The purpose of this entry is to understand. Why? Because lately my mantra has been “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Which might seem strange if you’ve talked to me in the last month, due to the fact that I rarely say that during a conversation. In fact, when I’m around people, I’m generally perfectly chipper. A great smile, shoulders held high, confident laugh.

I know. I’m great at fooling people. Unfortunately, I’m also great at fooling myself.

I’ve fooled myself so well that I don’t even know why I’ve fooled myself. Why do I want to start pitying myself for things that don’t even deserve to be pitied because they are my fault? Why do I realize that and then want to hate myself instead? Why do I try to run away from problems? Or am I trying to face them?

I don’t know.

Who am I?

I don’t know.

And that’s what scares me.

Because who I am—that’s who I have to live with right now, and two hours from now, and tomorrow, and a year from now, and a lifetime from now.

Am I the confident, happy person that shows her face to the world, or am I the black hole that swallows me when I’m alone? Am I the one who has legitimate medical anxiety issues or am I the one invents these problems for herself to get attention? Am I broken or am I my own fault?

And if I don’t know who I am… how do I know what I’m going to do? What choices I will make? How will I ever be happy or free if I live in constant fear of what might happen, of what I don’t understand?

I can’t be. And that scares me.

I have been like this for a month. Anxious. Afraid. Alone. Confused. Depressed. Asking too many questions with answers I deny, avoid, reject, fool myself into believing, or that don’t even exist.

I don’t know why this started, or how, or what’s so wrong with my life—or, worse, ME—that is making my mental, emotional, and spiritual state such a huge problem. My outward life is fine. I’m busy, I have friends, I work hard…

Before, when this whole thing started, I started having some insomnia. I lost control of something and it was scary. But something about it I want back.

And I think that is the knowledge, for sure for sure, that something was wrong. Now that I’m sleeping better… it could all just be in my head. Me, terrorizing myself. I look like I have it all in control, and maybe I do, but I feel like I don’t. Because my knowledge is gone. My power is gone.

I can’t see into the future. I can’t know what decisions I will make. Who will like me and who will hate me. I can’t see my failures. I can’t see what to do to avoid them.

But what scares me most is that right now, I don’t really, truly feel like I can see Jesus. After all, I’m still stuck in my fear. Would I be afraid if I could see Jesus’ healing hand?

Then I feel guilty. I must be doing something wrong if I can’t see Jesus. I must not be praying right. I must be avoiding the answers. I must not be reading the Bible enough or in the right places. I must be focusing on something other than him.

And I am. ME. I am focusing on ME. And I am also focusing on what I SHOULD BE DOING.

And when I’m alone and unoccupied, it swallows me. And then I’m just standing there, stuck. No distractions. No idea of what to do. No plan. No knowledge. No control.

And I wish I could be asleep so I don’t have to face me. I wish I could float on a sea of dreams that don’t matter so that no failure costs anything… so that I don’t lose anyone… so I don’t sink…

 

“Cast your nets into the deep.” Throw yourself into trusting God, into huge risk, into giving it all up–

But what if I lose it all?

What if I lose me?

Is God big enough to transcend losing me?

I’m scared. I’m scared that he’s not able to transcend losing me because he’s expecting me to do something. Save myself. But either I don’t know how or I am avoiding an answer that is right in front of me.

What is wrong with me in the first place?

I’m a sinner. I make mistakes. I fail. I don’t always want to do the right thing. I hurt others. I hurt myself. I give up hope. I don’t focus on God. I try to control my own life and future instead.

People seem to brush those things off so that they don’t feel guilt. They say, well, it’s okay if you don’t focus on God all the time—now that would be impossible and anyway you’d never have any FUN in your life….

Yeah, because FUN is what matters.

No, JESUS is what matters, and his FREEDOM is what matters, because fun disappears pretty quickly—it walks out, breaks, fades, molds, gets lost, or ends. Then you die. And that’s it. No more fun. No more you.

THAT is why we need Jesus. We need Jesus because otherwise—the fun ends and we die. Awesome. Great. Sounds like a plan.

I don’t think so.

We need Jesus… and then once we have Jesus, I feel like—now, I don’t know if this is truth, I don’t know WHAT is truth, but—there’s this expectation that we have to be radically changed. We shouldn’t want to sin. We should be focused on God all the time. We shouldn’t be depressed.

Believing that and then looking at myself tells me that something is wrong, because none of those statements apply to me. Not even the “radically changed”. Because I was saved when I was four and I have no idea what I was like before that. And now, getting to know Jesus better, everything sometimes just seems harder and darker and scarier. It’s like everything I do matters so much more and that scares me, and then I live in fear so that I won’t mess up.

And that seems like a bad change to me.

As soon as I started believing that everything in this world and whatever I did that affected it mattered more than—more than—I don’t even know, grace? Freedom? Jesus?—I became afraid.

And then the darkness crushed me, and I just wanted to escape, and life seemed so much easier without Jesus—but I knew if I gave him up, then I would shrivel and ultimately die.

And it seemed like the only thing I could see around me was death. Dying. Dead.

No way out.

And I like to control things. I want things to be under my control so I can dictate their timing, their effect on me and others. But this I couldn’t control. Death was out of my control. It was the final destination, and it felt like what I was living right now. A dying, shriveling heart, consumed by the black flames of fear.

And I want to know that that fire is under control. That death is under control. I want that so much so that the burden on my shoulders will disappear and I can be carefree again, like I was before growing up, before Jesus.

And that sounds horrible, but inside me that is where I am broken. Inside me, faith means fear. And that’s not Jesus’ fault.

It’s mine. And it’s the world’s.

It’s the expectation that they have set on my shoulders. You have to do enough. Be enough. All the time. Never mess up. Promise that you won’t mess up today or fifty years from now. You have to know the future; you have to know your plans; you have to know who you are so you can be free from all doubt and fear and depression…

What a load of bullcrap.

Oops. Bad words.

Failure again. What does that make me? Since I don’t know who I am and I just failed again? Well, I think it stamps my identity once more, bright red and dripping in my blood:

FAILURE.

And I loathe failure. Thus… I loathe myself.

And I can’t loathe myself, since I am who I have to live with until I die and beyond that if I stick with Jesus (which I must and will). So, what do I do?

Stop being a failure.

And how do I do that?

Be better. That means find something to DO that makes me good. That distracts me for a little while, gives me some peace with myself.

Me. Myself. Me. Myself. Over and over and over and over, and that’s a load of BLEEPcrap too, because I’m not a failure, and I’m not good either. Because it is just plain NOT. About. Me.

And I am missing that, and I am dragging myself down, and that is what is wrong.

And then I feel like I have to do something—ANYTHING—to stop.

And IT’S NOT ABOUT ME DOING SOMETHING—ANYTHING—EITHER! Ding ding ding! You have the right answer: it’s about what Jesus did on the cross! Fantastic! Awesome! Let’s all be happy!

Ummm… is something wrong with that picture to you?

It IS about what Jesus did on the cross, and that is awesome and amazing and I am so, so thankful because otherwise I would end up dead—but right now, in this moment, I still feel dead.

Okay, and here my mind goes back to what I want, which, I think, has a certain amount of value. I want to be carefree. Like a little kid, you know? No worries, no responsibilities. Confident in who they are because they aren’t facing a future, they’re just facing this moment and they know they’re safe. Or they believe they are.

But then they see other kids die and they grow up. The burden rolls onto their back… and they accept it. Because, obviously, somebody has to be enough.

And Jesus is enough, and we know that, and we hear it all the time—but in truth, we look at the world and people still die. We still fail. We can’t save them and Jesus isn’t saving them either.

Why? Why, Jesus? How come sometimes following you—means death?

And then I go back to a question on my mind. What am I afraid of losing by following Jesus?

Myself, perhaps?

My happiness?

My freedom?

My friends?

What I think is best for me and my future and my friends?

Things I can see and enjoy right now (since I struggle so much with not seeing Jesus)?

My identity?

My “good” image?

My control?

It seems to me I can’t have both control and freedom, and I want them both: thus my heart ends up in a violent, life-or-death tug-of-war.

I want control and order. And I want freedom.

I’m afraid to lose my “perfect world”… but right now, without freedom, I’m losing myself. There is so much fear in my heart that it is becoming my identity. That it is swallowing me alive.

Because I am not trusting Jesus. Because I just don’t want to lose my dreams, my image of how things should be.

And I know that his image is different. That scares me. Because if I give up my dreams to him—they will be gone, and who knows what he will bring?

Christians say we should be excited for the future, having God in it and knowing he will bring us blessing—but I want him to give me the blessings that I want for me and I want them to be better than his plans. I am just so scared.

I am scared of death. Death of dreams. Death of friends. Death of myself. Death is a scary word. It is so final, and sitting there on the page it seems so strong.

DEATH.

But they say Jesus brings to life, that death has no sting, that we in Jesus have the victory—and that if we die in his name, then we live in his name.

My dreams have to die so that his can live… so that I can have the victory.

How do I let go? Does it come back to DOing again? What if I fail? What if someday I change my mind, turn my back on God, and lose my life?

I am so scared.

Does it really come down to trusting God with this moment? How can you trust? Trust is so intangible, just a breath of wind that floats away as soon as you try to grasp it—and can I really hang my dreams, my being, my life—on something that fragile? Not even fragile, just… invisible. Seemingly impossible.

