Athens

"People of Athens, I see that you are very religious in every way, for as I was walking along I saw your many shrines. And one of your altars had this inscription on it: "To an Unknown God." This God, whom you worship without knowing, is the one I am telling you about..." Acts 17:22-23

Looking out over the city of Athens, bustling with modern activity on one side of the Areopagus and paying homage to the ancient origins of the Parthenon on the other...I resonated with the Apostle Paul. He was deeply troubled as he surveyed the city and its idols, the Bible tells us. I feel that too. 

Everywhere there is evidence of the need for Jesus. When Paul walked the streets, no one had ever heard of the Man, the Savior he loved, and I love, so dearly. I can only imagine how his spirit yearned to introduce each hurting person he saw to the One who had come down and saved Paul from his own pit of despair.

Ancient Athens was a city willing to worship many gods. I find the streets of modern Athens to be much the same. 

It startles me. Having visited Ancient Rome, with much evidence of its history of idolatry and carnality, but just as much noticeable influence of faith in God, I assumed Athens would be the same.

After all, Paul stood on that hill and preached of Jesus. He spoke with such conviction that I am moved to tears reading the rest of his sermon in Acts 17. And, according to the chapter, some people did become followers of Christ. But many others sneered.

That is how I find modern day Athens. There are a few churches...but there is much more flagrant evidence of sin.

Leaving the city and journeying to the ancient places has given my spirit a rest from the assault of the ways of the world. I adore history in all its forms. The ancient Greeks knew how to build amazing structures to honor their gods...gods made in their own image and given to the same weaknesses as they were. These gods did not require the people to change their tendencies of sin, but were, themselves, in every way the same. They were spiteful and vengeful and unforgiving and short-tempered and full of lust and greed and a thirst for power. It was easy to worship them. It required nothing from the people. No need for them to change their ways. No conviction. No death of their flesh and its desires. 

And so the people built them temples that have lasted, in part, for thousands of years.

I want to stand on the Areopagus and shout again, as Paul did: "He is the God who made the world and everything in it...He Himself gives life and breath to everything, and He satisfies every need..." HE IS THE ONLY ONE WORTHY OF WORSHIP!

Instead, I pray. I talk to my sweet Savior, my beloved Friend, and I ask Him to make my life a monument built to honor Him. I want my life, this temple, to speak of the One I serve. One who is not like me in any way. He is kind and compassionate, slow to anger and full of unfailing love and faithfulness. He needs nothing, and yet He desires fellowship with me. 

This God, this Jesus, this Holy Spirit...I am so grateful to carry Him with me, to not have to go to a temple or a church or any specific place to meet with Him. 

If only the whole world knew...if only I could shout it eloquently enough.

Oh Lord, make my life a monument worthy of who You are. Make me noticeably different than the world, so that there will be noticeable evidence of You. 

For "in Him we live and move and have our being..." Acts 17:28

To my firstborn son on his 18th birthday

 It doesn't feel like I should be old enough to now have 2 adult children.

But I don't think time cares about how I feel.

It marches forward, relentlessly.

How can it be that just yesterday I was holding you in my arms for the first time? You were fat and hungry, with broad shoulders and hands and feet too big for your body. How can that moment, forever etched in my mind, coincide with this, your 18th birthday, as if they only happened moments apart?

Maybe it's a mom gift/curse, to see the life of her child playing like a movie reel at milestone moments.

Looking at the man you are becoming, I am not surprised. There were clues all along. I see them as I look back.

You always were the toughest little boy in any group you were in. 

And also, you were the most sensitive.

You didn't cry at all when you had to get stitches in your eyebrow as a 2-year-old.

You cried buckets of tears when you lost your favorite hat.

Raising a son felt, from the beginning, like a terrifying, sacred calling.

It still feels like that.

I failed to be a good mom so many times, and so completely. I am struggling hard with the knowledge that my time as the number one girl in your life, and the number one influence on your decisions and choices...that time is coming to an end.

I have internally kicked and screamed and fought, my son, desperate for a flashback to a time when you looked at me with adoration, and willingly climbed into my lap for kisses.

