(aserial blip 3)

Alternate title: I think I'm getting better even though I can't feel it (today).

Part 6 sits idling in my Drafts folder, unwilling since Friday to be completed. I'm just not in that space. In fact, I feel so over-exposed that the topic makes me cringe. For the first time, I'm 100% glad for the break. I'll take it. Fine. Whatever You'll do, Lord.

Today was a lovely day. So many little things fell so nicely into place when they didn't have to... I'm just so grateful. I guess in the same way that a string of not-nice small things can ruin a day, little mercies can beautifully brighten a day.

The things are so little that if I wrote them, it would have to come off sil'. Some I asked for explicitly and I was so wowed when He said yes. Other things just fell into place like Monday was a gift.

Getting to work on time on an unknown bus sched... enough time and the right resources to defuse my motion sickness that triggered at 6am... finding the most annoying task of the day snatched from my hands (even though I was prepared to go through with it)... finding the second-most annoying task of the day twice as fast and easy as anticipated... a conversation that should have been standard and good turning out to be deep and light-bulby... the pre-disappointed pitch in J's voice when he asked if I was leaving for the day... the perfect ministry aide found and bought for $1.40... being understood... the free-flowing-brain work I was able to do in the oh-so-delicious realm of music theory... a gorgeously solid power nap... more editing work landing on my desk... a brief textversation about restored relationship (YUM)... bothering my housemate with a sock monkey Jack-in-the-box (you heard me)... the sneaking suspicion that the Lord is kind growing until it's no longer sneaking nor suspicious...

...

Sigh. It's way past my bedtime.

gracious

 compassionate

  slow to anger

   quick in love

(aserial blip 2)

Rough night.

There was a sudden moment of intense comfort and profound rest last night that virtually made my jaw drop. I had been crying for half an hour or so, initially because I didn't know how to process God's love for me (and that He was showing it)--I kept asking Him, "what am I supposed to do with this??" almost angrily. Then I was crying because the invisible hands that had been on me for several hours (for the second day in a row) were at peak intensity. When it's prolonged, it wears me down. I start feeling smaller and smaller and more and more ashamed. Often my face flushes.

When it's intense (which has only happened twice) it's like torture. It's like reliving an assault but worse because I can't call the cops or push the attaker away. 

Last night when I got home I couldn't take my coat off for more than ten minutes. When I went to pull it off I felt like it was my only article of clothing and I was removing it in front of a lustful, objectifying audience. I felt like I was being humiliated. 

I couldn't even zip it back up. I couldn't slump to the floor, lie on my bed, stand up straight, fold my arms or hug a pillow because any movement made my clothes move over my highly sensitive, easily irritated body and I was just so tender. It was like trying to move barbed wire over a bed of balloons.

So I stood hunched over a little to make my clothes fall away from me and I sobbed like I was being taken advantage of, and like I was helpless in it.

I think I have never begged like that in my life, not even in prayer. I begged and begged God to take it away. I had reached my limit and I was crying out desperately. It was like torture. It's like torture to be in my own body.

When I sensed that I might soon snap from the pain, I decided to pick up the pillow because I wasn't convinced this could hurt any more than it did. I squeezed gingerly (a simulated hug) and there was a little relief.

Hoping we were now officially in the decline, I put the pillow down but found I was wrong. So I writhed and pleaded and sobbed again.

Then I wanted to decide that enough was enough. I thought nothing could make this worse, so I had better barrel through instead of putting my life on hold. I simply decided the jacket had to come off and as I started removing it, I heard a very faint "trust me".

I took it off and I was OK.

I was OK.

The pain dropped from a nine out of ten to a six. Hurdle cleared, I was able to completely switch into my pyjamas--however slowly--trying to consciously swallow the pain and not be crippled by it.

I heard my housemate come in and wondered if she could hear me crying. I wondered if I wanted a hug. I didn't know. I felt so ashamed and roughed up, I wasn't sure I wanted to be touched. I eventually decided to go for one hug (but no chatting) but by the time I had emerged from my room, her door was closed. Alas.

I stood by my bed, kind of stunned for a moment, not expecting to have so tidily missed an opportunity.Would I be OK on my own? Should I go knock on her metaphorically always-open door? Feeling too small to go and ask, I climbed onto the corner of my bed and pulled a chunk of my triple-layer blanket to my chest.


And there it was. Huddled in a ball with my baggie hoodie on and hood up; my uber-comfortable pyjamas and warm socks; my softened, puffy, tear-streaked face not even on the pillow; and a mix of linens in my clutches,
I
felt
relief.


PHEW.

Finally the hands had left and my tears could stop. I might have gasped or something, feeling complete alleviation of something that had been making me want to scream for hours and hours.  I thanked Him from my heart.