I don’t know. But if I don’t want my heart to be consumed—and it is being consumed right now, and I feel it, and it is killing me—then I have to. If I want to be free—I have to let go.

I don’t want to let go!

That exclamation point doesn’t even explain the emotion that rises up in me at that statement. I don’t want to let go. Fear. I don’t want to let go. Selfishness. I don’t want to let go. Death.

Life. Do I really believe in life? Life only comes through Jesus.

So do I believe in life?

I have to, otherwise I am nothing… just a hollow shell, consumed by blackness.

And if I believe in life, it seems I must DO again… I must let go. But maybe that’s the act of not doing. Maybe it’s waiting. But what do I do while I wait?

Seek God, right? Stop seeking me? Perhaps I have to stop seeking my identity in every crevice, every nook and cranny. Perhaps I have to live in this moment and feel the breeze of trust… know that I am safe, and that God’s plans are best, even if it means death for some… and that he has promised me victory over death… and that means right now, I am ALIVE… the deepest part of me, the part that is meant to be the way I am, that was fashioned by God, that sees, that loves, that seeks… that part, fear cannot touch.

If I seek him in the moment… what do I have to be afraid of? Not finding him? Sometimes it takes belief, and belief is scary, but it’s the only way to life… freedom… hope.

Death is scary, but is trust really scarier? Letting go of my dreams hurts, but won’t death and hurt and an identity of FAILURE hurt more?

It does. It hurts so much right now that sometimes I think it will kill me. So if I let go, what do I have to lose?

Nothing, because I believe in Jesus.

I believe in Jesus. Okay, that’s giving myself and my dreams to him and trusting that he will take care of me…

But what if he doesn’t? What if he doesn’t exist?

We have to ask the question. It’s scary to ask, but, if we don’t ask hard questions, will we really get meaningful answers?

Sometimes I wish there was an easy answer to finding freedom in Jesus. But if there was an easy answer, would we really continue to seek him our whole lives with our whole beings?

Probably not.

We can’t be scared to ask questions. If we don’t, our hearts will continue to be secretly consumed by fear, and that is not how God wants us to live. If we believe he has the answers, it shouldn’t be so hard to ask questions. Sure, sometimes trust means not having the answer. Quite often that is what it means. But there’s still an answer out there, isn’t there?

Or maybe there isn’t. But if there isn’t, if there isn’t a Jesus who has all the answers, there isn’t a Jesus who gives life either.

And I know there is something more to all of this, to everything in this world, to everything inside of me. I am thirsting for life, and how can you thirst for something that doesn’t exist? I don’t know. That’s kind of a weird, wacky, way-out-there question.

But I more than just thirst for Jesus—I need Jesus.

 

Do we really know who Jesus is? I don’t. If I really, truly knew who Jesus was, my life would be a life of freedom. And right now, it’s not.

That’s why I need Jesus. That’s why I have to seek him. And when I catch a glimpse of him—I have to worship him for it, because worship brings life and wholeness and joy.

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.[...] You who are trying to be justified by the law have been alienated from Christ; you have fallen away from grace. For through the Spirit we eagerly await by faith the righteousness for which we hope. For in Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any value. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.

“[...] You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love….So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh.” Galatians 5:1,4-6,13,16.

The answer sounds easy, but living by a usually intangible Spirit is hard. However, living by the Spirit is the only way to life and freedom.

And we have faith in the Spirit and the only thing we DO that counts is faith being carried out through love.

We live—we DO—in love, for the glory of God, because we believe. That’s what the Bible is saying.

So… so what if you spend your whole life doing that, and it’s still not enough? Not true?

I don’t know the answer. But is it worth continuing to live in fear? I think it would be much better to seek God because he promises that whoever seeks him will find him, and we can hold him to his promises because he is a God of truth.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” Matthew 7:7-8

But you have to turn to him—away from your disbelief and the life you are building for yourself—and seek with your whole heart.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty…

‘Because he loves me,’ says the Lord, ‘I will rescue him;

I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

He will call on me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble,

I will deliver him and honor him.’” Psalm 91:1,14-15

Maybe it’s worth seeking. Maybe it’s worth giving up your whole life so that you can find a real Jesus and a real freedom.

For me, it is worth giving up everything, because like I said before: without trusting him, I am already dead inside. And I’m ready for new life. A life of worship that comes from trust, freedom that comes from trust, and love that comes from trust. Because faith does not bring fear.

I finally exploded.

There has been too much bubbling inside of me and I think I knew that something was going to have to happen, because I just couldn’t handle it anymore.

I have been a mess. I’ve been sleeping poorly and worrying. All. The. Time. I’ve been trying to please everyone around me. Trying to encourage people in their faith but feeling like mine was sliding downward.

Because I just didn’t understand. I felt weak and alone. I had very high expectations of myself and I just wasn’t meeting them. Plus, I didn’t have all the answers for everybody! I’d ask God and ask God again and he’d just give me little bits. Or I’d hear those little things and I’d cry out, that is not enough! That is not the answer I’m looking for!

Usually the things I heard were those typical phrases. “God hears you. God’s right there.” Yeah, I know that, but why am I still struggling? Why are my friends still struggling? Why is this so hard?

God kept sending me bits of hope. Songs. Answers through writing out my prayers. Bible verses. Jesus’s words in John 16:33: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” Philippians 4:6-7: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Even though I would hear those things and know that I shouldn’t be anxious, even though I’d present my worries to God, the fears would come back and settle in with their lovely, enticing lies.

And so I’d get myself in an anxious fervor, usually right before bedtime because I was so afraid of being up all night from the worries. I’d worry about worrying which would keep me awake which would lead to a tired mind which would lead to more worrying. And I was sick of it. I would worry about how my day went or the stupid things I’d said or did. I’d worry that God wasn’t going to fix this problem. He could, but he wouldn’t. And I’d let those thoughts sit there and just rot my happiness away.

My mom would tell me, “Stop worrying. You can’t keep this negative perspective. Cast Satan out in the name of Jesus.”

I’d smile tightly and nod at her, but I was upset. I wanted to scream, “It hasn’t worked before! I’ve tried and tried and tried and I’m done trying. It’s not going to work.”

I was exhausted. I’d think, why do I have to keep fighting this thing I can’t beat? I would pray, but I wouldn’t believe that God would step in. I felt like there was something more I had to do, like this was my fault. But God just wasn’t showing me what I was doing wrong. And I kept trying and failing, and then coming back to my bed at night and going, not again. I am too tired to fight again.

Then Monday came. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Slog through my schoolwork, force my body to make it through one more round of pushups and crunches and squats, babysit, eat my dinner, and then try to figure out my evening. Monday night is always hard to figure out, because usually I’m exhausted and grumpy but feel like I should do something worthwhile. Sometimes I go to youth group, but this Monday I was supposed to call a friend who moved away recently. I had texted her to ask when, but she never responded, so, on Facebook, I waited for a response or just someone to talk to.

Then I saw that one of my almost-never-on-Facebook friends was online, so I sent him a message. That message turned into a more-than-an-hour-long conversation. Our conversation starter: I asked if he thought I was annoying. I was sick of not knowing what people thought of me and trying to live up to some unknown and therefore unattainable standard, so I figured, what the heck, I’ll just ask.

Because I was too exhausted to care and ready for something to change. I told him that I was sick of worrying and sick of feeling like my faith was wobbly. When I stopped there, he pushed me and said, “I’m sure there are more problems than that. Keep going.”

So I proceeded to dump pretty much every horrible thing I thought about myself on him.

It was a really long list. Everything stupid from my own doubts about my appearance to serious identity problems about being a misfit and everybody else being normal and avoiding me. There was pretty much an hour of that.

And then he got mad. He told me that Satan was lying to me and I needed to go scream at Satan to get out of my head in the name of Jesus.

I think we know which voice I was listening to now

 

I, of course, thought he was crazy. First of all, telling Satan to get out hadn’t worked before, had it? And second, my family—who were in the house—would think something was seriously wrong with me.

But being the stubborn guy that he is, he continued to push me to go outside, in the barn, and scream.

Being the stubborn girl that I am, I didn’t give in for half an hour. At that point, he’d just become irritating and not very helpful in getting rid of those worries, and I was exhausted and teary. The conversation was never going to end if I kept battling him. So I got over myself and said, “okay, fine. I’ll go outside.”

I did. And standing there alone among the weighlifting equipment and the pale white lights, I cried and paced. I didn’t know how to scream. I tried, but the sound of it scared me and I stopped. I was sort of angry at Satan for doing this to me, but I just couldn’t muster up the energy or the faith or the passion to fight back. I was weak and broken and I didn’t know what to do. Several times the words “I don’t know how to scream, I don’t know how” came out of my mouth, but nobody could hear. It was just me with the spiritual world listening in, waiting for me to fall apart or pull myself back together. And I couldn’t do either. I was stuck, just like I had been for the past several weeks. Stuck in my own head, stuck in a battle with myself, and not strong enough to do much of anything but just stand.

I was scared, too. I could see cars passing out the window and I kept imagining the sound of a car door slamming. What if people could see me in here, pacing and crying and talking to myself? What if someone was going to come and attack me? I was alone and vulnerable. But I couldn’t go back inside, I still hadn’t really, truly screamed. So I cried some more because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like I was being crushed.

