Day 5. Ephesians 4:31-32

This was another passage that I first came across in Bangladesh. We studied the book of Ephesians together as a team over the course of the trip, and many of the study sessions (as I recall) were often filled with tension and arguments over interpretation and emphasis of the passage at hand. Truthfully, I misremember whether or not the study session that included these verses was tension-filled, but I do remember being very relieved to find these words in scripture.

I’m typically very non-confrontational, and there are many instances where I can only find myself wondering why a topic is even the subject of intense debate, rather than joining a side. This is not to say that confrontation and conflict are all bad, because in many other instances they are good, and necessary.

Up until this point, there is a lot in this letter about breaking down walls of hostility between different people groups (gentiles and Jews), and living together as one Body of Christ. Paul explains the implications of this revolutionary idea in reasonable detail, and I imagine that some of the contents in his letter to the church at Ephesus probably met with some pushback, particularly from Jewish Christians who weren’t sold on the idea of sharing salvation with non-Jews. Regardless of those implications, and that pushback, Paul summarizes how we are required to live graciously as one body of believers, regardless of ethnic background or any other plethora of interpersonal variables, in these last two verses of this chapter:

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

I’ve seriously considered getting this tattooed somewhere on my body (I’m actually dead serious—betcha didn’t see that one coming) because it is something that I will always need to remember. I harbour bitterness in my heart like there’s been a massive sale on some product I don’t use—I feel a need to have it, though it just takes up space and doesn’t accomplish anything. As soon as I let go of bitterness towards one person or thing, I feel a compulsive need to replace it with bitterness towards something else. It’s not a good thing. I need this reminder to put away those negative thoughts and feelings and replace them with the grace and tenderheartedness that I have chosen to accept as a gift from Jesus, and to give them away as freely as he has given them to me.

Salvation is for all. Grace is for all. Kindness and tenderheartedness are for all. Forgiveness is for all. It’s easy to accept that as truth on the surface, but deep down, I think we all have reservations and need this reminder.

Day 4. Zephaniah 3:17

The Lord your God is in your midst,

a mighty one who will save;

he will rejoice over you with gladness;

he will quiet you by his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing.

Normally, I like to do my research and explore a little bit (or a lot) into context, cultural significance, and translations from the original language when I find a verse I like (or don’t like). Sometimes, though, I prefer to just read the words that are on the page as they are, and let that be the truth that is spoken to me. Although it might not be academically correct, sometimes it’s just what I need. The case of this particular verse is one of those times.

I know nothing about Zephaniah, although I can assume he was a prophet—I’m not sure from where, or who his audience was, or the intricacies of his relationship with those people, or with the Lord, and although a quick google search, or even flip through the pages of my study bible could give me those answers quite quickly, I really don’t care.

I’ve had a really rough couple of days, and anxiety has been mounting as I’m trying to figure out where I should live and what I should do for the next stage of my life. I’m second-guessing myself a lot, and God. I’m wondering if he really knows what he’s doing. I’m wondering if I can ever live the life I want to live, given my history with mental illness, and if it’s ever going to really go away. I’m wondering if all I’m worth is this lifelong sentence of depression, anxiety, loneliness, and feelings of worthlessness and filth, and why God has allowed me to sit in those feelings for so long. I wonder why I choose to sit in those feelings when I know there are better choices to be made. I wonder about hurtful things people have said to me in the past, and how much truth they hold, why they said them, and if those relationships can and should be reconciled. I wonder, and it eats away at me.

Sometimes scripture is comforting during these times, and sometimes it’s kind of infuriating to read about all of these wonderful attributes of God that I just don’t see. The nice part about that is that there is truth there, whether or not I feel that it is true in the moment—the fact that this is something else to believe as truth other than the flawed perception of myself and others as imperfect humans is a gift in itself. I just like to read that God is with me through these times, and saves, rejoices over his children with gladness, and quiets with his love—I just love that image, it reminds me of a parent lovingly holding and comforting a crying child. He also exults over his children with loud singing—not just some under-the-table, empty sympathy smalltalk of “hey, I think you’re really nice” but a loud, beautiful, majestic, genuine declaration of elation in our success of merely existing: “this is my child whom I love!”

Sometimes, I just need to read that, straight up.