But, also, I adore who you are now. You've always been kind and thoughtful and funny and tough. But the Lord, in His perfect way, has grown all those things in you, and added to them, and now you are a man I am proud to call my friend.

There are so many things I still want to teach you, and protect you from, and remind you of, and forbid you from doing, and encourage you to try.

I feel a bit of panic, actually, wondering how the big, bad world will treat my firstborn son.

Here are a few things to remember, as you set that chiseled jaw of yours toward the future.

1. You will fail. A lot. That's okay. It's part of life. Embrace the lesson in the failure. If you will learn from it, you'll fail less spectacularly the next time.

2. Be willing to accept what you excel at. Don't hide it. Use it. It honors the Lord when you use your talents. 

3. Don't hide the areas where you are weak, either. Use them to allow others to help you. But also, push yourself to get better in that area. Your biggest weaknesses now could become your most celebrated strengths by the time you're old like your parents. ;)

4. If you have to choose where to expend your energy, always choose the thing that draws you closer to the Lord. Never pursue an earthly passion or goal at the expense of the pursuit of holiness. The Lord is kind, my son. He will give you opportunities to accomplish goals. But, He is also jealous for your heart. Give it fully to Him, no matter what else you might have to give up. You may experience some regret over things you didn't get to do in this life. But you will regret MUCH MORE a life spent in pursuit of anything over HIM.

5. Tithe. It postures your heart in obedience. It reminds you that the Lord God alone is the giver of every breath, blessing, and CENT you have in your possession.

6. Wear deodorant. Brush your teeth. Clip your toenails. Put the toilet seat up AND back down. I know you're grown, but if the past 18 years are any indication...you still need reminding sometimes. 

7. Never forget that I can still beat you up. However strong you are, however tall, no matter how old I get...I can still pop you in the back of the head with my shoe. And I will. Don't even test me.

8. I'll always have clarifying questions about Star Wars, and basketball, and Marvel. Be patient with me. I'm asking because I want to know what you think, and because I like talking to you about things you like.

9. If you get arrested for defending one of your brothers, or your sister, or for defending what is RIGHT...I'll bail you out of jail. If you get arrested for doing something stupid...you're on your own. 

10. Your whole life you have been loud. Make sure you're the loudest in your love for the Lord. Sing. Laugh. Pray. Talk. All of it. Do it loudly, pointing to Him. Your heart to follow Him and serve Him is a great blessing to me, sweet boy. Make sure it's the thing others remember about you the most.

I could keep going. You know I could. If I could sit down right now and play legos or transformers or super heroes or cars or trains with you... I would do that in heartbeat. Today I am filled with longing for those moments.

And also, I am filled with joy that you and I have survived each other and arrived at this day, your 18th birthday. 

Welcome to adulthood, Claybot. I'll still make you chocolate milk anytime you want it. 

The Battle and the Victory

It's dark on the highway now.

The road through the mountains is winding. 

Adrenaline has faded.

Exhaustion has arrived. 

The car has grown quiet.

For a week, there has been a continual washing of uniforms, taping of ankles, soaking of knees and backs and shoulders, pumping of anti-inflammatories, and intentional rehydration and nutrition.

Basketball has wrapped for another year, capping off a tough, grinding season with a week-long tournament. A tournament that ended today with a division 3 win for the Varsity/JV boys.

This is the third season of Cougars basketball. It was unique. It was full of new challenges, new opportunities, and new friends who became family. 

It has definitely been one of those "who would've thought 3 years ago that this would be what is happening now?" kind of feelings. 

Why does the Lord work the way He does? That's the question rolling around inside me as the tires eat up the miles toward home. Why does He allow us to learn the lessons of becoming more like Him, even in something as silly as basketball? 

I've seen kids who have never played before become productive, helpful members of the team. I've seen kids, who are used to winning, struggle through one difficult loss after another. We've watched as emotions exploded, and then cooled, and the hard work of reconciling friendships through it.