That evening, I had brought home three types of junk food in hopes of decreasing my overall stress, and of avoiding relapsing with my wicked coping mechanism. (Yes, I know it's not the best but I felt desperate.)

But then lying there lounging in a pool of relief, feeling tension leave my whole body, all I wanted was water. I was feeling hot, achy, and stuffed like I was getting sick (though I think that was actually from stress, crying, and the cold weather) and being cozy on my soft bed with cool water to drink... it was just overwhelming. It was enough. It was good.


Why should I feel discouraged,
why should the shadows come,
why should my heart feel lonely
and long for heaven and home,

When Jesus is my portion?
My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 5)

Subtitle: catharsis

"As much as the concept is misunderstood today, Aristotle's understanding of catharsis was literally a purging, a cleansing. A cathartic experience helps us love the good and hate evil. It allows us to expel some of the evil that is inside us, with the result that we are cleaner and purer than before."
     --source too squeamish to be cited

The next day - a Wednesday - I felt great. As I put it to an interested inquirer, I felt like a fever had broken. I felt, having withstood gross temptation twice in two days (where it seemed I had struggled to the point of trembling and sweating), like the fever had broken. It was like a big, ugly menacing something had left me and ceased to permeate every fibre, every pore, every cell. Relief would have to work overtime at three jobs for a decade to come close to fitting what I felt that day.


And the Princess treatment, perplexingly, continued. In fact, it amped up. I felt better. I felt distinctly better. I felt OK in my own skin. Looking back at a day which is now exactly a month ago, I think I didn't know at the time how many more ups and downs (from feeling exactly like myself and happy to feeling exactly like an impostor and devastated) I would go through. They've leveled out a bit since but I am a long way from being out of the woods.


The day after was one of my fun-fave Reprieve Thursdays. Those Thursdays make me praise the Lord. I'm just too impressed, humbled and grateful for the Lord giving me ONE DAY of lightness, laughter, ease, peace and detectable joy amidst so many days of [words-fail crazy painfulness].


And then it was Friday. At the end of my Reprieve Thursday, I started feeling it. I asked my pastor if we really had to talk, not actually asking what those words denoted, but knowing I could say them and have him still perceive my meaning.

I meant something like,

Is it going to be OK?

Am I going to make it?

Is it OK that I'm scared?

Why am I scared?

Can you help me through this?

Will you keep pushing me when I reach for the brakes? (I'm definitely going to need that.)

And he heard me, and responded to what I meant. He overruled my inclination towards the brakes by saying that yes, he thought we should talk--"even if it's for one minute," he says. He answered all the other questions with a kind facial expression and tone laden with commitment to service, to friendship and to doing his best to help me however he could. He wasn't really going to let me wriggle away, no matter how uncomfortable this experience would be.

(Cough syrup, right?)

We met. We spoke. I both hated the fact that it wasn't a magic bullet and appreciated the fact that it was an important part of a journey, of a bigger picture.


It was good to get it all out. (That's just plain true.) It was significant to have the freedom, security and encouragement to disclose my darkest baggage to a safe someone that was pouring himself out to help one of the King's Daughters (who is also one of his own sisters) get back on her feet.

I sat and worked through my list of accounts of verbal, physical and sexual abuse. I gave as much detail as I thought made sense, and I waited painfully for responses. I don't know if I was waiting for approval or judgment but I certainly felt the weight of monologuing. I'm not used to being the one doing most of the talking. I felt like I was gasping for input but also thought that if I asked I'd be turned down. This was my time to talk, apparently. Barf. Sometimes I just want other people to talk over me and stamp me out so what I say doesn't have a chance to be important.


The whole conversation now feels surreal. It truly was a starting point. I had no idea how many important trails would begin there and I have seen them working out every day since. It was good to get it all out, but it was also hard to find that merely saying it wasn't enough. I hadn't purged the instances from my body or my life.


Later that day, the Big Talk having concluded, I was amazed to find how much I had been yearning for outrage. I had been yearning for my pastor to interrupt me as I spoke, with huge WHAT?!s, and are you serious?es, and that's horrible!s. I didn't know til later how hard I had been longing to have someone who has heard the facts react like something was wrong. I was dying for it, as it turns out, because I hadn't gotten it the first time I had told.


Yes, with the worst incident, back at age eighteen, I had told each of my parents, and the account was downplayed by one, and dismissed by the other. At the time, I read that the incident was not a big deal so I should stop freaking out. Eleven years on, I realise what a toll that reading has taken. I internalised something tragic about my value. (To be fair, I need to tell them again now--and it will be a different story, now that so much more has transpired and that I have a little more maturity to frame it all--and I need to do my best to read their responses fairly. Not all is lost.)

But because I felt the desire so keenly, I decided I would blatantly ask. I asked my pastor how he would have reacted if he had no reason to restrain himself. And he surprised me. If he was fabricating, he should quit the cloth and head to Hollywood.


