“I would like to tell you a story of my victory. Unfortunately, that seems to be a story of another day.” Oh how wrong I was . . .
The first post I put up on July 4th was on my other blog, ended with the quotation, and my second post ended with the full quote above. I had suffered a lot of pain that day, physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. That first post was written while my pain was still fresh and the day was still young and the second was written as a new day had dawned.
When the tears had subsided and when I had unloaded my heaviness, telling James all of the lies that I had been hearing and had been believing and might still believe, we took a nap. I woke up a couple of hours later not knowing what I would do with the rest of this painful day.
I went on my computer. Wasted some time on iwastesomuch.com and read some blogs. One of the blogs I followed had posted about a failure they were struggling with and trying to learn from, so I thought I would take my fresh pain and turn it into some prose as well. Writing “I Would Love To Tell You A Story of My Victory” on my Ripples in Culture blog.
I then moped around for a bit. Slightly uplifted from the blogs I had read and some inspirational images I had stumbled across. I asked James to make me some home-made mac n’ cheese and I started my bubble bath. This combination may sound strange to you, but James will easily tell you that this is my routine when my body and my mind need some healing.
I was in a half daze. Trying to pull myself out of this funk and yet the old me enjoying it. Like a pig wallowing in the mud, welcoming this gunk and enjoying the feeling of it covering me up so I can hide.
I hunkered down on the couch to watch James play some video games, Dragon Age 2 to be exact. On the coffee table were the two books that I had been given by one of the members of our congregation. This lady is a wonderful and lovely woman, but I fear very misunderstood, even by me. She makes me feel uncomfortable. She likes to hug people, especially those that she knows who are hurting. And she likes to linger. She is a little socially awkward wonderfully sprinkled with lacking personal space.
She is one of the most amazing children of God I have ever met. When it comes to giving and sharing she is beautiful at it. She was there when I shared my testimony and has been reigning hugs down on me ever since. She shared with me part of her story and showed me the scar that was left from her own self-mutilation. I was then handed a card with a poem she wrote for me, a gift of a glass crystal that makes rainbows in the sunlight (I had shared how I used to love colorful gifts as a child, but had lost some of that to my dark depression), and two books called Walking With God and Waking the Dead, both by John Eldredge. She told me that they had helped her and some of what I said in my testimony had reminded her of those books and she hoped that they would help.
So I picked up Walking With God and started to read. It only took one page and I wanted to cry . . . and to laugh. I also wanted to chuck the book across the room and forget it existed. The words hit too close to home. I had been opening myself up, or trying to at least, to the Spirit. I had been pouring out concerns and hopes to our mentors trying to figure out why God still has us living in Fargo. We have been here for two years now, and I had only been thinking we would be here for one. I wanted to move to Chicago, but every year when our lease is up for renewal we find a good reason to stay. We renew again next week.
I mentioned during my last post that I had been seeking, but had not been finding. It was my fault. I was not really opening up. The part inside of me that likes to do things on my own was taking over. I should be able to fix myself. So with that and the lies of the demons I was made deaf.
This book was all about how to seek intimacy with God, how he craves that from us, and how we should seek to hear him, and how we should crave that as well. Darnit, my crappy day was bound to get better.
I read and read and read. Stopping only for a moment as we got ready to drive out to a campground to visit our friends, our mentors, and their family for some campfire, somes s’mores, and some games. I read in the car down there. We hung out, and I was okay. I actually smiled and felt happy. There was very little time for serious talk, so I was not able to discuss in length the problems I had been having that day, too many other people around. But I was still doing alright. We played some pinochle, and of course girls rule and boys drool, we crushed them.
I read on the way home. I was hooked. I was mesmerized. My eyes and ears were starting to be opened. During the car rides that day, while I was reading, my ears would perk up to a song here and there. We had our radio tuned to the Air One station, it plays some awesome Christian music. And every time my ears would perk up for a song, it was one that was a song that my soul longed to sing. Music can be such a counselor and such a healer sometimes.
By the time I laid my head down that night I was a new person. I no longer wanted to recede back into the old me. I no longer believed Satan’s whispered lies. I wanted to run the race set out before me, full sprint.
And tomorrow would be a new and wonderful day, with a new gift from God. . .