books this month, and although two remain unfinished, that’s two more than the last three months could say.
Readings
1. when God writes your love story by Leslie & Eric Ludy
2. A Woman After God’s Own Heart by Elizabeth George (unfinished)
3. The Gospelsof the Bible The Book of John
4. The Gospels of the Bible The Book of Luke (unfinished)
And I know what you’re thinking, she’s changed. Well, at such a beginner level, I have. And I know that God’s a very straight forward identity and that there’s a huge stigma against religion, but what about faith? Religion is rules, yes, it’s easy to view rules as negative because if someone doesn’t want to follow them, well then, there you go. Bad rap. Nothing finds hate faster than rules do, but again, what about faith? The transformation of unwavering faith. The tangible feeling of hope. And when I say tangible, I mean, the act of giving God the pen to your life and watching as He aligns what has always been meant for you right in front of your eyes. Seeing Him speak to you in a way only you can understand; all you have to do is come to Him and ask for it — but when you ask for it, your heart has to mean it. And when that time comes, He’ll know, and when you’re ready for it, you’ll see. It’s intimate, it’s personal, it’s —
God.
But I digress. Suffice to say, my peace isn’t found in a room full of folks or late nights out free from any form of responsibility, restrictions, or chains. No, it’s at home. Alone, but surprisingly enough, not lonely at all.
I won’t deny I stepped away, and I can’t even guarantee I’m back, but there’s something to be said about walking away and returning when the time is right. And though I’ve been told in the past that if the time isn’t right now, it’ll never be, perhaps that’s not the case at all. If growth has taught me anything this year, it’s that it doesn’t need sound to water its roots, sometimes it needs silence.
Maybe we all ought to give it a try. What do you say?
The Processing Mind 