And then a car pulled into my driveway and I about wet myself. I was shaking as I turned off my iPod—I generally turn to music when in distress—and threw it on the bench. My thoughts swirled so I couldn’t distinguish anything except fear and oh-my-gosh-what-do-I-do? I ran up the ladder and flicked off the upstairs light only to realize that the downstairs was still on. Oh no. Whoever it was was going to know that there was someone in here, a someone who was too scared to do much but think, do I run to the house? But no, I could hear footsteps, and they could catch me, and—and it would be better to hide here instead. I’d figure it out when I had seen who it was and determined if they had a knife or not.

Then I saw him. My friend who I’d been talking to on Facebook all evening was walking towards my house. I honestly wish I could tell you what I was thinking, but there was too much in my head that was still left over from the fear and anxiety and that had now been topped with shock. The only reaction I could manage was to open the barn door.

He saw me and walked toward me. “I came to pray for you.”

I was still a big muddle, my eyes red and my head careening. “You should probably let my parents know you’re here,” I said as calmly as I could. Though I guess he already knew I was off my rocker.

He went and told my parents he was there to pray, then came back, at which point I told him never to pull into my driveway again when I was alone without warning me.

Then we went into the gym and he paced and prayed and yelled at Satan for a while as I sat on the bench, still shaking. I told Satan, rather feebly, that he had no right to be in my head. I didn’t scream, but we stood up against Satan together.

We need to pray

Then he sat on the bench next to me. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?” He pointed at my Bible.

I nodded.

“Use the truth to fight against the lies. That’s your weapon.”

Truth–He saves

Eventually my friend left and I headed back up to my house, still a total and complete wreck of emotions. I didn’t know what to think.

I mean, why would somebody drive to my house at 9 PM for me, for a plan that was obviously stupid and wouldn’t work, and for me, a friend who wasn’t thinking straight?

I couldn’t believe it. Had we accomplished anything? Was I really better? Wouldn’t Satan just come back? Fighting him hadn’t worked before.

Both of my parents were rather surprised by this turn of events, too, especially since they didn’t realize we’d been talking about that stuff or that my friend would come to pray. So my mom walked up to me and asked me if I was doing okay.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I said, trying to figure out how I was exactly. Overwhelmed, yeah. But… someone had fought for me. And we had a lot of power, right? He hadn’t been as much of a wreck as I had and he believed it was going to work.

More truth.

Then I realized. I think it must have been a God-thing that I realized it after my mind was just about ready to keel over from exhaustion.

Oh. I have a choice. And I can choose not to believe the lies that Satan put in my head.

It’s that easy?

But that realization, what my friend had done for me, and a night’s sleep (not good, exactly, but still) gave me strength the next day… and I decided not to listen to Satan. I decided that I had power and he wouldn’t come back.

So when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t listen to the voice that whispered, you’re ugly. And when people talked to me, I didn’t listen to the voice that said, they hate you. No, I walked in the power of Jesus Christ. I was redeemed and I was strong and I was free.

Finally free.

I’d been searching for freedom. Freedom from what people thought and those voices that enslaved me. And when I realized that I had the power to refuse and rebuke those lies, I was set free.

I can’t tell you how much lighter I have felt. A couple times I have felt a lie sneaking in, but I have rebuked it the best I could and moved forward from it instead of entertaining it. Because I know that there is power in the name of Jesus.

But you have to believe it. You have to believe that there is power and you have to stop believing the negative thoughts, because they are lies from Satan.

The devil is out to get you to trust him. Once you trust him more than God, you are more likely to believe what he says and act on it accordingly. If you trust him, he will destroy you. Do not let him. Do not entertain self-pitying, negative thoughts. Yes, it’s unbelievably tempting.

But you will be so much happier if you choose to care only about what God thinks and to believe that you actually are beautiful and confident and strong because He made you that way. And He will use your struggles to grow you. You can always rise from the dusty, broken places. Maybe not right away.

And more truth.

Maybe we feel like God doesn’t answer our cries. Perhaps it’s because we choose not to trust Him and we continue to believe those lies instead as we ask him for help. It’s sort of like yelling “Heal me!” while punching yourself in the face. I think there’s a part of us that really wants to believe the lies. Then we have an excuse for self-pity and for giving up.

But if we give up, we lose everything. Happiness. Freedom. Our true selves.

We have to believe in the power of the name of Jesus and the love that he has for us. You don’t even have to scream at Satan. You tell him to get out, that you have power and love in the blood of Jesus Christ—and then you stop listening.

In Christ, you have more power than you realize. So fight back.

The crazy thing is, so many people struggle with this. Teens especially, teens who feel alone and begin to believe the lies. And we don’t even see it because they don’t let on. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Pray. Be persistent and irritating like my friend—say that you know there’s more to the problem and listen. Then take action.

We are in a spiritual battle fighting for our lives here, people. We can win. But we have to stand up and fight.

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” Ephesians 6:10-12

 

“All that’s in my head is in Your hands”–Switchfoot

I love that line. Even though I know it’s just a song, I believe it. Why? First, because God speaks to me through music. Second, because He made my head and He knows every thought inside of it not only because He is all-powerful but because He listens.

Why does He listen? Why would He want to, anyway? My head is a rocky, cluttered, broken place. It’s  a constant battle between love and hate, faith and fear.

But He listens because He cares.

Why would anyone ever listen except because they care? And nobody must care more, because nobody else has listened to it all. All the crap and all the beauty, all tangled together in a mess that is me.

And sometimes I hate that tangle. The confusions, the contradictions inside me. The things that say I’ll never be enough. The things that say my life is worthless because I’ll never do anything important and because I’m self-centered and rebellious and bitter. So bitter. And I have to keep reminding myself that by myself, I would be worthless, I would never be enough.

Only with God do I have any value.

And less than week ago I fought a huge battle. My beloved grandfather challenged my beliefs. He asked me why he should believe that Jesus loves him.

And I struggled for words. Everything inside me cried out like it was being torn. Because how could I ever explain it? The belief that Jesus loves me is what I’ve built my life upon, what I’ve glued together the broken bits of my soul with.

All I could say was that if Jesus doesn’t exist, doesn’t care even an ounce about me, then my and my grandfather’s lives are worth nothing.

Because without Jesus, there is no purpose. We live lives of self-pleasure and die without making an impact. And even if we served with our lives, the people we served would die too and eventually the planet would die out and none of it would be worth anything at all.

And he asked me what loving Jesus looked like, if that meant that he should go and preach door-to-door.

My heart broke again. That is not what Jesus is about. That is never what Jesus has been about. And yet that is the image that we as Christians have portrayed and now this man is broken because of it.

And so I asked him if he was really happy, living by himself and playing video games and painting and somehow not believing that his life is more than just a fragment of time.

And he said yes.

But I don’t believe him. Because I cared about him and I listened to everything he said. And I heard something else.

A war. A war with himself.

A battle between self-comfort and putting himself out there, working hard. A battle between why belief even matters and the belief that he’s been a good person and so he’ll get into heaven. A battle between Jesus’ love and him wanting to be enough without Jesus’ love.

He’s not satisfied, but he denies it. I think we both know that. And I know full well what it is like to have a battle raging in your soul.

So what would bring him to acknowledgment that he’s not happy?

Only God can. Not my best arguments. Not my sweetest actions. Not even these words.

The Holy Spirit affects everything that we do. It isn’t me who writes these words. It’s God pouring out through my soul. Overflowing. I can’t contain all of this inside me. So it comes out and maybe it means something to you, but only because the Holy Spirit is touching you. It’s not me.

Maybe it’s my life, but it’s the life God has given me. It’s the day God has given me. It’s the language God has given me. It’s the experience God has given me. It’s the word God has given me.

And He can touch my grandfather too. It will be hard for my grandfather to face it, to face that he is not happy and needs Someone greater. But only then will he really be happy. Really grasp a life worth living.

God cares about him so much and so why have we as Christians told him that he is not enough? Why have we told him that he has to preach from door to door?

And I came home and I had to grapple with it. But I was not alone. However alone I felt, I was not alone. And I cried out to God.

I don’t understand, Lord. I just don’t understand. I’m a shaky mess and everything seems huge. I’m afraid to doubt. I’m afraid if I question any of this you won’t want me anymore. I don’t want to risk losing my life, my value, my freedom. But I don’t feel free. I can’t just blindly accept and take pat answers anymore. Is that wrong? Or do I have to come to this place?

If you aren’t real, if your love isn’t there, my life is worth nothing. I am worth nothing. All the lies I’ve ever heard about me and wrestled with are true. I don’t want them to be true. I want you to be true.

But it has to be true and not something in my head that’s all sunshine and roses.

It has to be real and deep and enough. More than enough.

I don’t even know who I am. Please show me who I am. Or show me who you are. I want that more. I need it. I need to know who you are so I can know who I am.

It has to be You.

Do you see what I mean by a battle within myself?

After that desperate prayer, I spent some time with the Lord and he showed me several things. It’s all a jumble now, the order that they happened in, but each one has a special place in my heart.

Some of these probably even happened before this whole mess because all of these things were in my heart before. Self-doubt and fear of faith especially.

I spent some time chilling with God on my laptop and I was looking at a Christian blog and saw a song.

How He Loves Us by David Crowder.

The song that had been running through my head for days, combatting the self-doubt. And I listened to it again. And I begged God to show himself, again.