I love to watch the Cougars play. Because I know that there's a great deal of sacrifice in each life when they take the court. The three basketball players who live in my own house are proof of it. They've all played sick, and hurt, and tired, and nervous to the point of nausea.

I love to watch them take the court. I watch their faces. I see the deep breath. In. Out. 

Eye contact with each other. 

Resolve.

Once more into the fray, that's how it feels. And I know, basketball is nothing like actual battle. But dang if it doesn't feel like it is when they're out there. 

We have watched them, each one, have a moment of crisis. Some have had many. We see the struggle. The "do I care enough to throw my body out there? Is it worth it?" 

But they do it. They come away with bruises and swollen joints and broken skin, black eyes and chipped teeth, sprained ankles and torn muscles, broken bones.

And the harder they fight, the harder we cheer, until we are all horse and our hands are bright red from clapping encouragement. 

If we could go out there and lift them onto our shoulders and carry their exhaustion for them, for even a moment, we would do it.

And they know it. They hear it as we cheer wildly. 

What a picture of the walk of faith.

Fighting for each other, sacrificing for each other, loving each other well enough to forgive after emotions have wounded, encouraging each other. Hurting, healing, laughing, crying, working hard.

Most of the people who watch the Cougars play don't really know all that they each, individually, have endured in their lives. They don't know that the Lord, in His mercy, gave them each other in order to teach them something about themselves, and HIMSELF. 

Can a basketball game be a spiritual opportunity?

You better believe it.

We've watched internal struggle. We've prayed, and we've seen victory.

When a group of young people wraps their arms around each other at an altar in a church, and they pray over each other, and they weep together, and they ask the Lord to bind them together, and they press into His face in order to gain the strength they need to face the strife and struggle in front of them...you may not have seen that, but you can see the result of it on the court.

That's what happened today. They played a team that should've beaten them. And they came out victorious. 

It doesn't always happen that way. And the learning would've been good, because the Lord is good, even if they had lost.

But today He was gracious beyond what He had to be. And they knew it. A group of 14-18 year-old boys threw their arms around each other and tears slid down their cheeks and they were slow to separate. They lingered in the moment. In His mercy.

They fought so hard, all season long, for that moment of victory.

They fought for it when they were alone with the Lord.

They fought for it together at the altar.

They fought for it all season long, in practices and games.

They fought for it. And I can barely contain my gratitude that the Lord, in His great love for my sons, allowed them to be a part of the victory.

More battles lie ahead. That's the walk.

But they finished this one well.

And now they're asleep as we drive.

Rest well, Cougars. You've earned it.

Grass Roots Worship- part 3

A significant upheaval within our church led to my hubby and I stepping into the leadership role of the worship band in 2014.

We had not asked for the position. I personally did not want to do it. But, as usual, the Lord set about making things work for my good that I wished He had done differently.

Like all church crises, the echoes and affects were far reaching in our lives, and I clawed through a season of debilitating anxiety. Every song I sang became an exercise in walking out what I had been learning so sweetly and kindly from the Lord over the prior years.

Worship isn't about the season I am in. It's about the God I am worshiping.

Slowly, slowly, I settled into a rhythm again. The anxiety retreated, and the Lord was so gracious in blessing us with a team of worshipers. Building a camaraderie of all pressing toward His presence, more today than yesterday, and more still tomorrow, bonded us. 

And then I started to have some pain in my throat.

Strep, laryngitis, and a nasty cold later, I assumed it was just a winter sickness.

But the pain persisted.

I started struggling to make it through songs I was leading. I felt the tension in my vocal cords. I can remember coming down off the stage after worship and literally holding my neck with my hand, trying to find a way to lessen the tense pain I felt in the muscles.

Finally, not because I wanted to but because I felt like I had become a liability to the team, I went to the ENT. I will spare you the details of a scope into my nostril and then down into my windpipe. I will only mention briefly that I was asked to SING with that camera in my nose and throat, taking pictures of my vocal cords.

It was so not a blessing.

A couple painful procedures later, I was diagnosed with some developing nodules, and muscular tension dysphonia. Basically, my vocal muscles were tired and not working properly, and it would take major retraining to fix them.