Day 3. Mark 4:35-41

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.”  And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion. And they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great fear and said to one another,“Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

I never really thought too much of this story, until very recently. I’ve been rereading through the gospel of Mark as part of a bible reading plan, and as I was reading this particular section, I had peace on my mind. Previously, I’d studied this passage a handful of times in manuscript style, and we’d had pretty much the same questions and observations (why and how was Jesus asleep through this storm? Why did the disciples wait until they were perishing before asking Jesus for help? Does Jesus do this to test the disciples? Was Jesus in control of the weather the whole time? Etc.). As I recall, the interpretations that we reached were inconsistent at best—whether or not he was testing them, the point is that Jesus calmed the storm, and we should have faith that he should calm the storms in our lives. Like many other things in the bible, this sentiment is great in principle, but a little more difficult to actually implement in real life.

But this time when I read this story, I was reminded really powerfully of my first encounter with God. I was 20, and suffering from ruthless, unexplained panic attacks that seemed to occur absolutely at random. I’d just begun attending bible study and hanging out in Christian community a few months before, searching for solace and hope in something other than my broken body. At one particular worship event, I found myself in the middle of a crowded living room, having a panic attack, with no way to exit the room discreetly, so to avoid drawing more attention to myself, I decided to ride it out. 

These panic attacks were violent. I would hyperventilate, shake uncontrollably, and bang my fists into my legs to try and distract myself from the fear that I was about to die. I just hoped that everyone else in the room was more focused on the worship than watching me make a scene. Somewhere during the worship time, the worship leader opened a time of prayer, where we were to pray in one voice (many voices—everyone prays whatever they want out loud at the same time), asking God to take away whatever it was that was keeping us from him. I was so scared. I knew that if I asked him to take away this panic, that that would be it—that would be proof enough to me that there is a God, and that he cares about me and listens to me, and then I’d have to change so many aspects of the way I’d been living, and open my mind up to how he wanted me to live. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to do it. I looked around, and saw all these other people praying, and the best likeness I can give to what happened next is peer pressure, even though no one was looking at me, or forcing me to do anything, but I somehow found myself closing my eyes to pray… The instant my eyelids met, the panic attack was gone—I stopped shaking, I was able to breathe normally, and I physically felt the tension being released from my body. I felt an inexplicably profound sense of peace and calm to a degree that I did not know was even possible. It was absolutely the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.

This time when I reread this story in Mark 4 about a week ago, I started to see the parallels in my own story. That night two years ago, it took until I felt like I was going to die (like, every panic attack of every day) before I even thought that seeking Jesus might be a thing that could help, and it took 4 months from that initial seeking to grow a faith and understanding sufficient enough to ask him to take the panic away (although I’m still not sure how exactly that happened), all the while fearing the outcome—kind of like the disciples. Here they are in this boat, and this storm comes, and some of them are experienced fishermen, so they’re like, “nah, it’s cool, we got this, Jesus is asleep, we’ll let him sleep…” and then when the storm gets worse, to the point where they say “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” –so, they’re dying, they don’t know what else to do, Jesus is their last resort. And then Jesus says “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. So this time when I was reading that story, the lightbulb went off and I was like, DUH, Helen! This is exactly what happened two years ago, the parallels are inexplicable. Not only that, but this is one of the first miracles that Jesus performs; in this gospel, it is the first miracle performed after the appointment of the twelve apostles—the first one that they are all present for (presumably), and he chooses to show them that even the wind and the sea obey him. Incredible. For me, that really started the journey into “who is this, that even my body’s biochemistry obeys him?”, like that was just a taste of the healing he was going to bring about.

I was originally told I’d have to be on medication for life—I’ve been drug-free for going on two years.

I used to have three violent panic attacks a day, now I might have one every three months.

Anxiety and panic developed into agoraphobia, meaning I couldn’t leave the house, and the faith that has been planted and uprooted and replanted and ever so slowly growing and being pruned, and flourishing, has allowed me to overcome that, to the point where I can confidently say that I feel like a productive member of society again, and also more fully human for having been through this struggle.

Jesus says “Peace! Be still!” and the wind and the sea obey him.

Day 2. Philippians 3:12-14

The first time I remember being exposed to this scripture was in Bangladesh two years ago. It was close to the final leg of our trip, and the (very timely) sermon at church that week was based on this scripture. I remember the pastor speaking very passionately, and although I didn’t quite absorb all of what he was speaking (I was probably hot, tired, and sick), I remember being so gripped by the passage that I looked it up promptly when I had some time alone and scoured the chapter, and even the rest of the book of Philippians to try and gather context and understand Paul’s angle.

“Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.  Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”

After professing his own human imperfection (which is significant in itself, as a teacher), Paul debunks the myth that salvation is a one-time prayer or commitment to Christ. With those words, he’s saying that yeah, it’s true that Jesus, through his dying and resurrection has purchased me as his own, and I have faith in that, but faith cannot stand without works (which is a nice parallel to James 2, one of my other fave passages), so I have to outwardly show that I have faith and believe by sharing this gospel with others and loving my God and my neighbour as Christ commanded.

Jesus offers each of us a new identity in him, but we have to want it. We have to work towards it, and forget our old self so we can get to know our new self—straining forward towards Jesus, giving it our all to be more and more like him until we are finally with him and cannot try any more.

Day 1. Psalm 73:21-26

Although I’m yet in their early stages, I’ve discovered over the last couple of years that one’s twenties are inevitably the most difficult decade of life so far. Whereas before it seemed easy to size up your peers based on benchmark developmental points that we all reached at relatively the same time, going down the same tunnel of physical, emotional, and educational development at approximately the same rate, it seems that in the twenties, this tunnel just ends, and everything that was in it spills out everywhere, in all directions. You lose the ability to compare yourself accurately to your peers. Maybe others have truly mastered the art of not comparing oneself to their peers, and good for them, but comparison, and trying to be first or best at everything is something that I’ve continually struggled with (and I’ve been pretty silent about it, too, even denying it quite often) because coming out on top makes me feel like I’m doing something right—like I have control. 

I’m 22, single, with no prospects on the dating horizon, stuck in a part-time, dead-end job, spend many of my days just loafting around the house, wondering when my big break is going to come (as if that is owed to me), and lamenting the fact that as more and more of my friends get into serious relationships, the less and less time we’ll spend together. I have friends who are 22, engaged or married, and starting families, and/or careers in which they are very happy and fulfilled. It’s like we all came out of that tunnel at the same time, but none of us was given a map, and although some people seemed to have come out of that tunnel and found the light of the path they were meant to be on, I’m still stumbling around in the overgrown weeds, way off the path, in the dark, even though I’ve not done anything that I feel would warrant my being there rather than on a lighted path—and some of the people on these lighted paths I just can’t understand how they possibly deserve the awesome life that they’ve landed. It’s not fair.

I’m told that this only gets worse as we get father and farther into the decade.

I feel a lot like Asaph, the psalmist, in the beginning of this psalm. He’s lamenting the fact that all of these arrogant, wicked people are prospering and thriving, while he’s struggling and being rebuked, although he has kept his hands and heart clean. It’s really embittered him towards God, and he doesn’t understand why God would allow these wicked people to prosper while he suffers, if God is good, and in control.

And then he says this:

When my soul was embittered,

when I was pricked in the heart,

I was brutish and ignorant;

I was like a beast towards you.

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;

you hold my right hand.

You guide me with your counsel,

and afterward you will receive me to glory.

Whom have I in heaven but you?

And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,

but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Yep, I’ve spent some time really angry at God this year, for allowing things to go the way they have, praying for him to intervene and confirm the notion that he is good.

I’ve struggled a lot with feelings of inadequacy, and self-loathing, and sometimes I’ve found myself crying in front of a mirror because all I see is a hopeless, ugly, [series of expletives]. I really can’t do this on my own. Whom have I in heaven but the Lord? My flesh and my heart have failed, and it is folly to put hope in them. There is no strength in this flesh, but in God there is; not only strength, but portion as well—everything that I could ever need. I don't need to be in control of every minute aspect of my daily life just to ensure self-preservation because God is in control of everything seen and unseen in ways that are so perfect they are beyond my narrow comprehension. Why would I desire anything on earth more than that?

The Verdict:

First of all, let me just say how overwhelmed with gratitude I am, after receiving such a positive response to the previous post. My facebook inbox was flooded with messages of support, encouragement, and solidarity from all kinds of humans—close friends, people whom I’d expected to judge and scoff at me, individuals with whom I haven’t spoken with in years, and even those with whom I can’t recall ever having a conversation. It was absolutely overwhelming to see so many individuals from so many walks of life come alongside and agree with many things that I was saying, and challenge some of those opinions by asking critical questions, as well as apologize on behalf of all Christians for some negative things that I’ve experienced in the hands of other Christians, and the church in general. Never once did I feel chastised, judged, or shamed for saying what I said, believing what I believe, or doing what I did. So, thank you. I’m so incredibly grateful to have such wonderful people in my life.

