I love when people ask me what I'm up to post-grad life and I tell them I've moved back home. Without fail, I watch expectant smiles and raised eyebrows shift to discomfort, like they just ate a really bad piece of cheese. "Oh! Well, good for you!" I didn't mind it, though, because I had a plan. A year ago I was diagnosed with a chronic digestive disorder. The doctors at school told me there wasn't anything I could do to alleviate my symptoms - that my immune system was shot and I had to live with it. It was a serious condition, but not enough for them to do what their livelihoods called them to do and help me improve. And as any sane individual would, I refused to accept that. I was going to move back home, take some time to rest, see some doctors, solve the mystery, and be perfectly healthy to make my way on to my next adventure. After a week of rest, and catching up on the sleep that graduating with my undergrad had robbed me of, I had my first appointment with a specialist. Somehow, I had unreasonable hope in the face of being sick for two years, but I was sure this was my time to be healed. My doctor sat with me for an hour and a half and genuinely cared about my progress and I knew he was God-sent. He explained some of what was going on and put me on an insanely strict diet that I was more than happy to follow, if it meant being healthy again. And then I ate my words. Because when you're put on a fruit, veggies, and chicken diet, food isn't fun anymore. Aside from it taking forever to prepare, being all natural and what-not, and having to take all of the prescribed supplements with each meal, food just didn't taste good. And I'm a gal that LOVES me some food. Like, a would shamelessly-eat-hot-wings-on-a-first-date kind of love. It's real. Except that now I was in a constant state of hunger. I could feel myself losing weight and I felt like I was just eating to stay alive. I won't even go into the withdrawals. All I could do was sit at home because the second I left home, I'd have some sort of terrible pain/symptom or I'd just have to go home to make the next snack/meal because eating out was such a frustrating ordeal. This wasn't my plan. This was my own personal version of hell. Those around me tried their best to encourage me. It had only been a couple of weeks and I knew, like with anything else, if this was what was going to heal me, it would take time and determination. Even still, I didn't understand why God was allowing this to happen. When there was so much that I wanted to do and He was allowing me to sit at home and rot. I had never felt more purposeless in my life and with no physical signs to show me I was getting better, I was also pretty hopeless. But then a funny thing happened. A few weeks in, I woke up and realized that I hadn't had to lie in bed for a while. I realized that I had more energy. I realized that I could leave my house more easily. I realized that the diet was becoming less and less foreign to me. It was an excruciatingly slow and painful process. I didn't even realize it was happening. But my body was gradually at work, fighting a war within itself, to remove all the toxins and things that were holding me back from living life as fully as I could. It's funny because I was so angry going through it. Now I wonder how often I clench my fists and stomp my feet when God is trying to work in my life, rather than letting the refining process happen. As a "former" control freak, I have a hard time with pauses. With being still for a season. Now, I'm finding there is so much beauty that comes from those seasons, if you'll allow it. There is so much time to learn about what kind of person you are, about God, and to step outside of yourself to serve others. If you'll allow yourself to become okay with the unknown. With things being unresolved. I think that's the ultimate form of trusting God. To give "having to know" or "having to have a plan" to Him. Being okay with not being okay. Being okay with telling people you don't have a plan. Being okay when people tell you that they don't have a plan. I'm sure God laughs when I tell him what my plans are anyway. Today, I feel confident and healthy enough to not have to live at home anymore. I have a next step, but not a plan, and I am really happy with that. This is still an unknown season. A time where I feel a little stuck, or "paused", if you will, but I'm tired of fighting the process. This time, I'll unclench my fists and take the confusing or hard moments as they come because one day I'll wake up, life will be full-speed ahead, and I'll wish I was back in this place. Learning to be more like Him.
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An honest question. A question most of us have asked at some point or another and if you haven't yet, you will at some point, because life has this funny way of knocking us down harder than Ronda Rousey in an MMA match. It's a question I've asked often this semester. On December 31, 2015, I sat on the pier of my grandparent's modest beach condo, a glass of sparkling grape juice in hand. My whole-life-friend-and-cousin, Ashley, sat beside me and we reflected on how 2015 had left us feeling a little beaten and bruised, but agreed we were ready to start the new year. (Can I get an amen?) After a much needed winter break, we both went back to our respective schools to finish our senior years strong. I was encouraged. I had a love for God's Word, direction about the things I was passionate about, and a spring in my step. Within the first couple of weeks back, I had restored some broken relationships, started new ones, and felt a sense of purpose I hadn't felt in a LONG time. Then, mid-January arrived and with it came a high fever that escalated some misdiagnosed health problems I had been having for the last year and a half. At first, I spent most days in bed because it was physically miserable to get up. Days turned to weeks, and then I spent most days in bed because I was angry. I was exhausted simultaneously with depressive thoughts and panic attacks.