So I started vocal therapy. And I did total vocal rest (which my husband and kids thought would be awesome in theory, but was actually really annoying for everyone when I could not answer their 10 million daily questions.) 

I kept pushing through, singing, and I kept hurting, and after months of vocal therapy...they told me that all they could do had been done. I would either get better, or I wouldn't, and I would need to decide at what point to give up singing in order to maintain decent vocal function.

I passed off lead parts and harmony parts to my wonderful team. I sang, but with much less gusto. Gusto hurt, and besides, if I tried and my voice totally failed mid-song...that would be so embarrassing. 

One morning in my quiet time, I remember telling the Lord, "I don't need to sing into a microphone to worship You. I will step out. I'm dragging everyone down anyway."

I felt settled. I made plans to talk it over with my hubby after the weekend.

That Sunday morning a song had been slotted, by said hubby, for me to lead. I had been saying no to most songs he had assigned me, because it hurt too much, or because I was concerned about totally ruining worship for everyone by opening my mouth and having a dying cow sound come out. 

I looked at the song, and then shrugged internally. One last time, I thought. I can worship my Lord through the pain one more time.

"Who am I that the Highest King would welcome me?"

The first line came from my lips, and in a flash I saw my whole life, all my ugliness and struggle and striving and failure...and still He welcomed me, invited me, to come and worship Him. I smiled. What a glorious way to end all the years of singing.

The song continued and I felt the pain worsen. I could feel the muscles in my throat constricting and it grew harder and harder to push sound out. But I was determined to finish.

"Who the Son sets free, is free indeed. I'm a child of God, yes I am."

By the time I reached the bridge, I knew without a doubt that my voice would fail before the song was over. There was nothing left. I had been dealing with the struggle long enough to know. 

"I am chosen, not forsaken, I am who You say I am."

You are for me, not against me, I am who You say I am."

Something happened in that moment. I opened my mouth, knowing no sound would come out, feeling in my physical throat that the muscles had stopped responding to my strain. 

And yet, the words flowed. Even better, they sounded like they were in tune.

I laughed. I inhaled. I opened my mouth again.

I knew I was in the midst of a miracle. I knew it. I wasn't singing anymore. My voice had ceased to work. 

The Holy Spirit was testifying of the Father and the Son, and He was breathing it out of my mouth, through my janky, tired, swollen vocal cords.

What was true in the spirit became true in the physical. I finished that song knowing that I hadn't really been singing. Instead, I had allowed the breath in my lungs to be HIS, and He had given me a miraculous encounter with Him that I would never stop being amazed by.

That was several years ago.

Every week, I wonder if this will be the week that the Lord releases me. Many weeks I arrive at rehearsal knowing my voice will hurt. 

But the Lord gently reminds me of the truth.

His breath in my lungs.

His face as my focus.

Abandoned.

Testifying.

Because He is God.

And I will bring my sacrifice to Him.

It has become such a blessing, this physical reminder. If I lose focus on Him, on the WHY, on the spirit and truth and even-in-the-valley worship mindset...I can feel the pain again.

When I am walking in step with how He has called me to live, to worship, to minister...I don't feel the pain at all. The notes flow from my throat with ease.

Working for my good, that's what He is doing. Every time I worship Him, He works good in my heart. He expands His goodness toward me.

The other vocalists know that sometimes I will ask them to take a part I usually sing. "My voice is sad," I will say. And then...then I will remember...and I'll go sit down on a corner of the stage and refocus. Not because I want to be able to be the one singing. 

But because this has become the way the Lord reminds me. In my heart, I am reminded of the little girl, and the cows, and the freedom of spirit that IS MORE POWERFUL than the failing of the physical body.

And He is faithful. Always faithful.

Who knows how long I will have this miracle. I don't even care at this point.

I'll never be anything besides a small town, grass roots girl, an average singer by the world's standards. 

But...

He is worthy. And that is why I worship Him.