He was horrified. He was sad for me! He was outraged and offended and, I think, disgusted on my behalf. He shocked me as he spoke about my past with such grave seriousness. I almost felt like I was being rebuked for taking it too lightly. I was forced to conclude that this guy must think much of the Lord and of the things (the people!) the Lord has created with inherent worth and has designated as precious.


He lamented that he couldn't have protected me, even though it was nine years before we'd ever met. He teared up more times than I can count and he held eye-contact like he was pleading with me to catch some of his conviction. It was a lot to take in.


It seems I take in about one iota of it every three days. The animated, extensive outrage was in proportion to my value and to the gravity of the violations. I wasn't expecting it. This was someone who could see me like a father should see a daughter and was begging me to lift my head up. This was fitting wrath--mixed with overwhelming compassion!


This was something. (It felt like balm.) My perception was changing. That early implied estimation of my value and preciousness had a heavier hand in future incidents than I could have ever imagined. Light was dawning like the sun's terms had finally been met and it was no longer on strike. BAM.




So this was my soft-hearted pastor tearing up over my mistreatment while I quietly and intently trained my eyes on him, a ticker tape of "is he still talking about me?" humming in the background.

And what about my Heavenly Father? What would He say, if I had been sitting across from Him curled up in a ball, staring at the list in my journal, playing with the bookmark in it, feeling flushed, feeling dirty, feeling helpless and alone, and wishing I couldn't tell the stories with first-person pronouns?

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 4)

I sing because I'm happy. 

I sing because I'm free.

His eye is on the sparrow

and I know He watches me.

The next morning, I felt a hint of victory. I felt both relieved and amazed that I had made it. Drifting off to sleep was NEVER, never so sweet as it was that night.

For whatever reason I woke up again at midnight and when it became apparent that I was running on something like adrenaline and might not need a full night's sleep, I decided to start writing an email. Highly personal and deliberately crafted, it took me more than two hours to finish. Then I was tired again and apparently so was the mob so I was able to drift off.

In the morning there was a spring in my step. For the first time I had tried - really tried - to resist and I had succeeded. (Who knew?) The early morning transpired well but then as midday approached, the spring was gone and my knuckles dragged on the ground instead. I was ready to give up and I inclined toward my coping/escape mechanism. This would have been within the first three days of the phantom hands making their debut. I wasn't dealing very well with feeling unprotected.


I came incredibly close but received another timely phone call which I again resented when I first picked up. Soon I melted. So much softness of tone, so much patience, so many repetitions of "it's okay" that I gave in. I had to give in and accept that I was loved and that was that. It mattered what I did. It mattered what has happened. It mattered how I felt. I mattered. The phone call stole the mechanism's potency. I hung up partly annoyed but largely grateful.

Throughout the afternoon, I felt that peculiar lightness that comes in the wake of hard-won victory. Yes, I had needed help but I hadn't succumbed.

Somewhere in the middle of a street hockey game with the boys in the early evening, a pivotal light bulb was turned on. In a now-rare moment of feeling relaxed and like myself, I sent a text-message confessing that yes, the over-the-top, out-of-your-way, too-patient, too-generous, too-gracious, too-kind treatment I had been given for more than a week really was working on me. It was getting to me; it was wearing me down. Yes, I confessed against my conscious desires that I had been made to feel like a princess. I had been treated like a princess!

Amazing.

And my subconscious desires were awakened. That day, I liked the designation. Crazily, it fit.

I loved thinking of myself as a sweet, little girl in a soft pink dress and a cone-shaped hat with a shimmery streamer coming out of the top.

The designation fit because my Father is the King. Two days later, in unpacking the term in an email, that hit me HARD. I thought I was typing to describe my new understanding but it was as I typed that my understanding was deepened so significantly and abruptly that my eyes instantly bugged and I dropped my phone.

My

Father

is

the 

King

(of all Kings).

(What?)

I was writing it out to say that it wasn't the same as enjoying being treated like a queen or a kitten (because neither of those designations accurately applies). It mattered that my real Father (my real Father because of the amazing Great Exchange) was a real King. Daughter of the King. Incredible. Undeserved but irrevocable. Incredible. And I was feeling it.

Now, The Big Talk was only two days away. What did I think? How was I feeling about it?

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 3)

     This is my Father's world; O let me ne'er forget 
     That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.

[Following the Friday of pink carnations came the Saturday of self-pampering and energising activities. Saturday evening found me mired in temptation but able to resist, largely with the help of a timely distraction.]

---

And then there was Sunday. The sermon I had the overflowing joy and privilege to sit under seemed like it was tailor-made for me and my aching heart that morning. It got me. It completely got me. I sat entranced. The Lord is just amazing. He cares enough to speak to us!


