I like
getting sentimental sometimes. I also like marking anniversaries of big changes
and other important dates to remember their significance, and reflect on the
growth that has occurred since then, or through those trials.
Five
years ago this week, I had my first panic attack. Sometimes I feel like I tell
this story tirelessly, and that maybe I sound like one of those annoying social
media activists or internet social justice warriors. That's never been my
intent.
Before
anxiety, my ego was enormous. I was the smartest, most well-rounded person to
ever grace the face of the planet, and I implicitly pushed that agenda on
nearly everyone I met. I was obsessed with making a first impression of
omniscience and unparalleled experience to potential new friends, professors,
strangers, and people I knew I didn't like. Those things are what makes a
person cool (read: massively insecure), right? In my mind, I had to be the best
at everything to give myself a chance at being noticed or liked.
Then I
learned what it's like to have your body go into overdrive for no reason,
without warning, for hours at a time. Your brain says stop while your body says
go and the messages get so lost in the confusion and mistranslation that the
only response that makes sense to bring back some semblance of control is to
hit yourself until your legs are purple, or bite your fingers until you draw
blood, and you cry the whole time, not because it hurts, but because you don't
know how to make it stop, or how things got so bad, or if life will ever be
different, or if it's even worth it to go on living.
Living
that life broke me in ways I could never imagine, and wouldn't have known how
to have planned for. Living that life showed me that it is impossible, and
unethical, for me to judge a person by what I perceive from their outward
persona. Living that life taught me about people who yearn for and deserve
justice, who scream out for it, yet are silenced by the murmurs of the loudest
voices of Western society who determine what is most important to all of us:
business, productivity, bureaucracy, capitalism, government, the rat race…
Living
that life allowed me to see what true, pure, unconditional love looks like, and
where it comes from. It incited me getting the help I need to heal broken and
distorted images of what I thought I needed to be in order to be loved,
accepted, and heard.
The vast
brokenness of this world never ceases to leave me completely baffled (and if
you spend much time around me, you've likely heard me let out an "ugh,
humans!" or two in frustration). We fall victim to the brokenness of
ourselves and others all the time. There is a restorer, a healer, a comforter,
a redeemer, who is working on our behalf to make us whole, only because he
loves us too much to leave us alone in our mess.
What does
that restoration look like? For me, it's been finding joy in the simple things
of life--getting together to laugh and chat and be vulnerable with friends;
sipping an Americano in a crowded café, or listening to music on the subway as
I feel calm, warm, and safe in the arms of Jesus while watching the world go
bustling by; feeling like I can be my real, true self in conversations without
having to project a certain image in order to be accepted by myself and others;
drinking in the beauty of the seasons, and marveling at how God has
intricately and intentionally created all that is, and foreknown how they will
all interact and come together.
There is
freedom in knowing that we are not meant to achieve wholeness on this earth,
and that it is not our responsibility to orchestrate our own restoration plan
for ourselves or others.
We just
have to be.
When
Jesus was baptized, before he began his ministry, his Father called him his
beloved Son, in whom he was well pleased. Through him, we have access to the
title of beloved children of God as well.
We need
only be.
The last
five years have been unspeakably difficult. They've also been typified by
unparalleled growth and reward. Beauty rises from ashes. We are still
approaching the day when there will be no more death, mourning, crying or pain,
but in the meantime, there is joy to be found in the visible progress of the
restoration that is taking place. For this, I am thankful.