Grass Roots Worship- part 2

 My sister, a 26-year-old missionary, died unexpectedly in Malaysia in 2010.

When all the hard things you've walked through before come to a screeching halt in the face of the pain in front of you, it causes a crisis of identity, of faith. At least it did for me.

Shattered into a million pieces, but still required to function on a daily basis, I did what everyone does. I went through the motions. I kept putting one foot in front of the other.

One day, driving somewhere, worship music playing, I remember hearing a song with the words from Romans 8:28. "You make all things work together for my good..."

I reached and turned down the sound. I even said aloud, "But why this? Why does it have to be like THIS? How is this for my good?"

For nearly 2 years, whenever that song played (and it was popular at the time so I heard it a lot) I couldn't bring myself to sing the words.

They stuck in my throat. I rejected them. Because I didn't WANT them to be true. And somehow in my mind if I didn't sing them, if I didn't agree with them out of my mouth...I was successfully letting God know exactly how I felt about what He had chosen to work for my good.

For even longer than that, I struggled with stories about healing, and singing worship songs that praised God for being a miracle worker, a healer, sovereign.

I knew all fo that was true. I believed it.

But also, also my sister died, while we prayed for her healing. He hadn't healed her. We had not seen a miracle. His sovereignty at work felt like being slashed through the heart. That's honestly how it felt to me. I was so confused and shaken.

And somehow I simply couldn't bring myself to really MEAN the words that proclaimed what I knew to be true. It felt false to sing them. And so, I forced them out when I HAD to, but mostly avoided them at all cost.

A faith crisis finds us all, at one point or another, and while everyone has different circumstances that lead them there...God is always faithful to us in them.

My kids had a terrifying experience in the snow a few years after Joy's death, and as I sat with them, snuggled in my bed while near-hypothermia lingered, I remember thanking God for protecting them, for sparing them, for miraculously intervening and keeping them from drowning in the sub-freezing water they had fallen into.

And hope sparked back to life.

The Holy Spirit gently reminded me that my God still did miracles, had never stopped, and maybe my spiritual eyes needed some adjustments.

I sat kissing the cheeks and hands and blonde heads of my kids, crying and saying "thank you" over and over for the warmth returning to their bodies, and I saw the Lord's faithfulness, as if for the first time.

Songs began to resonate deeply again. I remembered...I remembered that even in the valley shadowed by death, He was with me. I had not died of a broken heart. And that was a miracle. Joy had not been healed the way I asked for, but she was healed and whole in heaven. And that was a miracle, even if it wasn't the one I wanted. 

My grief journey lit a newness inside me, a longing to understand how to worship in spirit and truth, even when it felt like the words coming out of my mouth were in direct contrast to the feelings inside me.

Because if God was still true even when it felt like nothing was, I should be able to worship Him, even in the valleys. Maybe especially in the valleys.

The little girl who sang fearlessly and shamelessly to cows, because she had only known the beauty and hope of God...she was still in there. And she longed for a way to throw back her head and see His goodness again.

And I wondered if maybe, maybe my worship became MORE true, more powerful, if I could find my way to praise Him with abandon IN SPITE of the fact that there had been valleys. Was there power in worship that was believed and clung to, even when the feeling of it was missing? There had to be something to the verses that said to offer a sacrifice of praise. (Hebrews 13:15, Psalm 116:17) Sacrifices were painful. They cost something. But they were still worship. 

The question I asked myself became: Do I worship God because it feels true, or because He is worthy of worship?

Such a healing season, the next few years. Discovering, as if for the first time, that He Himself was the prize to be sought, the reason to open my mouth, the breath in my lungs. 

He is worthy of worship because He is God, even if nothing good ever comes to me from His hand. I found new revelation in Job's words: "Though He slay me, yet I will trust Him." (Job 13:15) 

Such a gift, the fire, the pain, the upheaval. Such a miracle, the learning to cast myself on His sovereignty because His hands, with all the pain that may come, were hands that loved me.

He had worked together for my good, even when I rejected that truth.

And still, still there was more to come.