It was beautiful and it was balm but it was also too much for one Sunday while everything is just so raw. At times like these, I emphatically thank God for the technology I have access to because it means I can carry the sermon around in my pocket and re-listen as needed. In fact, so can you!

After the service finished, the preacher found me sitting in my office (very possibly staring blankly) and asked how I was. Despite recent small(er-ish) victories, despite how upbeat I had been for most of that morning, my honest answer was, "I think it's going to be a hard day." My friend looked slightly surprised and maybe like a little wind had been knocked out of him. He appeared to have been rooting for me and hoping that Sunday would be a real Sabbath from all my heaviness. I felt a little badly saying it, wishing I could be better. (I also had a moment of profound gratitude that I have friends with whom I can be perfectly honest.)


He invited me to make sure I took very good care of myself that day, now the second day in a row. He made it inescapably clear that there should be no obstacle for it. I needed to prioritise my well-being, and at that time, I was able to accept the invitation because it felt like a favor to him. Friend whom I respect and cherish asking me to do something that would make them happy? No-brainer yes. That the "something" happens to be taking care of myself--something I shouldn't need second-party motivation for? Awkward, but I can work with it.


Sunday blended into Monday and somewhere in that first-of-the-work-week day I accepted my friend's suggestion to designate Friday for having a big talk (THE big talk) about all of what's been bubbling up inside of me. I wanted catharsis. I wanted to say it all plainly and I desperately wanted to see its true ugliness. (And I wanted him to concur.) "This is what happened to me..." I would say. I would sit still, curled up in a ball, avoiding eye-contact, speaking very quietly, and work through my list, fighting back the urge to punctuate each story with, "it wasn't that bad, though."


Monday evening found me sending one of the saddest text-messages I've ever drafted:
"I'm standing in the street a block from my house ready to cry. I can't go home."

I was reaching out, asking for permission to spend the money required for me to not go home. I couldn't go home and be by myself and be unable to resist succumbing to my disgusting coping mechanism.


On my way back downtown, the phantom hands grew highly aggressive and I felt heavily pressed by the weight of helplessness and anger. For the first time ever, I cried over my history of abuse. I finally saw it in the proper lighting and had enough of my defenses eroded that I could simply be sad and feel the appropriate hurt.

Crying on the bus was a new one for me but I was still able to feel relief and gratitude for a real emotion. I was glad to be having an appropriate response for once. (I should be devastated!)


I stayed out of the house as long as I could and hoped I was going to be dog-tired enough when I got home that I would be asleep before temptation could reach me. I was wrong. I thought I had it. I was feeling OK, feeling grateful that I had time to read the Word, journal, and pray, feeling like Monday could be put in the books and that I would do my best to tackle Tuesday when it came. But then when I closed my eyes, it was like a mob was shouting at me, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! They were practically frothing with blood-lust.


I would open my eyes and gasp each time, horribly intimidated and ready to give up. It felt like I was going to be swallowed whole. I felt like I was being dragged away.


I just wasn't going to beat this. I had to give in. What was the point anyway? This pain is unbearable.


Then I sent another text-message that would rank among the saddest, reaching out to be talked off the ledge. I didn't think it would help but I didn't want the mob to be satisfied. I was met with a lot more grace and a lot more love than I will ever deserve.



I was permitted to keep my autonomy but I was immediately and deeply aware that boxes of cereal don't get talked off ledges. People don't plead with shoelaces to take better care of themselves. Maybe I was worth being intervened for.


     This is my Father's world: The battle is not done; 
     Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and heav'n be one.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 2)

Subtitle: The most excellent way.

Lord, You're going to win this one. Just don't let me forget a single thing.


O the love that drew salvation's plan!
O the grace that bro't it down to man!
O the mighty gulf that God did span
At Calvary.

The Thursday after my shameful Wednesday when I was found on the floor was one of those "reprieve" Thursdays I've been writing about. It was lighter than I could ever explain, given what had come before and what was coming up. It must be the peace that transcends understanding.

And then Friday, somehow amaze-miraculously, was the day I realised more fully than I ever have that God loves me. Sheesh. Those words will never, never, never capture it.


God loves me.


I went to work in the morning like normal, feeling like it was a normal day, but by the time I split from the boys around 8.20, the above truism had descended on me in a delightfully inescapable way.
(I'm a little annoyed that I can't put it into words but in truth, it's a very good thing I can't put God's love into words. My goodness. His goodness!)


He told me the truth and I believed Him. It was raining rather dismally that day and my left Chuck has a hole the size of a quarter in the bottom of it. As I neared Zehrs while en route to Work B, the Lord said that yes, He would buy me socks today. ("Go ahead," He said, like a kind dad.) So I didn't have to sit in soaked socks or no socks, He said it was OK for me to go buy some dry ones on this rainy day when I learned that He loved me. (No rocks or snakes for this daughter!)