I went to my messages and saw an old one from my mom, a link that I hadn’t yet clicked on. So I found myself on Ann Voskamp’s blog and the entry was titled “When You Are Tired of Worrying”.

I am exhausted of worrying. This must be the right place.

And I read and it was. It was the perfect place.

“What if not fearing was the giant secret of really living?”

I bet that it is. But I don’t know how to not fear.

“No one knows what the next minute holds — but you let [yourself] be moved into it anyways. Because somewhere inside of you, you know Someone holds it. Because you trust Someone more than you realize. Because having faith in a carrying God is part of your DNA whether you realize it or not.”

Yeah, it must be, because I can’t let go of it. Faith is all I have; it is my bones, it is my blood, it is my soul.

“You may not know the way through the storm, but if you just open wide your wings to the wind —- there is always grace enough to carry you Home. What are you afraid of?

The miracle that matters is the unfurling of your wings.

There is nothing to be afraid of.

The surest way to find out if you can trust God? Is just trust Him. The freefall of faith is what makes you free.”

Free. The word clenched my throat and my eyes. Free. I want to be free.

Every time I fear, I feel the chains of bondage grip tighter. And I weep because I don’t know how to loosen them. I don’t know how to stop fearing.

Because how can I hand over complete control to God? How can I know that I can trust him?

Just trust him.

Inside I believe that he is trustworthy, but there is a broken part of me that clings tight to everything it’s ever been afraid of, hoping to maintain it, mask it, be enough by myself to destroy it.

It’s been failing so far.

So I sat down and I let the words fall into my journal again, less than six hours later.

Freefall. Scary. But the person falling has no control. The only person who has control is the one who might catch them.

And then I remembered.

“…underneath you are His everlasting arms…”

A memory of lying in my bed, shuddering, afraid. My father perched on the edge of the bed, his hand on my arm, his eyes closed as he prays over me and the tears drip down my cheeks, cooling my neck.

Fear of the dark. Fear of the silence. Fear of being alone. Fear of never falling to sleep, of the terrors in my mind taking over.

He finishes his prayer and sits with me, a small smile on his face. “I feel like that’s a word for you. ‘Underneath you are His everlasting arms.’”

I nod and squeeze my eyes shut, wringing out the tears.

And he leaves me to the dark and I hold on to the words. Not sure what they mean. Not feeling Him there.

Another memory, two weeks later. My mom handing me two pieces of green cardstock paper, smothered in verses. I read through them. Psalms, Psalms… refuge, strong tower…

And then Deuteronomy 33:27.

“The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

She didn’t even know the word for me.

But now I understand.

Freefall of faith. The only person who has control is the one who might catch them.

Everlasting arms underneath.

God has promised me that He will catch me when I let go. He has promised that His arms—everlasting, unchanging—are underneath me, before the question even arose.

Who better to trust than One Everlasting, one who knows the future?

And so I look at the things I’m not trusting Him with. My time. I need to be okay with slowing down and not need everyone to tell me that I’m not lazy, be okay with not changing the world right this second. If I’m not okay with that, I end up worrying my head off and never getting anything accomplished.

My self-image. I don’t love myself the way He loves me. I know He loves me because He’s showed me. The songs, the words, the verses, the blogs. The sunrise every day, whether I see it or not, that proclaims a second chance at life. The universe stretched out above me, his name and majesty etched into the stars. I let my failures define me instead of His successes. I have to stop comparing myself and worrying and instead look at what He thinks of me, of what He did for me.

My mind. I worry all the time and I let bad things into my head. I need to let Him transform my mind by building a new perspective. A perspective that He loves me and watches out for me and nothing in this world has any power over me, including the devil.

Because the devil gets into my head and he plays with it like a cat with a toy, batting it this way, then that way. And I hate it. It’s not me I hate, it’s him. I have to realize that the bad things that come into my head are not me, but him. The devil wants me to hate myself because as soon as I start to hate myself, I stop believing everything the Lord has said about me and then the devil’s got me where he wants me: a place of self-doubt, fear, bondage. A place where I don’t dare freefall because I don’t trust that Somone will catch me.

The other day when the devil came in again, God struck him like a human hand grabbing that toy back from the cat. He held me close and He gave me three words.

The Lord restores.

At those words hope fills my chest and the devil slinks away. At those words I trust again, I trust because I know his love and I have his hope. His promise.

Those words repeat themselves in my head over and over now. They mean that all the broken things I don’t like about myself will be healed. My own self-dislike will be healed. My mistakes will be healed. My hurts will be healed.

And the words of Ann Voskamp, Letters to the Wounded #2, sink in.

“I just — I just wanted to reach out and — just touch, glance, your wounds. You don’t have to say anything. Explain anything, excuse anything. I just wanted to touch them — you– acknowledge them. You. Bless them, you, without a sound. Because Wounded Warriors win. There is no remission of sins or the crossing of finish lines without things getting bloody. You are so brave to keep facing the light. To keep walking toward Home.

The Scarred Savior will know you’re His — by yours.

And when He cups your face, that moment when His scars touch your skin, you’ll be wholly healed.

[...]

“Because when we ignore suffering — we ignore the Suffering Savior. We need you. We need to cup your tears, to water hard and crusted places, or there’s no growth in the Kingdom of God. We need your raw story — or we lose any hope of the redemptive Story. We need to hold your broken heart — or we have no heart.

I. am. sorry.

I am sorry for how alone you have felt. How abandoned, how ignored.

We need you — It is the scarred ones who make the Body of Christ sensitive.

It is the wounded ones who makes us heal and the hurting ones who make us honest and it is the broken ones who put us back together again and it is the scarred ones who make the Body of Christ sensitive.

Once, we found a trapped and wounded bird. And when we cupped it close —

it turned toward the light and flew.”

The Lord restores.

And then I found this verse and it reinforced everything.

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kinds of sufferings.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast.

To him be the power forever and ever. Amen.” –1 Peter 5:6-11

God called me to be with Him in heaven. He called me and He promised to restore me, to lift me up, because He cares for me. He cares for all of us. With all my wounded heart, I call out to you and I tell you—you are not alone. And God has promised to restore you.

Our Lord is a Lord who keeps his promises.

I think you know that, deep down. Even just a tiny piece of you knows that you are called to something greater. That you were meant to be loved, and He is the one who is Everlasting and He LOVES YOU. You as you are right now and you as were meant to be, as you will be when he restores you. And that gives you hope because you know you were meant for something more.

My grandfather knows it too, but now he holds his wound close.

And I remember one more thing that he asked me. When he read the “About” page on this blog, he said, “See, that’s what I don’t get—why do you have to ‘cry every five minutes’?” And I know he’s crying out inside, why would a God who loves you let that happen? Why would a God who loves me let that happen to me?

I can tell him the answer to both of those questions. But without the Holy Spirit, it won’t make any difference.

I have to tell him anyway and trust.

Here is what I say to you, Grandpa. Crying every five minutes sucks and God aches when he sees me weep, when he sees my wounds hurt and sting and drag me down.

But if I never had those wounds, would my life mean anything? Would I cry out to God, let Him heal me? Would I understand a freefall of faith?

Would I be able to reach out to the broken and hold them, tell them that they are not alone, that they have hope?

Well, why do they have to be hurt in the first place?

Because it’s been a messed up world ever since we sinned. We trusted the devil instead of God that day in Eden. And then we got it into our heads that the world is in our hands and we have to go from door to door preaching.

But the world is in God’s hands. And through the hurt we have seen things we wouldn’t have seen otherwise. We saw God reach out to us through the hurt and we saw him take our broken pieces and make us something beautiful, something with purpose. We saw God sacrifice His son so that He could restore us. Because He loves us.

In writing class, this week’s assignment was to write a fictional day with me as the main character.

To be completely honest, I was struggling with coming up with an idea. The original prompt was to change a day we regretted. And honestly, I didn’t want to write about a day I regretted for two reasons: one, it was painful and I knew it would put me in a bad space, and two, as soon as I changed it, all the conflict was gone.

And a story is not interesting without conflict. Not interesting at all.

So as soon as my mom convinced me that I could write about something crazy and impossible and completely fantastical–I decided to write about me going into the novel I’m writing and meeting a character.

I’ve been writing this novel since summer and struggling a bit with the plot, so it was a nice break to write something related to it but not something that had to be in it.

I had to cut out a few parts of the story so as not to completely spoil the book, but here it is.

–

12:00 AM. Midnight, heralding a new day. And I still haven’t fallen asleep. Jesus, please give me good dreams… and sleep…

Before my sluggish mind comprehends, I’m standing on a sidewalk in the dark, surrounded by noises of the night: an owl hooting, small animals scurrying over crunchy fallen leaves. I gulp and turn around, absorbing every detail. Shadows drape across the road from the short brick buildings and gray houses lining the road. Next to me a wide glass window reflects my face, pale with dark rings under my eyes and my wavy hair a lopsided mess. The window graces the front of a brick building and displays the painted words “Garland’s Books”.

How did I get here? Is tonight the night?…

I press my forehead to the window and squint, but all I can see is looming rectangular outlines smothered in shadow. Garland’s bookshelves. It doesn’t matter if I can see them, I made them. In my mind. Which is why this is so crazy.

If tonight’s the night, then… he should be coming soon…

I pivot back toward the sidewalk and focus. He has to be coming from the west, because Autumn approaches from the east, and they can’t see each other. Not if I have any say in it. Which, as a matter of fact, I do. I grin to myself, but fear crawls into my stomach and I squint harder.