On Tuesday morning, at about 5am, I decided to follow Jesus.

I was absolutely not expecting it to happen this quickly. How that decision was reached is a big, long story, involving circumstances that, out of respect for the parties involved, I would prefer not to discuss.

This week I learned that life moves fast, and sometimes it stops moving and ends just as fast. I learned that I could sit around on the sidelines, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for something or someone to speak to me in such a way that motivates me to accept the truth of the gospel in my heart and not just in my head, waiting for a magic, fairytale, emotional moment where I suddenly comprehend the fullness of the gospel, and know 100% without a doubt that Jesus is real, and with me, and for me, just as I am. I could wait around forever, for all of my silent, unrealistic expectations to be fulfilled, and I could die waiting, without ever saying yes. That was one possible scenario.

The other forced me to make a choice, and have closure right here and now: do I love Jesus, or don’t I? That answer was simple. How, after seeing and experiencing all the hurt that I had at the hands of humans, directed at myself and others, how could I possibly be okay with believing that what we see is all there is? After studying, and learning, and growing more and more to understand who Jesus is, and seeing self-proclaimed “Christians” totally miss the mark and use that “faith” as a cop-out to be hateful, discriminatory, and judgmental, ignoring Christ’s gospel of love, peace, hope, joy, and justice for the oppressed—how, how could I possibly sit back, scoffing at these ignorant individuals, while I myself was ignoring the mission that I have to be an example of love and grace? Knowing how flawed and faulty I am as a human being, and knowing, even if it’s not real, that there is a possibility of redemption, forgiveness, acceptance, and grace, when faced with the choice of even the slimmest possibility of that chance, or poking my way through the darkness of my own mind, trying to find temporary answers to just to numb myself enough to make it through another day, as I have for most of my life—how could I not take that chance to put my faith in something bigger than myself? Knowing that I’m not going to live here forever, and that there’s even a chance that I might get to spend eternity with the God who has loved and cherished me, and every other human on this planet—I fail to conceive a scenario in which I would not say yes.

So, I said yes.

Yes, to grace when I fall short

Yes, to love when I find myself consumed with other thoughts

Yes, to the mission of exemplifying the love and grace that I have been shown

Yes, to accepting that he loves me just as I am

Yes, to acknowledging that although I am striving for the humble perfection of Christ, I will never get there (and he’s okay with that and loves me anyway)

I fell in love with Christianity long before I fell in love with Christ. What’s not to love about it? Hypothetically, you’re always surrounded by a group of people who love and support you, challenging you to grow to become more like Jesus. You practice good morals, and if you can do so to a high degree of efficacy, I think some even believe you’ll have a Cinderella-story, white-picket-fence, American-dream, fairytale of a life, casting anything that doesn’t fit that ideal over the shoulders of Jesus (as if that's what those shoulders were meant to bear!). You feel good about yourself by going on missions trips and/or helping the poor and feel like your life has a greater purpose than the mundane everyday of everyone else. Christianity, for many, sadly, is a quick fix to all of life’s problems. I’d be lying if I said my motivation for becoming a Christian in the first place wasn’t to solve a bunch of my own problems.

The problem with Christianity is humans. We’re flawed. We’ve misinterpreted scripture. We’ve placed little g gods in front of the big G God. We bend the rules enough to get and do what we want and justify it. In this give-and-take world, we give God ultimatums and try to bargain with him to get what we perceive as good for us in this world in our own human shortsightedness, failing to see that his plans are so much greater. What’s worse is when we impose our flawed humanness on others, under the guise of living the good life in faith, and become keys that open doorways to the labyrinth of modified, lukewarm, unbiblical “Christianity”, instead of becoming oil lamps that, although they may not be bright, and need to have their oil replenished regularly, strain to shine towards the brilliant, inextinguishable light of Christ. Christianity, religion, whatever you want to call it, has never been the way to a better life, and actually, it’s not the way to any kind of life at all. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. Whether “oil lamps” are present to mimic and point to him or not, Christ is there, regardless.

“In him was life, and the light was the life of all men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it”-John 1:4-5

I don’t have all the answers. I’m still figuring this out, and I’m going to keep piecing this puzzle together until the day I die, but I’m infinitely happier to do it knowing that I am not alone, knowing that I am loved despite my imperfections and shortcomings, knowing that my life has a purpose and that that purpose is to love Jesus and become more like him and to tell everyone about how great he is, and knowing that none of that will ever change under any circumstances.