I got pretty real with God. I had never felt so stuck before. (Hence the lack of posts. Sorry friends!) Sure, I'd been through crummy stuff before, but this was the first time I had experienced God's silence. I hated it. It made me feel like God was out of reach. He promised all of these wonderful things for those who earnestly sought Him, so why wasn't he healing me physically or mentally? Why did He feel so dang far? Thankfully, I am surrounded by some pretty great friends and mentors who extended A LOT of grace and comfort my way, burrito-rolled me into a blanket, and were just present. They had some pretty great words of wisdom that stuck, but hands down the best news I have heard in my 21 years of life, next to the gospel, came from a book called Missing Pieces by Jennifer Rothschild: "He is I Am. He is NOT I wish or I feel or I think." Okay, think about that for a second. Like, really. Think. How often do I project my expectations of what I think God should be on to Him? Then get upset when He doesn't work in the way I want Him to? Does that make Him less God? When things are great, I believe God is good. So when all of the turd hits the fan, do I really believe what I say I do?
Truth Bomb: Maybe God isn't whatever you're making Him out to be. Maybe He actually is who He says He is. (You can cross out the maybes.) Seriously. I am not God. I don't know why He does what He does and it would be exhausting to come up with reasons He may be allowing whatever it is you're going through. I don't know why He chose not to heal me immediately, or why it was such a lonely road. (For my visual people: Lucy asks Aslan the same question in this scene of Prince Caspian. Really, click it.) But what I do know is that He so very much cares. When you feel like He doesn't, remember who He is. If you have to remind yourself, like I did, do it. (Right now!) [Luke 9:20] - "But you, who do YOU say I am?" He is forgiving (1 John 1:9), He IS hope (Romans 15:13), He is caring (Psalms 34:19), He is loving (Romans 5:5), He knows all (Psalms 139:1-2). Yes, he cares for YOU. (Isaiah 49:15) You reading this. Hear this from me. Do not give up. Ever. He cares for you more than you or I can think or imagine. Believe it, friend. A cool April breeze brushed my face and the sun felt like fresh laundry out of the dryer on my skin. I stroked my paddle with the fervor of Jean Valjean and I was ready to come home with a story to tell my future grandchildren. I had set off with a handful of my closest friends to a Reservation where you could rent kayaks, canoes, etc. This was a spot we visited often, coming to shirk all responsibilities for a few short hours, to enjoy a taste of the water we were all so desperately homesick for (Note: lakes and the Atlantic--just not even close). Just weeks earlier, two in our group had detoured from the designated trail to discover secret coves. They made it sound like a hop, skip, and a boat ride journey away to Neverland. Naturally, we all had to see this magical cove for ourselves. We began our journey by going to the border of the very last lake of the Reservation. We followed our leader without question and we found ourselves going under some sort of overpass.
Looks harmless enough.
Being on the canoe with my sweet roommate, Jenny (shoutout to my homegirl), we slowed our stroking to a slow coast to drift through the tunnel with ease. As we approached, we noticed that canoes were significantly more elevated than the kayaks. We also noted that the overpass was uncomfortably close to our heads. Still, we persisted. A little claustrophobia didn't bother us. It was a short enough tunnel. And then we looked up. Around every crevice, corner, wall, and ceiling were spiders of all different shapes and sizes. All different. All with eight legs. So many legs. So hairy. Moving so quickly. Scampering in every direction. And we'll just say I had a bit of a Ron-in-the-forbidden-forest moment. Usually, I'm pretty quick on my feet when it comes to unexpected situations, but I was not blessed with such wisdom that day. I'm pretty sure I crawled from my spot, sat in front of Jenny, and started rocking back and forth while she had to pull it together for the both of us long enough to get us out of there. Somehow she did. Once we made it out and regained some self-control (or I did) we saw we had reached our Neverland. A new section of lake that was unexplored. We paddled toward it and celebration ensued. We hooted and hollered, took pictures, and were excited to be (what we thought were) the first to discover this special section of the Reservation. One of our friends gathered a good way to celebrate our discovery would be to abandon his kayak and climb a tree (don't ask me why - it's just what happened that day). Trying to keep everyone and our gear intact, Jenny and I paddled over to make sure our friend's kayak didn't escape us. That's when I saw it again. Spiders. Everywhere. In the Spanish moss. On the tree he was climbing. And well.... I'll let the video here explain the rest. Spiders fell on us, in our boat, we flipped, and got the whole event on camera. The trek back was equally as horrifying. (There was a water moccasin involved.) It all sounds so silly (and it is hilarious - we still laugh about it often), but I genuinely didn't know if we'd make it back that day. At the time, it seemed like an impossible obstacle, and safety was as unimaginable as Harry Potter and Lord V skipping down Privet Drive together. And alone? It would've been. You know what's pretty neat, though? I