When Worry is Your Drug of Choice

I stumble into worry the way an alcoholic stumbles into a bar after a long day spent trying to keep it all together.

"I'm just here for a few minutes," I stammer ... but before I know it I've spent the entire night drinking cocktails of what ifs and mights and maybes. I leave drunk on fear, and I wallow in the certainty of death ... before waking up in the morning and realizing I've done it all over again: I've died more times than I've lived this week, and yet I'm still breathing.

It's a waste. A waste of time, a waste of breath, a waste of energy.

A waste.

And is that how I want to summarize my life?

Wasted, drunk on fear. Wallowed in and swallowed by worry.

There is a beckoning of Grace nodded in my direction each morning as I walk in the shame of another binge, a gift from Heaven waiting to be received.

And I? I eye it wearily and mistake the offerings of grace for that of disappointment and anger, wonder if I'm still so drunk that I can't even determine between the two.

When will I live like I am living instead of like I am already half-way dead?

You asked who of us by worrying could add a single second to our lives. I realize the simplicity of this truth. And I also realize something more that was written in between the lines.

Who of us by worrying could erase seconds of our lives

moments that could be spent smelling the sweetness of a preschooler's hair

or the warmth of the sun shining boldly through the cold of March winds

the embrace of strong arms around my waist

and the faint smell of winter melting into spring just outside my window.

If worrying empties today of its strength

then I want to empty my heart of worry.

I want to fast from fears, forget even taking one sip of the drink that pulls me under.

I won't swallow it any longer

because I won't allow it to swallow me whole.

In the watering holes of my mind

I empty my bottles of fear

and I drink of the grace

You've poured for me instead.

Bigger Picture Moments: Flood Waters

My mind has been absolutely drenched this week with a torrential downpour of thoughts. 

And I'm left struggling to remember what to do with all this water after such a long drought. 


We had a relatively quiet winter and spring event-wise and decision-wise, which was good because so much of our energy had to go into simply just parenting and connecting with each other and making it through each day while I was entrenched in such intense healing. 

A drought of major life events and a break from heavy decision-making was needed for sure.

But it feels like during the past month, the clouds have rushed forth, broken open and begun pouring on us; it's not necessarily bad, because you know, rain is needed -- both in gardens and in life. 


It's just, well, heavy and saturating.


Earlier this week, on what was my anticipated due date prior to miscarrying last fall a sweet little love, I realized I'm not just dripping wet and soaked with thoughts about, well, everything but that I've actually been caught up and washed away in the flood.

I've been short in patience, fast to sleep, slow to rise and quick to get all wires of communication crossed, my overworked brain unable to transmit correctly all of the information floating around in my head.

Classic over-saturation.

The beauty of this is that I now realize when I've hit that point of feeling like I'm floating away on all the rainwater of thoughts before I'm tumbling over waterfalls.

But I'm still further downstream than I'd like, flailing and kicking and grabbing onto tree branches, attempting to pull myself out.

Yesterday, as I grasped at leaves, God in all His goodness threw me a line first thing in the morning in my devotions. And then again -- just to make sure I didn't miss it -- while I was at our last Bible study session of the summer.

"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Jesus in John 10:27

A call to quiet the downpour of thoughts. A whisper to stop fighting against the current and let the Good Sheperd pull me out and carry me against His chest.

Because, I remember in the midst,


sheep were meant for still waters


not deep, rushing, rolling floods. 

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Living Faith Out loud: On Battles, real and imaginary

I've been dreaming wild dreams these past few nights, my subconscious working overtime even in the hours of slumber.

Last night, this one is my favorite from recent sleeps, I was a part of a super-hero action team of animated characters fighting human foes who were intent on destroying Denver. None of it makes a lot of sense seeing as I'm not enthralled with super heroes nor do I live in Denver, other than my-self psychoanalysis telling me that perhaps I feel like I'm waging a war for which I'm not equipped.

These vivid nights filled with dreams always happen whenever I feel like my plans aren't materializing as I'd planned.

It also happens when I spend entire days wrapped up in heavy thought, trying to work out in my mind what could unfold and the action needed if each scene I'm imagining did turned to reality, trying to equip myself for each new battle. 