I found the socks (higher quality and softcomfier than expected for so small a price--thanks, Dad!) and then having read just the right email somewhere near the fabric softener aisle, I doubled back to the entrance of the store where the floral department is. When I had come in, I felt like I noticed their blooms for the first time. They sure are colorful and pretty. They look like LIFE.

I thought, on the day when I have a fantastic Father who loves me (and I know it!), it might be sweet if He bought me flowers. (But I just lost my job, I reminded myself. So it will be the thought that counts.)

But the email so reeked of you-are-loved-ness that I was convinced I could make an exception. Rather: I was informed that my Dad would take care of it. It was His treat.

I was going to get a single stem because as far as I remember those will only cost two or three dollars. The only single I saw was a funky-looking rose (the petals had clearly been multicoloredly dyed) but it was bright and pretty enough that I thought I might take it. I asked about the price and when I realised it was comparable to an entire bouquet of some of the others, I decided my budget had been increased. Get something you'll really like, He nudged.

The florist asked me what the occasion was. I'm not sure if it would have been better or right for me to say, "my Heavenly Father is buying them for me as a visual token of His immense love for me," but I didn't say it. (Yes, it probably would have made me look foolish or mentally unstable but is that so big a loss, given the potential gain?) I replied, "I want something to brighten up my office," because that is also true.

The florist suggests the mini carnations because apparently they last the longest of the options before me. OK, sure. You better believe I picked the pinkest pink carnations of the lot. He suggested a softer pink and a peach-ish color but I insisted on the rockstar-vibrant pink. BECAUSE, COME ON.

He wrapped them up, rang in the socks, my Dad paid and I left.

And I beamed. I beamed the whole way up the road to Work B. I cradled the flowers like they were precious and given to me by someone I held in high regard. I cradled those flowers like I knew what they meant. [Watch how people hold flowers. It tells you so much. The obligated boyfriend often holds by the stems, blooms-down, and swings them unconcernedly like they're a tennis bag.] I might have skipped... I don't remember. I don't remember feeling the ground under my feet, anyways.



I got to work and I walked straight to my good friend's office and said, "Guess who loves me," still smiling like an idiot. He guesses correctly and I lean in, eyes-bugged, when I say, "YEAH," like it's profound and mysterious.

"And how does that make you feel?" he follows up, more promptly than I anticipated.

(I don't actually know how I feel so I just describe the outward bits.) I told him about the doofy grin, the skipping, the flowers.

He drops back in his chair like a sort of "well I'll be" slump as a faint smile appears and I can see his eyes are glistening slightly. He intimates something like, "I'm very happy for you," in a familiar, affectionate tone and I read that it's the complete opposite of trite. It seems like all he ever wants to do is push me to know the Lord better and love Him more. This was a big day and we both knew it.

"It's a thing," I pronounce, allowing my hushed, straight tone and the hyper-simplicity of the phrase to disclose my awe.

"It is a thing," he replies, back in teacher mode. "In fact it is the single greatest thing in all the universe." I nod along, enjoying the emphatic language and feeling something like relief that he is prepared for this conversation. I didn't have to explain anything.

I admitted that it seemed like the first day in all of my Christian walk that I really, truly got it. I now understood why this truism could be uttered to a brother or sister who was at a low point. I now understood that being loved by God is NOT cheap ointment! (But neither is it worth uttering exclusively at low points. Seems like the kind of thing one bites one's tongue to refrain from shouting at any point in a day.)

Then the next day was this day. I'm starting to really learn about God's sovereignty as I struggle to navigate incredibly polar ups and downs that can be consecutive days, hours or thoughts.


There was quite a bit more I wanted to write about in this installment but apparently God's love is doing that thing where it crowds everything else out. What a hog. (All other things I could write or wanted to write now seem impossibly unimportant or uninteresting.)


Mercy there was great and grace was free,
Pardon there was multiplied to me,
There my burdened soul found liberty--
At Calvary.

(aserial blip)

I wrote the Prologue on Tuesday evening and during the rest of my trek home, through dinner and until I was in my pyjamas, the phantom feeling mentioned in the post grew more and more intense. I sat on my bed cross-legged and squeezed a pillow as tightly as I could. The sensation was so real and so reminiscent that it made me cry. I was re-experiencing poignant helplessness so vividly that I became more than overwhelmed with frustration.

Weight. On my way home, I pass the house of friends who live on my street and I contemplate stopping in only to get a hug. Hugs seem to be the potent antidote these days, however temporary. I didn't stop in because I didn't feel like talking. They know my context; I just didn't want to talk that day.

Reprieve. But not twenty minutes later, one of said friends sends me a text-message saying she had just popped something into my mailbox. And if hugs could be written in cards, that's what I went downstairs and found.