After a minute, a figure comes into view on the west side. My heart does a drumroll. Please let it be him…

The person gets closer and closer, and I hear him muttering to himself. The nerves in my stomach begin their salsa dance just like they do in real, wide-awake life. It’s sickening and comforting at the same time. The figure gets closer and closer… and one yard away, he stops. Even up close, it’s hard to see his features, but the strong jaw is there, and the chin-length blond hair…

“Julian?” I squeak.

“Yeah? Wait, who are you?” he asks, his voice deep but too warm to be afraid of.

“Um… my name’s… Victoria. You don’t recognize me?”

“Victoria? You mean, the author?”

“Uh-huh.” My brain freezes and I can’t think of an adequate response, something that a person would want to hear upon meeting their creator. Actually, I think I’m more excited to meet him than he is to meet me. Can you believe it? I’m in the presence of…

“So you know what’s going to happen, then?”

I jerk myself out of my awed stupor. “Yeah. Autumn’s coming. And you’re going to stop her from getting hurt. And the police will come.”

“Right.” Is that chagrin I hear in his voice? “Do you have any idea why I have to let this happen?” Julian asks.

“Um, sort of. Because I said it would and it needs to for the story’s sake… because God told you to be here so that this could play out like it has to. You called the police, right?”

“I did. They said they’d be here. I think they’ll park a little bit away so they can watch.”

I nod. “Yes, that’s the plan.” And then I fidget, my sweaty palms rubbing against my pajama pants—why do I have to be in my pajamas in front of him?—and my teeth almost shredding my lip. This is misery. Shouldn’t I know what to say to my own character, the very person who I called into being… and who is somehow still more majestic than me?

“Um, Julian… you’ve seen God, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Well, God as you imagine him.”

My shoulders slump. “Oh. So not necessarily like he really is.”

“Not exactly, but don’t forget—stories ring of truth. That’s why you wrote this story in the first place.”

“Yeah, but it’s all inside my head.”

“Yes, but who made your head? Who gave you this idea in the first place?”

I grin. Julian always has an answer for everything, even if the questioner hates the answer. “You’re the best, Julian.”

He laughs, the same deep, genuine laugh I’ve always imagined. “Then why didn’t you make me the main character?”

I snort, but am unable to hide my grin. “You’re too stubborn.”

He chuckles and then raises his wrist, clicking a little button. His watch glows deep-pool-green. “12:57. We should go around the corner and just watch until she gets here.”

I nod and we hurry around the corner of the bookstore. Sure enough, a hooded figure appears, slinking through the darkness with sagging shoulders.

“I’ll just stay out of the way when she gets here, then,” I whisper.

Julian nods. “Unless you want to add another character into the story, yes.”

I sigh. How much I would love to meet Autumn face to face… and I’m just going to let the opportunity slip by. It would ruin everything if I talked to her, though. She’d probably go crazy, unlike Julian. I chew my lip as Autumn draws closer and then stops right in front of the window. She pulls the rock out of the front pocket of her black hoodie, holding it a foot away from the window. Even several yards away I can see her hand trembling.

I am such a horrible person, putting her through this anguish. But it has to happen for her good. For all of the characters’ good, and for the reader’s good too. Is this how God feels all the time? Aching to see us go through pain, but knowing it must happen?

There’s no way her heart could be beating as fast as mine is, a rate that makes it hard to get enough oxygen. Is she going to do it?

And Autumn raises her arm… and thrusts the rock into the window.

Julian disappears from my side and, in the same instant, a flash of light appears in front of Autumn as glass shatters around her, each fragment illuminated like a firework’s arms. The light is there just long enough for all the glass to shower the ground around her, and then it vanishes like a match extinguished.

Autumn stands in front of the window. I can hear her jerk heavy, dry breaths, in, out, in, out. She looks over her shoulder in my direction, almost as though she can see me, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. No blood trickles down her face.

She is completely untouched.

I breathe a soft gasp out and squeeze my eyes shut. “Thank you, Julian,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome,” a voice whispers.

I jump and glance behind me. Julian stands there with a tiny smile on his face.

Then we hear the sirens, shredding the silence, alerting everyone in the neighborhood that someone’s in big trouble. At the noise, Julian’s smile fades. He gazes past me to the girl standing on the sidewalk who isn’t even attempting to run. Then he looks at me.

“Is the ending happy?”

I wish I could wash the pain out of his voice. But my answer must be honest. They both have much more to go through. “It’s hard, but it is happy.”

He nods, watching as the police drive up to Autumn and cuff her. She submits without a struggle. I know why. She knows that she is wrong to break into stores and take what isn’t rightfully hers. But she only does it because it is her last chance. And now the police have taken it from her.

“Thank you,” Julian says. “For letting me be in the story and for letting me help Autumn, even if it was only protecting her from the glass.”

“You’re welcome. You’ll do much more than that, you know.”

Light seeps into the scene, a glare that makes it difficult to see. But I squint at Julian and can make out his smile one last time before the light takes me and I wake up.

I blink open groggy eyes. The hall light is on. Dad must be getting ready for work. I settle back onto my pillow, staring at the slice of light across my blue wall. [...] Julian is just a figment of my imagination, but he’s right: stories ring of truth. Maybe that’s why I feel so badly about making him go through heartache.

Perhaps God feels the same way about my heartache.

Thank you, God. That dream really opened my eyes. Our pain does come to the ultimate best, doesn’t it? An end we couldn’t have without it? So I thank you for letting me be in this story, the story of my life.

What a crummy morning.

I woke up at 5 AM and couldn’t fall back asleep for at least a half hour. Then just before 8 AM my dreams started getting weird and I knew I was waking up. I opened my eyes a little bit… and closed them again. And kept dreaming.

And JUST as I was about to open an email in my dream that I realllyyyyy wanted to see what it said…

“Time to wake u-up!”

Came the call from downstairs.

Nooooooo, inner me groaned. I want to see what the email says. But it was too late. I was awake. Of course.

So I got up, feeling drained and slow. I didn’t want to face the day. But I went downstairs and made myself breakfast. I did schoolwork while I waited for my turn in the shower, but already I was running late. Coming downstairs, I felt the same despair I’ve felt almost since the school year began.

I’ll never catch up.

And the ever-running list of things I am behind on rolled through my mind, a torrent of stress that ironically keeps me from moving forward and catching up—just as it always does.

I am at least ten lessons behind in Writing, and I have five lab reports to write in Science, and as always I’m four boring assignments behind in Spanish…I’ll never catch up.

Then, of course, came Honors Algebra, the subject I really don’t belong in. And I crumpled.

I hate Algebra. I’ve always hated math—I cried over it in second grade and I still do today. I hate high school. I never catch up, I’m always behind, I’m always tired, I’m never motivated.

I hate being alone. I miss talking to my friends all the time and having sleepovers every month. I don’t think I’ve had a sleepover since my birthday last October.

I hate the stress that pours off the walls of this house when my family stressed because they had a bad day, because they don’t feel well and no one is getting along and my little brother isn’t listening…

All I want is to make a difference. All I want is to write. But by the time I’m done with my day I’m demotivated and I begin to fear the words and the story just won’t come.

Agh, I hate me…

IHATEIHATEIHATEIHATE.

What a crappy attitude.

Once I’d realized that, I decided to try to make a list of things I love.

I love that I have a future, that I can make a difference. I love that I have opportunities and abilities and choices.

I love having some money in my bank account from work so I know that I can buy my laptop and pay my portion of Drivers Ed.

I love snuggling with my family in front of the fire in our new woodstove, talking about our day and eating Oreo chocolate chip cookies.

I love our new Hi-Def TV and being able to watch Once Upon A Time and Smallville on it and get so excited about how Emma stood up to the mayor or how Lex sacrificed himself and how can he be bad after all?

I love the greeting of my computer’s wallpaper: three children with three beautiful smiles, Kal-El, Asher, and Jaina, my sweet nephews and niece.

I love the memory of this Sunday morning and cuddling under my big fleece Superman blanket with my sister-in-law Rebecca, talking about zombie movies and the little one in her tummy. Another superhero to go on my wallpaper.

I love eating lasagna and chocolate with my sister Lindsey and laughing about the stupid bumper stickers she saw and the little mis-speakings that happen around the dinner table.

I love my friends who are moving to Texas. Even though I’m going to miss them, I am so glad that I got the chance to know a family that is so happy and so welcoming. Too often I have felt uncomfortable in Christian homes, and there I could be stupid me and it didn’t matter.

I love curling up under my fluffy, polka-dotted down comforter and pulling on my headphones, Switchfoot lulling my mind into silence. Then maybe some Chris Tomlin and Tenth Avenue North. Or turning my headphones up as loud as they go so I don’t even have to put them on my ears while I play Solitaire and sing along. Usually I cheat to win.

I love the way the lyrics speak to me when I sink into gloom or when I’m worried and afraid.

I used to fear that I couldn’t hear God’s voice. I begged him and begged him to speak in my head, to wash away the worries and point me in the right direction.

He didn’t.

I would try to sit still and listen to the silence.

Nothing would come except my own thoughts, fears, doubts, distractions.

But I think that I do hear him. Not like some friends do, who He comes to in dreams or voices or visions.