...Celebration time?

What if the truth came out?

Life constantly poses us multiple “what-ifs”. Most of the time, they’re nothing to be taken too seriously: what if I wore the red shirt instead of the blue one, what if I decide to buy 3-ply instead of 2-ply toilet paper, what if my house burns down because I left my slow cooker unattended (apparently, despite Crock Pot's slogan of "cooks all day while the cook's away", this is a legitimate concern held by many individuals)… And then, there are some that raise more interest or concern: what if my crush finds out I like them, what if a loved one receives a terrible diagnosis, what if I can’t find a job after graduation…

The one that’s been bothering me in recent months is: What if I renounced my commitment to Christ? In other words: What if I stopped following Jesus?

Putting this out on the table, I’ve been anticipating a plethora of reactions such as: “but, you were so happy, and full of love for the Lord…” or “well, guess you’re rejecting the truth, guess we’ll be going separate ways on judgment day…” or “good, those weirdo Christians changed you, girl…” or “great, you’re a narcissistic, attention-seeking twat and we don’t want you around here anyway…”

Each of those just lends fuel to the renouncement fire. I’m not happy, or full of love for the Lord. I’m pretty miserable, and feel like my every move and word is being intensely scrutinized by a “community” of faith (note: as in Christians in general, not directed at a specific subset of people within that larger group) that seems to be more concerned with getting another “YES!” to Jesus that the genuineness, strength, conviction, and sustainability behind that little word. I've been thinking for months now, "Helen, this really isn't working out, you're not cut out to follow Jesus, you should just pack it in and renounce your faith entirely so at least you're not disappointing anyone". I’m a failure, a fake, and a fraud. I fucked up. And oh boy, I can just hear the chorus of “but we’re all failures and Jesus still loves us all infinitely so you go back to him and repent right now!” potentially followed by “what if Jesus comes back tomorrow? Would you be going to heaven?”

What if he doesn’t? If he came back last week, or even last year, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have ended up with him for all eternity had that been the case.

After pondering that what-if, I realized: I have no commitment to renounce. I never said “yes” to Jesus in the first place. I was never asked that question. I never made that commitment. I'd been motivated to do "good" only by the selfish desires of my own flesh.

“But, you went to retreats, and conferences, and on mission trips”

Yes, I did.

“But, you go to church”

Yes, I do.

“But, you led a Bible study, and were on leadership in student ministry”

Yes, I did/was.

“But, you’ve preached sermons in churches, and shared your testimony”

Yes, I have.

Remarkable.

I was baptized as a baby, never got confirmed, never gave a profession of faith, was never re-baptized as an adult, and was also never asked to commit my life to Christ, yet over the past 2 years, have found myself in circumstances not unlike those of the most textbook Christian person you’ve ever met.

Two and a half years ago, after a summer of seeing people I loved and respected living out their faith in really powerful ways, and after a school year of struggling with a merciless case of panic disorder, I figured, “what the heck, I’ll try this Christianity thing out, give it a serious go, what have I got to lose”. Secretly, I was also incredibly lonely. My appetite for company and social activities had always been insatiable. Having an anxiety disorder where I was unable to leave the house on most days, coupled with a history of depression and self-loathing made me scream out for attention and cling to every last thread of "love" I could grasp, just as a reminder that I was still here, still human, and still worth having some kind of interaction with. I wanted to get close to God. First, I got close to people who were close to God. They were all lovely, and I could tell that they wanted to love and nurture me and see me do well. And, filled with fear of disappointing them, I became engrossed in every Jesusy thing I possibly could. I went to Bible study, large groups, retreats, I prayed, I read my Bible, I started going to church after 3 years of essentially boycotting it. I just wanted these people to like me.

I also did experience God, tangible things like when he showed me he had the power to take away my panic attacks, which resulted in me going to Bangladesh, where he showed me a lot of other really cool things that deepened my perspective and compassion for other members of the human race. The last two and a half years have certainly not been in vain! I’ve never not believed that he is real. I’ve questioned whether he is good, and what is important to him, and whether he cares about me, or has other priorities, but he definitely has proven to me that he is real. My relationship with and understanding of him as Lord has waned and waxed over the years, but I believe in my heart and mind that he exists.