Weight. The next day at work I felt all over the place. The exposure feeling still lingered and my work day looked like it stretched to the horizon. If I could have, I would have gone home. Staff meeting was rather fun at first and then when a sensitive topic came up, when my boss enlightened the staff on my recent [differentness] while I've been sorting and struggling, I took a nosedive. (He did nothing wrong; I just responded weirdly.) When the meeting was finished, I just wanted to lie still in the dark for a while, but I jumped into work (which was actually probably the better choice at the time).

Reprieve. A little while later while I was preparing my lunch, one of my coworkers came and found me and, seeing a safe someone advance, I had to really fight the impulse to initiate a wordless hug.  He tells me he wants to run over a few things work-related, holding out the paper I'd submitted during staff meeting, but then surprises me by saying, "But first, can I just give you a hug?" A warm smile explodes onto my face. Of course you can, you fantastic teddy bear.  Of course I will take a hug from you, right now, while I'm microwaving last night's leftovers.

Weight. And in the afternoon, I'm in my boss' office, feeling vacant and low, describing my inner whirlwind and explaining over and over that I don't know what to say. I wished I could say everything. I hated being there like that and I hated that I couldn't stay.

Reprieve. My other coworker returns to the office, five-month-old cutester in tow. Hearing coos, I whip round and utter, "baby," with the same abruptness and single focus as the dog in Up (2009) exclaims, "Squirrel!" Boss asked for the coworker, which meant I was on baby duty. Yes, I was. I crouched in front of the carrier and grinned freely. And for the first time, little D grinned back! Oh, he even laughed. I took that as an invitation to friendship. So he came out of the carrier and I one-hipped him while one-handedly doing my work. He was drowsy and over-stimulated by new surroundings enough that for the first ten minutes, his warm, soft, smelling-like-a-baby, sweet head was rested against my face. And then as he grew more energised, we played and chatted and when all my work was done, we just hung out in the lounge. Me, I didn't know that playdate was exactly what I needed, and I was beside-myself-amazed as I kept re-realising that the Lord knew it entirely.

Sovereign Lord, you alone know! Ah.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 1)

Subtitle: O for a thousand hands to write my Great Redeemer's Praise, the glories of my God and King, the triumphs of His Grace.

Just over three weeks ago, the Lord inaugurated the final stages of a decade-long war. That would make this season of my life the Battle of the Bulge.*

*By this, I mean a battle the Enemy started after he knew he had ultimately lost the War. Inane and a gratuitous waste of soldiers' lives. Childish and proud on the Enemy's part. (Satan knows Jesus is ultimately victorious but he still throws in everything he can during this last skirmish, these light and momentary troubles. Click the hyperlink for the historical parallel.)

His love endures forever.

Over the past year or so I have been battling with a destructive, addictive habit that I was using to cope with some suppressed trauma. Lucid enough in a moment to realise I didn't really want the addiction, I reached out to a dear friend for help. My accountability was forever changed and my conscience found it more and more difficult to check out when I engaged or considered engaging the habit.

His love endures forever.

The struggle continued for months and seemed to improve when I made an accountability move of my own. 

His love endures forever.

But then three-and-a-half weeks ago, I found a loophole.

His love endures forever.

And I ratted myself out!

His love endures forever.

I appeared to have borrowed my friend's conviction because he was surer than I was that I needed to stop. I confessed the final time and he was gracious as ever. But this time, I was told, would be the last time before I would need to get professional help. OK, friend. I hear you.

His love endures forever.

Four days later I found an even more creative loophole but this time I engaged the habit in public, at work, in my very own office.

His love endures forever.

His love endures forever.

My friend found me sitting in my shame and pain, and invited me to get up (both literally and figuratively). The part of me that wanted intervention had finally grown to 51% and tipped the scales. That was the day the connection between ten years' baggage and one year of harmful behavior became impossible to deny.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Prologue)

Subtitle: Everyone can see!

I swear they can. Forgetting my coat at home today, I improvised at work so I have a fleece on top of a t-shirt on top of a hoodie on top of a t-shirt. Even still...everyone can see.

Everyone can see my parts and I can feel the phantom unauthorised hands of my past.

I wish I could get them off me. Just like before, I feel helpless to make it stop. And everyone can see.

Four layers of clothing and I'm still as degraded and exposed as I should be. This feeling, it resonates with my not having the right to protect myself. We protect what warrants preserving or keeping from harm.

(Is that me? Am I her? Am I good enough to be worth protecting?)

And strangely enough, when I fold my arms up over my chest, it feels worse. I'm so sensitive and tender that even my own attempt to conceal feels like unwanted touch.

Yes, this is really me / my real life and yes, I am being literal. I physically feel it in my body as I type and wait for my ride home.

And this morning I'm sitting in the arm chair (where I very seldom sit) because when I curl up in it I feel like I'm being held.

I like curling up in this big, soft chair because it is cozy and nestle-some.