Grass Roots Worship- part 1

 I've been thinking lately about the term "grass roots" and what it means. It's usually used with regard to a political campaign that is started in obscurity and is run in a way contrary to the mainstream norm. Low budget. Unconventional. Small potatoes. Barely a splash in a big pond of culture-shaping.

I like the concept. I like the term. 

I am stealing it and applying it to my life.

Most of the time I feel like everything about who I am as a person, and what I do on a daily basis, can fall under this anti-norm, opposite-of-culturally-acceptable, wildly-polarizing, unlikely-to-be-relevant umbrella. I'm a grass roots girl all the way. Always have been.

And I'm glad. I like my quiet life. I do not mind that I am small potatoes.

So when the Holy Spirit first prompted me toward this blog I am composing, I did what all obedient believers should do: I wrote a few notes down as the Spirit led.

But then, then I just left the notes sitting there. Doing nothing. Collecting dust.

Why?

Because, I'm a small town girl. I'm grass roots. I can be found wearing sweatpants and slippers on most days. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, needs to hear what I have to share on...well, most things, honestly. 

But I have been informed, via a reprimand from the Lord, that I do not share what He puts inside me to share for the sake of who may (or more likely will not) hear/read it...I write because He tells me to, and I am His child, therefore my obedience is part of the deal.

"Because I said so," carries a bit more weight when the Lord says it to me than when I say it to my kids.

And so I'm going to talk about worship for a bit. Not because I am an expert on the subject. FAR from it. Not because many, many more influential people haven't spoken and written on the topic. They have. I've heard and read much of what is out there.

No. I'm going to write because the Lord has asked me to. And I say yes, even though I first spent months saying 'no' in my actions. 

My first audience as a singer was a field full of cows. I remember it with perfect clarity. I don't remember whose house we were at, or why I was alone outside, or how old I was. My mom informs me I was around 6 years of age. I DO recall that I was sitting on top of something, looking out over the field of cows, and for some reason I started singing. And as I sang whatever song I was singing (okay so I don't remember it with PERFECT clarity. More like partial clarity) the cows, one by one, began to look my way.

Talk about grass roots. It doesn't get any more obscure than singing for cows. 

My parents both sing, and my mom plays a very grass roots instrument, otherwise known as an autoharp, and so my next audience was our church, singing with my parents, when I was 7 or 8 years old. My parents had taught me one of the songs they liked to sing together, and how to stay on the melody while they sang harmony, and while I don't remember what song we sang then either, I do remember feeling very special that they had invited me to sing with them.

I come from a very large extended family, and there are a lot of singers and musicians among us. Our family circle sing-alongs are some of my best childhood memories. For all of my growing up years, any get-together always had at least one time of singing. And us cousins would always split up who would sing what harmonies, and we would belt out the words of worship to God, carefree and confident. 

Growing up has a way of tempering our dreams though, doesn't it? Getting out into the world a little bit and realizing that you are average at best...it changes your goals and plans. Coming to the startling understanding that lots and lots of people are way better than you at what you thought you were so good at...well, it makes you reevaluate, reassess, adjust expectations.

I met and married a piano playing, singing man. My dreams of being anything big and special and important shifted to much nearer, achievable dreams of singing with him, helping as backup for our church worship team. And then we had kids, and my worship dreams morphed again. I didn't have time to be on the worship team very often, and so they became my audience. I would sing to them, and teach them to sing, and raise my hands as we sang, and tell them to "praise the Lord" with me, and they would clap and lift their hands and sing the wrong words to my childhood sing-along-songs, and it was magical to watch their eyes sparkle with joy. Children worship before they really understand, or perhaps BECAUSE they really understand. And there was a purity in their worship that struck me, and set me back into a mode of pondering.

Why don't they care what they sound like, or how they look, or who is around? How can they just sing, and throw back their heads, and throw out their arms, and abandon themselves? 

The little girl singing to the cows did the same thing.

What did she know that I had forgotten in all my growing up and learning to live small and accept my regular-ness?