Being in community with people you’re trying to impress and get to like you is hard. It’s also stupid. You feel like you never measure up to anyone’s standards—those of others, God, and yourself. You’re not being true to anyone—others, God, or yourself. I felt pressured from all sides to do whatever I had to do to check all the boxes of what a “good Christian” would do, thinking that would land me in the good books of all these people in the community that held power and influence socially speaking. Heck, best case scenario, appearing as a good, Christian woman might even land me a good, Christian man—then all my loneliness issues would be solved for good, right? (Can you see how flawed my logic is?) I committed to events and gatherings that I didn’t want to commit to, I prayed about things aloud that I didn’t care about, I faked an interest in people’s lives just to make polite conversation, I tried to make my story more exciting and dramatic than it was, just so I wasn’t a drone who seemed to have no reason or passion to be where I was, I gave money to ministry projects and missions, just to try and prove to myself that I was seriously not lying about any of this, I dabbled in realms of spiritual giftings, and felt shamed when I couldn’t produce words, or images, or visions during prayers, or speak in tongues on command. I stretched my perception of the truth to include something spiritual, to convince myself and others that I shared an intimate connection with the Lord.

I was a fraud.

I felt dirty on the inside and like I didn’t belong anywhere. People were getting upset with me and wondering what was up, and my non-Christian friends were like, “girl, you’ve changed” and I felt like I couldn’t talk to them anymore because I was too ashamed to even see eye-to-eye with them, and wished this whole Christianity thing had never happened because I was even worse off now than when I started. I just wanted these people to like me.

And I’d failed.

A quote that I’ve been reminded of as I’ve gone through this debacle in my head is this:

“Whatever you are, be a good one.” – Abraham Lincoln

Maybe it’s not biblical, but it’s consistent with the all-or-nothing mentality that I’ve learned about following Jesus. I don’t want to be a Christian if I can’t truthfully be a good one. I don’t want to say I’m following Jesus when I’m not. I don’t want to lie. I want to be able to be fully honest about what I need and what I’m experiencing without facing judgment or scrutiny. That last one seems impossible in many Christian circles. I can already see people praying for me to realize the truth and accept Jesus as my Lord and Saviour before it’s too late. I honestly and truthfully appreciate such concern for my eternal fate, but could you please cool your jets for a second. You can breathe down my neck, or down anyone’s neck all you want, cornering and shaming them to say “yes” to accepting and following Jesus, but what kind of follower does that create? Certainly one who views God as vengeful and angry, who magnifies guilt and shame, and not ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS HOW MUCH GOD LOVES THEM SINCE HE SACRIFICED HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON IN ORDER TO WASH THEIR SINS AWAY AND DWELL WITH THEM IN HIS HOUSE FOR ALL ETERNITY.

THAT is the God I want to worship.

THAT is the God I want to know.

THAT is the God I believe in.

Until I know I can make an honest and sustainable commitment to Christ, and not a spur-of-the-moment, what-the-heck, I’m-going-to-make-this-person-watch-me-pray-this-prayer-because-I-want-them-to-see-that-I’m-(not)-serious forged statement of belief and action, I won’t, plain and simple. I don’t know when the time for making that commitment will come, but until it does, I’m assured that God is waiting patiently, lovingly, and wanting nothing but my best in exchange for his. I really do hope that someday I will make the decision to take up my cross and follow Jesus, and that someday I'll get in a space where I'll love myself enough to accept that I'm worth it and he loves me.  I suspect I’m not the only closet tag-along-er just trying to be around people, either. (I think we should start a support/discussion group. I also really think I’m being totally serious about that.)

I know that God is the only good thing in my life, and that he is walking with me, and that he is ready to move with me, guiding me, when I’m ready to say yes to move. If I’m going to be lonely and miserable and angsty for the rest of my life, I’d much rather be those things with God than without him.

Loneliness, anxiety, and depression are all bitter pills to swallow. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t believe that prayer makes them magically go away. What does help, however, is taking steps towards God, being in his presence, and trusting when he says that life is valuable, purposeful, and his gift to us and those around us.

Welp, maybe this post has been slightly controversial. I’ve been reading a lot of classic literature lately (you too can return to reading actual books and not textbooks upon graduation!), and I’d like to close with this gem from my favourite literary heroine:

“Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it.” – Anne Shirley

(Technicalities, Miss Stacey technically owns this quote, and despite also loving her and always wishing I could have a teacher like her, my grade 2-3 teacher went by the same name and I feel she never particularly liked me...)

Operation rebuild faith: phase one.