I did it yesterday just for a change from my usual spot and couldn't believe how good it felt to just cuddle up. I dozed a bit while the boys played hockey.

It might sound silly but I focussed my imagination on sitting in my Heavenly Father's lap. He's a nice Guy and I'm His daughter. I sat there and I felt OK. I tried to imagine His big arms around me. (Maybe I imagined Him too much like an orangutan because His arms could go all the way round.)

I wanted to sit there for a long time or until everything was fixed--whichever came first.

And you, Friday, what shall you bring?

"Even so," Lord Jesus.

When I was younger, I considered any more than zero errors on a spelling test unacceptable.

(It would still be unacceptable now, I just don't sit spelling tests anymore. The pictured sheet belongs to B.)

What a funny day.

The last three Thursdays of my life have been distinct reprieves from every other day in the week and I feel rather grateful. It's like the day Bob Hope came over to entertain the troops. It's the day of such levity set against such trudgery that it's hard to describe. It's a gift and I thank God for it. Today, after lunch with colleagues and during my umpteenth roaring laugh, a lightbulb went on as I noticed the trend. I remarked to my coworker that this was the third light Thursday in a row (we have spent the last two being silly and doing non-work work, i.e. life work), my face bright with the realisation. He smiles and nods in agreement. "They're so mirthful," I chirped.

But only yesterday was I sitting at my desk around 6pm, feeling so overwhelmed I was paralysed. I tried to half-pray and as "I don't know what to do..." came out, I started getting choked up. It was only yesterday that I sat under some intense rebuke and conviction for what felt like an hour, my head hung low, eye-contact impossible, defence non-existant. It was only yesterday that I was swatting away despair that settled every time I was alone for more than ten minutes. Only yesterday was I too sad to eat and only yesterday did I have to heart-wrenchingly beg forgiveness from a dear friend. It was also yesterday that I felt deep, angry frustration with myself because I hadn't been able to do physio for two days. That's just Wednesday. Each day has its own heaviness and struggle.

Last week I had some invasive surgery (identity re-alignment) and recovery has been rough. I'm in physio and I should have cones around my wrists so I can't tear my bandages off. I'm hurting. I've been hurt. This is hard. But God is good. In fact, He's great. 

I look forward to writing all about it on this here blog.

-- 

I wonder about the future. I wonder if I will get my next big life decision right. I wonder many, many things.

But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord for he has been good to me.

Jehovah-jireh

Jehovah-jireh,

Jehovah-jireh.

Sometimes I really like broken things.

I seem to like it when things fall apart or get ruined. Then I can see what I can do to put it back together or use it to the best of its new capacity.

These bandages are more cheaply made than I realised. When I tore this one from its perforated twin, I ripped the packaging. No problem.

And the bandage itself is still functional. But it reminded me that I really enjoy patching, salvaging, repairing, and let me see what I can do-ing.

I like getting things to work or to serve a good purpose. And I often find I enjoy them more in their fixed-up state. Renewed. Not useless. Ready for more.

A double, abbreviated "2B".

It seems like today is a two-blogger day.

No one set my alarm so I had a lie-in until around 8.30.

No one told me to get out of bed so I checked email and blogged til just before 10.

No one told me to be quiet or disobedient so I loudly sang worship songs to the Lord of Heaven and Earth as I got ready to enter the day.

[Heavily featured? "Hallelujah to my King", "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and "Shackles (Praise You)".]

No one told me to be chintzy so I indeed spoiled myself at the farmer's market, as per the request of a friend who had given me money to facilitate a do-what-energises-you Saturday.

No one told me to hide it under a bushel so as I walked about, my face smiled and smiled and smiled--loudly. (I'm loved.)

No one blocked my path so the spoiling continued at my favorite coffee shop.

I wrote and read and wrote and reflected and read (and now I'm finished the Book of Jeremiah!) and listened to Vivaldi and wiggled my toes in delight with the coffee and wrote some more. I spaced (that's a good thing), meditated and considered.

No one said life with Jesus was pain-free so I experienced something like panic, despair and a heavy heart as I tried to delve deeper into the underlying issues of the un-happy Wednesday mentioned in this morning's blog post. I tried to give up. I tried to back off the cusp over which the Lord is leading me to His Better Life--in His Timing!. Then, at just the right time, He sent through a human agent just enough encouragement for me to want to get back in the saddle.

This is going to be so hard.

No one told me to half-ass my job so I went in to work to settle some final details before service tomorrow. (Going in on a Saturday afternoon at the cost of Thursday's fireworksversation is no-brainerly worth it.)

No one told me to limit how often I worship in song so I did that more than I practised, tested new orchestration and reprinted/re-bindered music in new keys. It was a good time. I usually hate going in on Saturdays because I feel the weight of how I should have been able to get all my work done on the weekdays. But today was just right. Anything to take the pressure off of Sunday morning.