Really, I know, though, that the reason I don't feel equipped is because imaginary battles regarding immaterialized possibilities are unequipable. 

He arms us with exactly what we need in each situation to handle exactly what we're going through in the moment, but often, not prior.

I have to keep reminding myself that right now my battle isn't some masked disease causing these lingering physical symptoms -- because as it stands, I've checked out fine, which tells me that shouldn't make any more assumptions of something being seriously wrong unless something shows as seriously wrong.

So my battle right now isn't against un-realized and un-discovered diseases.

But, rather, my battle right now is against anxiety and the what-if worries that creeps into my heart when I feel like my body should be free of any lasting symptoms of the gut flora imbalance I've been asking God to restore for the past five months through diet changes and, more importantly, His healing hand. 

And, sometimes the struggle in my mind -- the one of anxiety -- is minimized though it stands tall and hulking in my daily life, a giant that needs slaying often. 

I've often felt discouraged in the midst of this battle, especially when I've shared my struggle and others have told me simply to not let these thoughts take me captive, suggesting there is a simple switch I have  yet to find and easily flip in order to find freedom from both.

In my hours spent crying out to God, I've yet to find such a switch.

The intense battles against worry and anxiety are fierce wars raging to liberate the mind and heart space from unrealized fears so that both can rightfully be filled with the deep joy that stems from the gifts the Giver gives us moment by moment. 

And I have found strong weapons with which to battle in these seasons of hardship that are part of living life outside the perfection of the original Garden. 

One sword that slays worry is living in the moment. One shield is finding His joy moment by moment. And perhaps the mother of all weapons is living a life entrenched in the Word.

I've been memorizing James 1: 2-6. 

"Consider it joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perserverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind."

James reminds me that there is purpose in trials -- even ones of worry and anxiety. He reminds me that there is joy found in maturation

joy found in perseverance.

and joy found in living in the moments placed directly in our open-palmed hands. 

And in those open palms, I've found, too, that He's placed the strongest weapons for slaying worry, equipping me for the battle at hand.

If you're going through a particularly rich growing season, I'd love to pick up the mighty weapon of the Word together and memorize James 1:2-6.

{I'd also welcome you to any of my end-of-the-day Gilmore Girls viewing adventures because I know that sometimes the mind just needs a break from the deepness of thoughts and the heaviness of life, so I bought for really cheap from local mom seasons one and two. Just keeping it totally real here!}

Everyday Life: There is joy

There is joy.

It is wild and spread out like fields of unexpected wildflowers rolling up hills and stretching out across meadows. Sharp bursts of lemon and violet polkadotting the lush greens of fields.

Photo courtesy of Corrin.

There is joy, and it cannot be stolen unless I first give it away.

Unless


I first 


give it


away. 

I steal my own joy, rob myself barren of it when I worry-wander into tomorrow while I'm still living in today.

What sense does it make to live in tomorrow's fears?

Fears that might never and will probably never unfold into realities?

Something happened this weekend, after the suffocating what-if waves began lapping at my feet

and I toyed with wading far into the worry-waters.

When I turned turned my back on that sprawling sea of uncertainty,

ran uphill,

fell to my knees

and opened my hands to the Giver of Good gifts,

I began to not just see the good gifts given, the many good gifts given, but I began to more intimately trust the Giver who keeps giving them.

I soaked up words from Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts, and I realized it was true, what she's written:

"The quiet song of gratitude, eucharisteo, lures humility out of the shadows because to receive a gift the knees must bend humble and hand must lie vulnerably open and the will must bow to accept whatever the Giver chooses to give.
Again, always, and always again: eucharisteo precedes the miracle."

The miracle, for me, is having eyes that can see joy spread out in the moment,

joy saturating the spanning seconds of today,

joy not stolen by the what ifs of tomorrow.

I've been so greedy.

I've been trying to unwrap gifts before they are given.

In my worry, I've been trying to see the potential dips and valleys that might be waiting in a new day with no more light than that of the moon; I've been trying to see the lay of the land ahead of me while its still, from my view, encompassed in shadows.

There is joy, radiant and saturating. 

And it dawns when the sun rises to shed real light on the day unfolding at the foot of the horizon, when palms are turned up and opened ready to receive the gift as the light inches higher and higher, moment by moment.