For 10 years I sang occasional backup for church. We moved a few times for my hubby's job, and always, at whatever church we ended up at, it would eventually become known that he and I sang, and he played piano, and we would be invited to help out. In fact, now that I think about it, we have never attended a church where we were not involved, eventually, in the worship team ministry. 

Still, my dearest times of worship were alone, or with my kids. I struggled mightily with depression for a season. Our marriage struggled mightily for a season. I would sing under my breath in those times, during those years. Songs that were the Word set to music would rise up from my childhood memories and come pouring out of my mouth. When I didn't have the will to sing for myself, I would listen to music, and let it wash over me, and strengthen me.

And as it always does, time marches on, and the Lord heals wounds and struggles, and teaches us new things about Himself in the process. I began to understand the truth about worship; that it isn't about sounding good or even serving a ministry. It's about reminding ourselves of Who is worth all of our attention and adoration. That's the truth that the kids know and we too easily forget as we grow up and take on the distractions of life. We forget to remember ONLY HIM while we worship.We forget that He heals us when we aren't even looking at what hurts. When we look only at Him...His very presence heals. 

I had figured it out, I thought. I now knew how to worship. Praise the Lord for the learning. My small life now made sense. I was at peace with the process, because I had arrived at the place of understanding.

And then, because that is the way of it, everything changed again.

To be continued...

True Story

I am a nobody, relatively speaking. 

I have a very small life. 

I don't pretend to be a voice that is listened to by the masses, or even by my kids half the time.

I am very aware of the fact that few people care what I have to say about...well, pretty much any subject you might name. 

I don't have a college degree or an impressive resume. Who am I kidding? I have no resume at all, unless "potty-trained four kids, two dogs, and one cat" counts as prior job experience.

I could go on. I'm very good at self-aware downplaying. I know who I am on paper. I know who I am not.

But also, and I cannot overemphasize this next point: I. KNOW. WHO. I. AM.

I know that my God has seen fit to call me His daughter. (Galatians 4:5-6)  I know that He, and He alone, has the words of life. (John 6:68) I know that I have access to the throne room of heaven. (Hebrews 4:16)

I could go on here too. I would LOVE to keep talking about all the things I know to be true about me, because I have read them in the Bible.

But, for just a minute, I want to speak on a subject that many, many, many more influential people than me have been talking about this past week. 

Mental health crisis.

Again, lest you have forgotten in the past few moments, I remind you that I have no degrees. I have no platform. I have no recognition as an expert.

"But what I do have, I give to you..." (Acts 3:6)

I've had a mental health crisis. Two separate ones, in fact. 

And while I am sure everyone's definition is different (because every person is different, duh) I think we can all pretty much agree that when we think of this term, (which I will now refer to as MHC to save my fingers some mileage) we are thinking of some version of a debilitating emotional upheaval that begins to affect us physically.

My first MHC occurred when I was 24-years-old. Complete with panic attacks, insomnia, an EKG on a racing, stuttering, never settling heart, more than one different medication, and finally, a thought that led me to ask for help. "It would really just be easier if I were dead."

I will never forget sitting on the floor of my kids' bathroom, while my 3-year-old and 1-year-old played in the water, and listening to my mom's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Are you praying in the Spirit? It edifies you, baby girl. (1 Corinthians 14:4) Are you staying in the Word? That's where hope is. (Psalm 119:114)"

That same day I shared my struggles with my husband. "I don't know what is wrong. I don't know how you can help me. But I need you to help me." I was shaking and sobbing. He listened.

That night as I climbed into bed, sure that I would spend another mostly sleepless night having one panic attack after another, he walked into the room carrying his Bible. He sat on the edge of the bed, and he began to read it.

Crawling out of that first MHC hole took me more than a year. In that time, I read through the entire Bible, and I began a habit of praying under my breath while cooking dinner and driving in my car. Also, my husband continued to read the Psalms aloud to me, night after night. That was 16 years ago. He still reads to me, and our kids, every night. Last night, we read 15 verses in Psalm 119. 

My second MHC occurred within the last 10 years. It included anxiety so severe I could barely eat, resulting in a rapid weight loss that had my friends forcing me to go to the doctor and have my stomach checked for ulcers. 