No one told me to eat out all the time so I picked up some groceries and headed home. I've eaten dinner, washed up and am now finishing the blog post. The night is young. I have a few things to do today yet but it's been a good day. I feel heavy like something horrible is coming. And maybe it is. (Or maybe I'm tired.) We shall see.

Oh, how great the kindness our God has shown:

we were strangers; now we're called His own.

His grace has welcomed the sinner home;

tender mercies lead us to the throne.

Hallelujah, what a Savior;

I owe everything to Him.

Hallelujah, what a Savior;

Hallelujah to my King!

[This whole song is perfect but as I have been mobbed by His kindness in a millionteen ways the past couple weeks, that word/trait in the second verse here just grips me and drives me to gratitudinal worship.]

O come, o come Emmanuel

and ransom captive Israel

that mourns in lonely exile here

until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

[This song was NEW and PROFOUND to me this morning. We've all been longing and then He showed up. Boom.]

In the corners of my mind 

I just can't seem to find

a reason to believe that I can break free.

I've been down for so long; 

feels like all hope is gone

But as I lift my hands 

I understand that I should

praise You through my circumstance.

Take these shackles off my feet so I can dance;

I just wanna praise You,

I just wanna praise You.

You broke the chains now I can lift my hands

and I'm gonna praise You;

I'm just gonna praise You.

I might forget everything else my pastor says but today I purposefully wore these earrings because I will always associate cupcakes with eternal life, that free gift found in Jesus alone.

I can't believe I love the kids this much. This is absurd.

This is out of surdity.

Like, really? The things I do, the things I want to do for them, the way they are always in my mind and I want to work my day, week, life to accomodate them? Sigh.

Thursday morning I mad slept in. I turned off my alarm in my sleep but I also reached my limit of being able to turn a long day on six hours' rest.

Later in the day I became even more grateful that I had slept in because I didn't have the same death blanket of mental fatigue and hold-backery I have had for a while.

Thursday afternoon I had the most glorious conversation of good... I don't think I can really type it. It was kicked off by a simple-ish observation ("you seem happy") and I seemed to make a choice to answer without too much planning. In fact, what I did was answer without assuming there wouldn't be enough time or attention span for me to say all of what I wanted to say. That is a rare.

And, when I was about halfway through what I thought my reply would be, my counterpart got a phone call which I honestly thought was perfectly fitting.

I left happily and attacked my workload with more energy than I've had in a while. My boss came and found me after his call even though he didn't have to, which I thought was funny. 

I get up from my post and follow to his office like he has summoned me by pulling rank.

I explain the rest (actually the crux) of why I was happy to an incredibly attentive listener. He understands beyond what I have said and mirrors my happiness AND my joy. (Our joy is in the same risen Christ who bought us and is rebuilding us.)

The happy-ness, you see, was set against a drastically different, un-happy Wednesday. Wednesday had been VERY low and my boss had seen the worst of it. A struggle that usually finds me at home, after nightfall, alone, broken down, and dissociative had come to my office. It was in public, it was day time and it was discovered.

It was horrible and embarassing. I felt like I had to do it. But on some level I must have wanted it to be exposed (once and for all?) in a place where I thought I could be safe or get an intervention.

So Wednesday was rough but I got some help. I got some profoundly helpful help, in the Lord's providence.

On Thursday, the bulk of my happy-ness was in smelling change on the horizon.

My boss (code: Dear Friend) and I speak freely and joy-filledly for a long time. I had my shoes off and my feet up. He didn't look at his watch until I asked what time it was because I needed to leave for work. I don't know how long I was there and I didn't care that I was increasing Friday's (and possibly Saturday's) workload to stay.

When I had to go, it wasn't too soon or too abrupt like it often is. His parting words reminded me of O Church, Arise by Keith and Kristyn Getty. [Only as I type this do I notice the neat connection between the title of this song and my Wednesday where my boss invited me to get up, both literally and figuratively because I needed to not sit where I was.]

So, I typed out half the third verse and sent it as a text-message.

Come see the Cross where love and mercy meet

as the Son of God is stricken.

Then see His foes lie crushed beneath His feet

for the Conqueror has risen!

The parting words were a reminder of Who is victorious. And it's true. Jesus did it. Jesus paid it all. It is finished.

[He] forgave the iniquity of [His] people and covered all [their] sins.

My boss replied with an easy amen and like of the song. Then a lightbulb went on in my head and I textfully observed, "Ha. You and I just had a worship service in your office!"

And only after I wrote it did I realise that indeed there were worship songs played and the reading of Scripture. Initially I was only thinking of the nature of the conversation and how the two of us had practically spent a couple hours oohing and aahing like God's goodness was a world-class fireworks display. But my Getty text must have felt like a closing hymn that made all the other pieces appear obvious as elements in the "service".

What a day. What a privilege. What a God.

Selah