No. I hear him here. When I have gone through some inner terror, I always come out into the light with something made stronger inside me. I come here, to this blog, and the words come out of my fingers, the lesson I have learned. Something I couldn’t learn on my own, Someone who lifted me out of my mess.

That is one way that God shows himself to me.

And then there is the music. I slide my iPod onto shuffle and I let the music come. The lyrics soothe my soul.

Last night, for example. I was listening to Chris Tomlin’s new album, Burning Lights.

Love is a fire…

Fire… just like that Switchfoot song I listened to a few days ago…

I’m a fire fighting for control, I’m a fire fighting for my soul.

When I’d listened to that, I had totally empathized. Because, yeah, I always feel like I’m fighting for control of my mind and my life. And I’m always fighting to keep my soul safe, to grow it, to heal it.

But somehow those two songs connected in my head, into something like this:

Love is a fire fighting for my soul.

Love is fighting for control. I am love, I am fighting.

Love is what controls my soul, or at least fights to overcome the other things that sneak in: doubt, fear, loneliness, self-pity, hatred.

And if I am growing to become more like Jesus, who is love… then I should be turning into love, right? Everything in my life should be love. Loving God. Loving others.

Loving me.

Because I am the one who chooses whether I love my life or hate it. I am the one who chooses whether I love my school or hate it. I am the one who chooses whether I love others against all odds or hate them.

I am the one who chooses whether I love me or hate me.

And I am the one who chooses whether I love God or hate Him.

I am the one who chooses whether I let Him in and let him change me or not.

I am the one who decides whether His word and His love are going to make a difference in my life.

I am the one who has to take the first step in becoming love itself.

I choose. Love or hate? Life or death? Selflessness or selfishness? Joy or bitterness?

I choose love.

And every time I choose love… Jesus is the fire that has won control of my soul.

He is there, against all odds. I believe that. I choose to believe that He loves me even when I hate me. I choose to believe that He knows when I can’t stand and He stands up for me. I choose to believe that He can make light out of the darkness inside me.

So I choose to believe that the darkness is for the best. I choose to believe that someday, I will be free from the fighting, and I will hear his voice just like it is: a strong voice, a loving voice, a fierce voice that fights for me forever.

Today I stand and today I fight.

Today I choose love.

God has brought me through so much this week. To be totally honest I’m overwhelmed and wondering how on earth I am going to digest all these lessons.

Usually writing is how I digest.

So here I am.

TUESDAY 01.08.13

This enormous burden of responsibility settled on my shoulders. Somehow I have put myself in a position of being the one who keeps everyone else alive. Doesn’t make sense?

Well, I have this sort of obsessive fear that someone I love is going to die as soon as they’re out of my eyesight. Not particularly unusual. How I combat it is I usually pray something like, “Keep them safe, Lord. Keep us all safe.”

And even though I’m handing over responsibility to the Lord, I still feel this need to pray every time I get afraid. Which is a good thing. Except then I’m afraid that if I don’t pray, and they get hurt, it’s my fault.

Suddenly the safety of everyone’s lives is in my hands.

That was the cause of my meltdown on Tuesday.

WEDNESDAY 01.09.13

Wednesday was my Thanksgiving. I know, I’m a few months late… Well, we had some friends from the other side of the world visiting, and they hadn’t gotten to celebrate Thanksgiving. So we celebrated it together. We ate turkey and then we played games.

When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name

Every blessing You pour out I’ll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord

You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

On the road marked with suffering
Though there’s pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

An image came to mind of the world in God’s hands. And I knew I had to let go. I was kneeling on the floor in tears, but I felt so blessed to be with these people who loved me, to get this chance to be with them, to worship.

We had to leave the Thanksgiving party early because we had Bible study, so we came home and hung out with our little Prodigal family. We talked about the “crap” going on in our lives, then shared prayer requests.

And something I’d been struggling with recently came to mind. A person—a friend—I knew I had to forgive. It was another moment of letting go.

I explained what was going on, but by the time I finished, I just couldn’t hold back the tears. One of our friends came over and pretty much just sat with me and hugged me, and another friend rubbed my back, and another put her arm around my shoulder. I felt enveloped in love, love, love. And I knew if I let go I was going to be okay.

And another song spoke to me.

You know my heart is heavy
And the hurt is deep
But when I feel like giving up
You’re reminding me
That we all fall down sometimes
But when I hit the ground

You lift me up when I am weak
Your arms wrap around me
Your love catches me so I’m letting go

Lift Me Up by The Afters

And I knew that if I let go of this hurt, his love would catch me. So I let go. And I’ve had to let go again and again as the hurt keeps rising up, pushing me down.

THURSDAY 01.10.13

…was a horrible day.

I woke up at 6 AM because my mind was anticipating the morning. It knew what was about to happen.

Your childhood best friends are leaving. You gotta get up, get up, go say good-bye at the bus station. In the case of no miracles, you’ll be an adult when you see them again. Or in heaven. Only God knows.

Not letting go again, I can’t help but groan.

The sun gleamed off of the wet pavement and hurt my eyes. Jason and I went inside and sat down, but unfortunately we picked the chairs right in front of the clock.

“Thirteen minutes,” I said. It was too short. They got on the bus a few minutes early.

You know that good-byes are never like they are in movies? We waved about a dozen times and each wave still hurt. The bus waited for a good five minutes before it drove away. So my family stood on the pavement and waved and made hearts with our hands.

Only when it drove away did the tears come.

And they stayed pretty much all day. It was hard. I was so tired and everything felt so surreal.

Why?

Because lately I’ve been dealing with this idea of time and space and just the hugeness of the world and the smallness of our lives, and how many people are hurting and why aren’t I helping. Can I really trust God to carry out his plan and take care of me even if everything’s awful? Why do bad things happen? Will they happen to me? Is it my fault?

…You lift me up when I can’t see
Your heart is all that I need
Your love carries me so I’m letting go…

But I had to keep bringing myself back to this hope that had been revealed to me the day before. No matter what, I will see my friends again. We’re going to be worshipping in heaven just like we were on Thanksgiving, together, filled with love and praise.

Then I found this verse.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.”

 –1 John 4:18

That responsibility, that need to hold on and never let go? It’s fear. And it’s not part of love. If I want to be made perfect in love, I have to let go and stop fearing God’s plan.

By bedtime I was so overwhelmed and I just couldn’t handle it, so I asked my dad to pray for me.

“…give her your eyes…”

No, Lord, give me your heart. Almost as soon as I thought that, another thought came to combat it.

He’s already given it to you.

You know, I really don’t think that voice was me, because it was a revelation. All the sorrow I feel when I see horrible things happening in the world and people hurting? That’s what God feels.

That one little thought was a huge comfort to me. So I started praying for his eyes and his hands instead. So I could make a difference, reach out to the people I mourn with.

And finally I went to sleep.

FRIDAY 01.11.13

Friday I had something to look forward to: a movie night with my sisters.

It was awesome. I brought the brownie chunk ice cream and we watched The Vow together. My nephews kept climbing on my lap, Kal-El to snuggle and watch the movie, and Asher to beg for my ice cream.

And afterwards we had an hour to just chat, the five of us. All of my sisters are grown up, and three of them are technically in-laws, but I don’t think that really matters. Still, they have very different lives to deal with. And hearing about their struggles brought the weight back onto my shoulders, back into my heart.

Because there was nothing I could do except listen, and how could that ever be enough?

When I came home, I talked to my parents about what I was stressed about. They told me I could pray and I could do little things for my sisters if possible, but God is the one who has their lives in his hands.

So this is what I’m learning. And I’m right in the middle of it, so I can’t give you any profound advice or happy endings. I’m sorry. But I know the end will be happy because “we have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” –Hebrews 6:19

What is this hope?

That God keeps his promises, and he’s promised…

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.” –John 14:1-4

That means he’s promised to take us home, all of us who know the way—which is Jesus.

So I’m going to be with him, with my friends, with my family, worshipping, forever.

His love catches me…

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” –John 8:32, Jesus speaking.

This verse has been stuck in my head for a while. Why? Because for a long time I have felt trapped. Stuck in my own mistakes and my own head. I hate my head sometimes. I hate myself sometimes, and then I become trapped in regrets and frustration with things that I can’t change.

So much hurt. And I kept asking Jesus to set me free, set me free, set me free. Heal me. Fix me. Change me.

And I kept coming up empty.

And I asked myself, “How can I be set free?”

Well, that verse says “the truth will set you free.” So I have to know the truth and let it set me free. Then what is this truth that I’m missing?

My thoughts wander to things I’ve heard, and I remember a Tenth Avenue North vlog I watched along time ago. Talking about fear.

Fear. Fear that bogs down my life, keeps me from speaking up, moving forward. Fear that leads to regret.

In that videoTenth Avenue Northtalks about how we become afraid. We become afraid when we doubt God’s love for us. In other words, we stop trusting that he has got the best plan in mind for us and we become trapped emotionally because suddenly we are the ones who have to fix all the world’s problems. And we know we can’t.

And Tenth Avenue Northalso says that that doubt of God’s love is the reason we sin. That doubt, that fear, is what traps us.

So then, logically, the truth that Jesus is referring to… is God’s love. If we were to insert that into the verse:

“Then you will know [that God loves you], and [God’s love for you] will set you free.”