wasn't alone. When things look bleakest and you can scarcely lift your head, it is essential to have friends that will pick it up for you. The kind that see the ugliest parts of you and choose you anyway. That drag you out of bed when you can't get up and rejoice with you when you've reached a sweet victory. We weren't made to do life alone, friends (Heb 10:24-25; Psa 133:1; 1 John 4:11). Find those people. Be vulnerable. Hold close to them. And go through some tunnels together. Time has always been this great, elusive concept to me. I often reflect on what my life was like a year ago and find it drastically different from the former. My time as a college student is nearing its end and I've replayed memories in my head more frequently than I watch The Office reruns (because in all seriousness, is there a greater show?) (The answer is no.) I can remember crying, hugging friends and strangers alike, when our school won a National Championship. Dancing so long I'd fallen asleep with my shoes on. Dining hall meals so inedible, I'd often resort to eating stale Cheerios for dinner. Sharing stories and laughs with friends so great that my triple espresso shot right out of my nose (okay, maybe that one didn't happen). There are some great memories I've made, but there were some that made me wonder if I'd ever be able to keep going again. I can remember getting a phone call at 2am informing me that a good friend of mine was missing, and was later pronounced murdered. The first time I experienced a panic attack away from home. Failing out of my major. Twice. People that I thought were in my life for the long haul that weren't. Health issues. Finding that my family was broken. Each time a new trial arose, I asked the same question: God, why are you allowing this? What did I do to deserve this? Do you even love me? Where. Are. You? Then, I heard just a whisper. "I am here, child. I am with you always. To the very end." (Matt 28:20) Then why do I feel so indescribably alone? "You will seek me and you WILL find me, daughter. When you seek me with your heart." (Jer 29:13) I don't know how. I'm not strong enough. Not smart enough. "Sweet daughter, I am with you. I WILL strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you." (Isa 41:10) What a promise, friends. Lovely readers of mine, if I could grab a cup of coffee with each of you and listen to your stories, I would love nothing more. While I don't know each of your individual stories, I know life has this tendency of kicking us where the sun don't shine. Suffering is a friend to many of us. I wish I could answer all of your questions, hug you, and make you forget that you're hurting. As someone who came out on the other side, what I can tell you is this - you will get through this. Not because "life-is-great-if-you-just-believe-it-is" or because you're stronger than this. On the contrary, you're not even a little bit. One of my favorite things about this sweet Savior named Jesus is that He promises to be with us (Josh 1:9). He promises to comfort us (Psalm 23:4). He promises to never leave us (Psalm 139:7-10). He promises nothing can separate us from Him (Rom 8:38-39). He promises rest and hope (Psalms 62:5). He even weeps with us because he hurts when we're hurting (John 11:35). If we would just look up from our suffering long enough to see. Sweet friends who lift you up during these storms and let you cry it out are a gift from above. Counseling is also a great resource where I've been able to learn significantly more about myself and heal from past wounds, but I'm still left with questions unanswered. My trials are still ongoing. But there is a joy I have experienced in the midst of complete tragedy. There is a hope in my soul that keeps me going. And I have to choose to physically take heart (John 16:33) when I have none. I have to choose to trust God is allowing this to happen for reasons I won't understand right now. And that He loves me enough to walk through it with me. This is His promise. So take heart. That's a great question.
I'm glad you asked. Ages ago a good friend of mine told me I needed to start writing. Another friend said I should start a blog. Most of my English professors both require and suggest this practice. It made sense. There are unpublished copies of children's books my 7-year-old self has written that are laying around in a dusty bookshelf somewhere. Even still, I wasn't sure. The world does not need another blogger. I'm not even that great of a writer. What earthly reason would anyone care about what I have to say? What if people I know read it and think it's dumb? The list goes on. Ultimately, I decided to go for it. Mostly, because it's what I love to do. I love the art of stringing words together and the idea of it resonating with someone. I love connecting to people. I love to use my voice and be a single instrument amongst many that create something melodic. So I'm doing it. I'm not entirely sure what all this will entail. I don't always know what to write about. Most of the time I don't know what I'm doing. As another good friend (and fellow blogger) said, I'm just going with it. My one hope is to provide a place of encouragement, honesty, and somewhere you can kick off your shoes and relax for just a moment. Here's to starting. |
AuthorStephanie is wrapping up her final year of her Bachelor's in English. She can be found curled up with a good book, playing her ukulele, or enjoying the occasional (everyday) taco. Archives
September 2016
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