You know what I did during that MHC? I continued to pray in the Spirit, I continued to read the Word. I asked others to pray for me, and I focused on the face of the One who loves me so deeply that He willingly died in my place TO GIVE ME the ability, and the right, to pray under my breath when I need help. (Psalm 123:1-2a)

I give that brief history review lest I be accused of speaking on subjects I have no personal experience with. Which, by the way, is totally irrelevant to the truth BEING true, but somehow people are less likely to give weight to words unless they have been lived. 

Now I am to the crux of what I am trying to communicate. And I'll state it plainly because I'm a plain girl, and I don't like having to be careful with my words. I prefer to just say stuff.

A MHC does not have to be simply accepted.

It is not a fact of your life that you can do nothing about.

It is not worthy of celebration.

It is not an opportunity for rest and self-care.

It IS an opportunity. A call, from your very bones, shouting 'SEEK HELP IMMEDIATELY.' But why do we neglect to seek help WHERE IT CAN BE FOUND??

Brothers and sisters, do not be deceived. Do not be lulled into acceptance. Do not grab hold of the narrative that we all have these crises and the best, bravest thing we can do is recognize them and work to deal with them and not try to hide them. 

That is a lie. 

And we've all believed so many other lies that, at this point, what's one more, right?

I mean, we have all felt entitled to things, right? It's the American dream: life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. They are inalienable rights, after all.

We all deserve 'me' time.

We have a right to a good night's sleep. 

We have a responsibility, a duty, a mandate even, to protect ourselves and others from physical danger. We must keep ourselves safe. We truly believe that's within our power to do. 

And so when any, or many, of these things we hold so dearly are shaken or taken or turned upside down...why are we surprised that a MHC follows?

Prove one lie to be a lie and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down in our minds. And then...then we get hit with the biggest falsehood of all. 

"Just sit in this. It'll pass eventually. It's all part of the pressure of life."

I am telling you right now, in words as plain as I can: If I had sat in my MHC, and just felt the feelings, and pondered them, and talked about them, and accepted them as a part of my life and my journey...I would be dead.

That's the road my first mental health crisis was heading down.

Thank God that there were people around me who did NOT just listen and accept and say "you're safe with me" or "you're so brave for being willing to say it out loud." 

PRAISE THE LORD that my mother pointed me toward the face of God Almighty, and my husband led me into the Word. I found life there. I found hope. I remembered the truth. Nothing is certain. Nothing is my right. Not one thing is controllable by me. ONLY. HE. IS. CERTAIN. (1 Peter 1:25)

A decade later, when my second MHC hit...I knew what to do.

And because I know what to do, I am sharing it.

I'm not saying you're not dealing with very real junk. We all do. It's part of being humans on a fallen planet. We all know that "in this world you will have trouble." But we forget to tell each other "TAKE HEART." He has overcome, and He gives us the same authority. (John 16:33 and 14:12)

I absolutely AM saying that most of the feedback from people on the issue is not the TRUTH.

The facts and the truth don't always agree. And I will side with Truth, unapologetically, every time.

Isaiah 44:18-20 (really the whole story starts in verse 12, but you can get the gist if you jump to 18) talks about a man who carves an idol and then worships it, refusing to think through the fact that he made it with his own hands, and therefore it cannot be GOD.

We have done this, brothers and sisters. On so many things. We are holding in our hands a thing that was never TRUE, and we refuse to look at it and say "Is this thing in my hand a lie?" (Isaiah 44:20b)

My attempt, in this polarizing blog post, has been to point out the truth in a world obsessed with just accepting the current crisis.

You don't have to just sit in your crisis. Fight back. Don't "do the work" of acceptance. 

DO THE WORK of running toward the One who loves you, and wants to refine you.

If I can help you, I will. I will NOT pat you on the back and just let you sit there. But I will do my best to point you to the Lord.

That is what all followers of Jesus SHOULD be doing on this, and all issues of the day. 

The TRUTH does not apologize for being truth.