That’s the conclusion I came to, in my own head, without looking at the verse or the context. Today I sat down to write this post, to de-stress, and I looked up the verse online and skimmed over the context. It looks as though Jesus is talking to a lot of people and the Pharisees are around. He is sharing that if any person follows him, they will be set free. And later he says they will be set free from sin.

So you could say “the truth” is a lot of different things. The Bible. The law (though I disagree with this as Paul specifically says that as followers we are not under the law but under grace… but I digress). You get the picture.

I just want to be clear that I’m not trying to assume that I know what Jesus was saying. However. Remember that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

He did it because he loves us. It is true that God loves us.

And this truth, I believe, can set me free. Free to be me, me, the person that God made with his own hands.

You can’t become who you are supposed to be unless you are accepted. If you don’t feel accepted, you will always be looking back to the people around you, always be looking over your shoulder, always be making sure everything is okay and everyone likes you. Because if you’re always looking back, you’re never moving forward.

And I need to be accepted so that I can move forward. I need to be free.

But the only One who truly accepts me, forever and always, just as I am, is God. That will never change. He will never change.

I came to the realization that if I believe that God loves me, I will be set free from needing to meet up to the world’s expectations. Needing to put on a good face every day so that people like me. Needing to bend to what my friends say so I don’t lose them.

I need to remind myself every day that God loves me. Once I believe that deep down, I can become everything God wants me to be. Me.

Here’s another verse that I have replayed in my head every day for weeks.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; but in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” Proverbs 3:5-6

This is a verse we’ve all heard over and over. What tends to happen with those verses is that we sorta-kinda read it and skip ahead without really digesting what it means.

And I have been digesting this verse for weeks, so I’d like to share what it means to me.

Truly believe that the Lord is with you and has the best plan for you—don’t try to take your life into your own hands. In everything you do, recognize that he is Lord, and he will make your life righteous. He’ll wash away your past mistakes and lead you in what you should be doing.

This goes with everything else I’ve been saying. You can’t trust the Lord if you don’t believe he loves you. And if you believe he loves you, you will follow him and make the right choices for your life. That means not living your life to show other people how great you are. You’re already accepted by God—what more could you need?

But I have got to really believe that God loves me. So I sat down and wrote a list of what God thinks about me. Then I made a piece of artwork about it over New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Here it is.

 

Believe that God loves you just the way you are. Pray about it. Ask him to show you how he sees you.

You will be set free. Because, I promise you, He loves you. More than you could ask or imagine…

I didn’t particularly want to stay in the car. I find it creepy to be sitting alone in an unlocked car as tons of people shopping walk through the parking lot. Even worse, the car was running. See, we’ve got this little problem with the ignition. Sometimes you can’t start the car without jerking the wheel really hard as you turn the key. It’s complicated and unreliable.

So while Mom went into the store, I babysat the car so she wouldn’t have to turn it off. As I was just sitting doing nothing, I found myself thinking about this Christmas. And how it’s different.

This year, we rearranged our living area, chopped up the entertainment center and the bar, installed a woodstove, and borrowed a fake tree because Mom had a severe allergic reaction to the real one. Small changes, but I don’t really like change. Or I’m not good at handling it. I don’t know. The truth is probably that I am too afraid to change.

But this year is different in other ways, too. More than the year, though, it’s me. It’s me who has changed. I’m not a kid anymore. Sometimes I still behave like a kid at Christmastime, but the truth is that it’s not quite as… magical? It’s all a matter of perspective. There’s a lot of reality that you face as you grow up that changes the magic somehow. Maybe I’m just weird or was feeling lonely in that car and you’re all staring at me right now with “ummm… what?” expressions.

Whether or not you are, that’s how I was feeling as I sat alone in the car. So I started to pray.

I told Jesus how I felt.

And I asked him to change my heart, to instill joy and hope and love there. To change my perspective.

Then I began to think about Mary, the mother of Jesus. If Jesus had actually been born on Christmas Day, I thought, she would be in labor pains right now 2000 or so years ago.

And she was only a few years older than me.

How would I feel if I was her, giving birth to the son of God?

Afraid. Horrible, sticky, sweaty, overwhelming fear. After all, she’d never had a baby before, and now she was delivering the one who would save the world. What if she did something wrong? What if the baby was unhealthy? How would she help if he was? There wasn’t any medical equipment in that stable, I’d be willing to bet. On top of that, she was in agony and couldn’t probably think straight.

What would I do in that situation?

Pray.

Then I wondered what exactly Mary prayed. Because I know what I would pray, and I have a feeling her plea would be quite similar.

Lord, please keep this baby safe. Please provide. Please give me peace and strength. I am so afraid, Lord. Help me, help me, help me…

And then what about when she held that child safe in her arms, and he was safe, and she was safe, and a wave of fear and pain washed away?

I would cry. I would hold that baby close to me, cuddled in my lap, close to my chest, and I would weep into his hair.

Because I would be holding the savior of the world.

Mary was probably lost and confused and afraid, but holding that child, I wonder if she knew it was going to be alright. Amidst the change. Amidst the fear. Amidst the dark, dirty stable not fit for a child.

We wanted the same thing. Joy and love and peace and hope.

And our Lord cradled us and kept us safe through the change and through the fear.

He loved us so much he sent his son to die…

So I could live.

So you could live.

Merry Christmas.

 

My Walls

This Sunday my grandmother asked me a question I’m sick of being asked. I felt my shoulders go up and before I really thought it through, I answered, “Never.”

In that case, it was rude, abrupt, and generally thoughtless. Three things I try not to be.

So why did I answer that way?

I was angry because she asked me, and I was also hurt. It’s a question that always makes me feel “less than”. It compares me to others, and I hate being compared to others. (And yet, I do it to myself every day. But that’s another topic…) Subconsciously I believe that if I respond in a couldn’t-care-less way, the question she asked won’t hurt me.

It’s not the only question that makes me build a protective and ugly wall. Here it is, the time to admit one of my worst, most hated questions:

“What church do you go to?”

Instantly the words snap out before I can think it through: “I don’t go to church.” It’s not a lie. But let’s face it, it’s pretty rude. There are much better ways for me to answer, and usually at the look on their faces (confusion, surprise, occasionally horror) I feel the need to explain.

So I tell them that while I don’t go to church, I have a Bible study at my home on Wednesday nights.

But even though I pretend I’m not, I’m hurt, and so I change the subject. And now it’s time for me to explain. It’s time to tear down the walls. Because, really, they’re just an ugly façade.

The Story Behind The Response

I did go to church for a long time. It had its ups and downs. Remember that this is all from the eyes of a child, from as young as I can remember to about age nine.

I knew that church building like the back of my right hand (a hand which, by the way, has a dark freckle on the ring finger and a red mark below the pointer). It was a beautiful, beautiful building. We had lots of people, and I recognized most of them, though I didn’t talk to all of them. In my eyes, there were “cool” kids and there were “not cool” kids. I was somewhere in the middle. Homeschooled and Christian, but kind of wild and unkempt. At least on the outside.

On the inside, I was afraid. Mostly of the grown-ups. Especially the pastor. Why? I was afraid of being called on. Afraid to speak in front of people. Afraid that someone would ask if I was a Christian, and being forced to say I wasn’t sure.

It took a long time for me to believe that Jesus had accepted my four-year-old’s prayer for forgiveness and salvation, and that he accepted all of the requests after that (ones I made just to be sure).

In case you haven’t noticed, I really, really cared what people thought of me. And somehow the church setting magnified the need to be perfect. Not to say that I didn’t have my friends—I did, and I loved hanging out with them. I loved the days when all of the chairs would be dragged back from the audience and the worship team would play “Happy Day” and the whole floor would shake with people dancing, jumping, singing.

Then one day my parents told me and my brother that we were leaving. I, of course, was a little bit confused and scared. Their reasons didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time: God had called us out of that church. The church was moving to a different town, and we were supposed to be serving the people of this town.

The first few months we bounced from church to church. We met new people and got introduced to many styles of Sunday School. A few of them involved more candy than learning.

After a while, we just stayed home. All I really remember from those days is staring out the window smudged with rain, bored out of my mind.

Then we started a Bible study for a few friends who wanted to learn. We read the book of John. I found it very hard to sit still at first. Slowly people rotated in and out. The two people we started Bible study specifically for—well, one doesn’t come anymore and the other is in heaven. She’s much happier there.

Things were slow for a while. Some weeks, no one would show up. Suddenly our group was filled with twenty-something-year-olds. The house could be jam-packed or completely empty. My dad at first thought of it as a church plant and called us theProdigalChurch. (He likes to challenge people’s beliefs and misconceptions. The word prodigal has a different meaning than you think if you’re thinking of the story in Luke, so go look it up.)

Now we have a group of about 20-30 people. Usually we meet and everyone brings some food so we can all have dinner. We sit and talk and laugh, filling the living room with warmth and people. Eventually Mom gets Dad back on track, at which point we read a book (sometimes the Bible) or watch a clip or discuss things happening in people’s lives. Every once in a while, we pray. And for me, that prayer is healing.

What The Church Is

In most people’s minds, the word “church” conjures up the image of a building where people meet on Sundays to worship and listen to a sermon. Please understand: that is not a bad thing. Amazing things happen in churches. People receive life.

And yes, that is part of the word church. But there is a bigger picture to that word.

I’ve heard people discuss the fact that church is the wrong word, that it comes from pagan terms, that we should be called ecclesia… but that’s really not what I mean at all. And that is not an argument that I’m familiar enough with to make.

What I mean is this: church is not a Sunday morning meeting. Church is not a building where people go to worship.

Church is the people itself.

“‘For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them.’” – Matthew 18:20, Jesus speaking.

This next verse is beautiful and terrible, written about when Jesus died:

“And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split.” – Matthew 27:50-51

Do you understand the significance of that? The temple was God’s house. That was where He lived. The curtain separated people from him because of their sin.

And when Jesus died, the curtain tore.  

After that, the temple wasn’t God’s house anymore. We had been washed clean. Now we could communicate with God… and we became the temple.

How That Looks Today

The main purpose of the church today is to bring glory to God. That is the purpose of our lives: to bring glory to God, to love others for his name’s sake.

A lot of churches do that. Sometimes, though, I think that people inside the church don’t quite understand what it’s like to be on the outside.

In some respects, I understand that feeling. Often when I visited a new church or my old one, I’d feel a little bit… like maybe I didn’t belong. Well, I know I don’t, really, because I’m not called to be there anymore.

But the people the church is trying to reach… are they really just pushing them away?

If you’re broken, if you’re a sinner, a “religious” place is the last place you feel like going. The word religion makes you think of rules and judgment. Judgment on YOU. Some people humble themselves. Others stay away.

The Elder Son

You’ve probably heard the story of the prodigal son. The younger son is obnoxious. He takes his inheritance from his father before the guy is even dead and leaves. He spends it on a life of sin. Probably don’t need to elaborate on that—every one of us has got our own.

But then the younger son has no money. He’s spent it all, and now he’s living in mud, hungry, dirty, and a slave to someone he doesn’t want to be enslaved to.

Then he starts to think. At my father’s house, even the servants were treated better than this! I’ll go home and I’ll repent. Because I am not worthy to be his son anymore, I will offer myself up as a servant.

So he sets off on his way home. And who sees him from far away? His father. A father who has obviously been waiting and waiting for his lost, beloved son to come home again. This father runs to the son and hugs him and kisses him. And then he ignores the son’s pleas to be a servant, and instead, throws a party for him.

Yeah. A party. That’s how much this guy missed his son.

This younger son humbled himself because he knew life would be better once he got home, even if he was punished. And his father accepted him.

The father is God, by the way—God accepting us sinners even when we’ve taken everything he’s given us and thrown it away.

It’s a beautiful image, and many retold versions of this story end here. But there’s more—and it’s not quite a happy ending.

Notice that the sinner is called “the younger son.” Know what that implies? He’s got an older brother.

The older brother is in the field, and he’s mad. His dad is throwing a party for the son who’s done everything wrong. So he confronts his father.

“Look! Look at my life! Do you see what I have done for you? Do you see all the time I have given to serve you? I never once ran away! Never left you, your commandments, your home! And now… now you’re throwing a party for my younger brother, the one who never obeyed. How come you’ve never given me a party? How is that fair?”

You’ve never cried out to God like this, right? Right?… You have?

So what does the father say? “Everything I have is yours, you’ve always been with me. But my son has been missing all this time, and now he’s come home! We had to celebrate!”

He’s inviting his oldest son to understand, to come inside. To be a family, finally. What does the son say?

Nothing. Because then the story ends.

And we are left wondering. Am I going to come inside?

That is what we are supposed to wonder. Jesus told this story to a group of sinners that were listening. But he knew that in the corner, some Pharisees were muttering about how this man welcomed sinners.

The Pharisees were the religious people of the day. The ones who did everything right. The ones who never left the law of God and yet somehow couldn’t love anyone who did. They were the elder son.

Those sinners? They were the younger son.

So often, this is us, today. We, as Christians, think ourselves high and mighty, good and godly followers. Why would we want to associate with sinners? Why would we even consider throwing a party for them? I mean, look at how they treated their God!

But the fact is, even us modern-day elder sons are sinners. Sinners for being proud, for judging, for not welcoming those that Jesus loves.

That’s the thing, though. Jesus had every right to act like an eldest son. He is, in fact, the eldest son. God’s firstborn, the chosen one. He could have had the kingdom all to himself. He could have left us to die on this earth.

Instead, he came and not only died for us, but lived for us. When he lived, he didn’t hang out with the people who thought themselves perfect, even though he himself was perfect. He hung out with the people who had fallen short. The people who recognized their weakness and came home begging for mercy. The people who knew how to be real.

Jesus is going to throw a party for them in heaven. He came to give new life not only to the successes, but to the failures.

We as a church, as Christians, as believers, and most of all as followers, must humble ourselves and beg for mercy. We must treat our fellow sinners the way Jesus treated them and us: with love. Pure, self-sacrificing, one-hundred-percent-not-about-you love.

That’s all our group—“The Prodigal Church”—is trying to do. Love. Love and serve and fellowship and worship. That’s what God wants us to do. Sometimes that means going out of your comfort zone. For us, that meant stepping out of the security, predictability, and occasionally self-righteousness of church. It means living a wild faith and loving a real Jesus.

For you it may be completely different. Just follow God’s call for your life. Love. Love, love, love.

That’s what Jesus did.

This morning I threw everything that was frustrating me down at God’s feet. I usually think of it as just “BLAAAAA… there it is, God.” Like vomiting—it’s all there and all disgusting, but I don’t have to feel as sick about it anymore.

A lot of things that were worrying me came out. For example, my birthday is tomorrow. This morning I was looking through photo albums of me from age 0-8. All of those years I thought I was awesome, mature, friendly. And looking back I remember how silly some of the things I did and said were, how ridiculous and annoying I was. Even just last year, or the year before that. Sometimes I still have too much pride in myself and do stupid things. Think stupid things. Say stupid things. And this morning I felt regret. And yet again I wished that I could be perfect.  Too often I think that I’m so mature now, I can handle myself—and I just make mistakes. Again and again and again.

The other side of this is not just that I’m not perfect–it’s also that other people have seen and can see that I am not. I’m different in a lot of ways from the average person, and I feel judged often. To the public schoolers, I’m a “homeschooler”. Conservative, shy, a misfit. To the churchgoers, I’m the one who doesn’t go. A heretic, or someone who can’t really love Jesus because she doesn’t do anything on Sundays, or someone who doesn’t fit their moral standards.

That hurts a lot. I try to be strong in my beliefs and act like it doesn’t matter, because I know they’re wrong about me, but it tears me down. Wears me out. Very often people don’t really understand where I’m coming from. To some Christians, not going to church equals not being a Christian. To me, not going to church equals close friends praying for me on Wednesday nights at Bible study and praying on my own and singing Christian pop music and talking about Jesus in real life and writing to glorify my God. It equals not having to sit through sermons where I just end up doodling the whole time anyway and feeling awkward about my voice during worship and feeling crowded, uncomfortable, irritated with things I don’t agree with. And they just can’t see that.

They can’t see how hard I try to be perfect. How much I want to earn their love and Jesus’ love. How much I want to glorify God and love him and just finally make sense of everything that confuses me. And I always fail. I make so many mistakes every day and to someone who wants to be perfect, it’s crushing. And then I don’t know what to do.

And I judge just as much as they do. I judge them for how they go to church. How they don’t live life like I do. And that is yet another failure on my part. It drives me insane.

So I told God all of this and some of the things that have been overwhelming me, and then I just stood there, eyes closed. And some notes from a song came to mind. I let the notes fill my mind, searching for the lyrics I’d forgotten—and then I sang the one line over and over.

Holy, my God, you are worthy of all my praise…

Worthy. He is worthy. What does worthy mean in my life? Then I thought of something from a book I’ve been reading called “Graceful: Letting Go of Your Try-Hard Life.” And it’s expressed a question I always ask myself in agony, in frustration, in hopelessness: What am I supposed to do to be a better person? To be a worthy person?

And the book corrects that question. Because living that every day looks like slavery. It looks like failure and disappointment. Why? Because when you live to please others, you base your identity in what they think of you. In your success, your reputation, your responsibility, your knowledge. You are always working for them, but not out of love—you’re working out of pride.

And when you fail, your identity slips. Suddenly you’re not enough.

The only safe place to base your identity in is God. And here is where the book gives a new question: What am I going to believe?

If you believe that you are going to do it on your own, you are most certainly going to fail. No one–I repeat, no one–can keep every single rule. The purpose of the Law in the Bible was to show us our sin. God knew we couldn’t keep it. Only Jesus could keep it. And He fulfilled the law so we don’t have to. We can make mistakes and he will forgive us. We are not the ones who have to be enough. Jesus is enough.

What does the phrase Jesus is enough really mean? It’s so familiar that we gloss over it, move on with our lives as though we hadn’t heard it. We think, oh yeah, Jesus is going to take care of me. Then we hurry along to take care of ourselves with Him in the background.

Jesus is enough means that I am not enough. It means that I wouldn’t even be here without him. That I would fail forever and then I’d be gone. Nothing.

It means that Jesus is everything and I am nothing. But it means that He did enough, He is enough, to make me worthy. And because He loves me, He has made me worthy.

If I believe that, it’s okay to make mistakes sometimes. If I believe that, I can live free from not only the weight of my failure, but the weight of what others think of me. Because Jesus is enough to cover my failure. Because He loves me. He’ll never love me more or less because of what I do and don’t do. And that’s all that matters.

What are you going to believe?