Five Years.

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. 

The Kingdom of Dog... uhh, God.

I often feel like I'm sitting on the fence of the Kingdom of God, not knowing if I want in or out. As I was walking to work one morning last week, I was thinking about this, and was reminded of dogs (but I think about dogs a lot too, so that's no surprise). 

I remember seeing a funny t-shirt in a catalogue as a kid that depicted a to-do list for the day:

-let dog in

-let dog out

-let dog in

-let dog out

-let dog in

-let dog out

Ad nausaeum…

Dog goes out to pee, then comes back in, then sees squirrel outside, then hears you unwrapping cheese, then hears the neighbour's dog barking, then smells you starting to make dinner, then has to go out and chase the letter carrier, then needs to come in and be enough of a suck to get a treat from you as recompense for scaring away the bad guy…

Dogs think they know what they want in the moment, and to a certain extent, we do too.

I want to be in a relationship with a God who loves me unconditionally, but find myself yo-yo-ing back and forth between that state of being and another one that makes me want to get as far away as possible because I know that I can't conquer my own human nature which says that I deserve utter desolation, hopelessness, and loneliness.

The good news is that through Christ, that brokenness is overcome. God isn't some irate dog owner who lets us bark and whine outside the door of his house because he's frustrated, or lazy, or preoccupied. Even though we willingly left that house on a whim to chase after some transient and fleeting thing, and realized it wasn't as good as the paradise we had inside the warm shelter of the house, and maybe even got sprayed by a skunk or something to boot, just as another reminder of our vulnerability, he will never make us wait longer than it takes us to realize where we really want to be. He's good, and shows a deeper unconditional love for us, and joy in our decision to choose him even than any dog as their owner comes home from a long day at the office, or a few weeks' vacation.

Sometimes it takes a bit of wandering around alone outside before I realize it, but I want that. I think as humans we yearn for that sense of belonging and love. We just need to remember that it's there.

What if things got better?

Over the last several weeks, I've been ever-so-carefully tiptoeing out into the possibility that maybe anxiety isn't a thing that needs to define me anymore. I feel absolutely like a broken record every time I mention that awful "a-word" (or the "p-word" or the "d-word" for that matter), because the nature of this illness is that it comes and goes in waves and cycles and unpredictable bouts of mania and downward spirals… But for the first time in years, I'm actually starting to feel better, stable, grounded, and like I just might be leading a normal life.

Our individualistic culture doesn't like the word "normal." We celebrate differences and abnormalities as if these are the pinnacles that we should strive for above all else, because the individual is god… My opinions there encompass a long conversation for another time. I was incapable of remembering what "normal" was while I couldn't experience it, but now that it is returning in shades, I'm in awe, excited, and overjoyed at what is yet just invisible on the horizon.

Let me just expound on what I mean by "normal" for a sec…

• I can get up and out the door in the morning without worrying about having a panic attack.
• I can feel confident committing to be present at social functions, and look forward to them, rather than playing out the scenarios of how I could acceptably cancel at the last minute without sounding like a dick because I'm not feeling up to it, only to feel too petrified to say anything and feel even worse for skipping out afterwards.
• I believe people are telling the truth and not just being nice when they exhort, edify, and compliment me.
• I can eat wheat and dairy without getting sick!
• When I look in the mirror, I see a confident, joyful, beautiful woman, rather than a long string of explicit, derogatory adjectives.
• I can truly be present with other people, and empathize with their concerns without being concerned about how anxious I feel and how that is coming across.
• I feel confident taking public transit for long trips.
• I don't feel the need to eat constantly to forget about the anxiety.
• I feel like I deserve to be happy, and that that's a good thing.
• I just feel joyful.
• I feel like I have the energy and capacity to love others, and actively seek out opportunities to do so.
• I understand that I'm still going to have good days and bad days and don't feel pressured to live up to an image of a put-together person who has all their stuff figured out--because I'm 23 and I don't have all the answers!

All of the above are happening nearly all the time. I never even conceived the thought, in my wildest fantasies that I would ever deserve and know the life that I get to live every day now.

There is hope for peace, joy, and life after the absolute hell that is mental illness.

"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly." - John 10:10

A-freaking-men.

[Dis]connected.

Maybe I'm a little too enamoured with the monastic lifestyle, or maybe I’m just falling into this hipster, super trendy, minimalist thing (but pass me some organic, vegan, fair trade, non-GMO, nonfat, almond, kale, chia, flax, coconut, green smoothie thing while we're on that thought…?)

Last semester, I remember a little voice inside my head screaming "THIS IS NOT LIFE-GIVING!" as I mindlessly scrolled one-by-one through social media feeds. It doesn't take a genius to come to such a conclusion. Basically since I became a Christian I've been trying to not be sucked into the vortex of ostentatious religious piety and Christianese, because it's bloody weird. An idea that has repeatedly resurfaced over the last several months has been that I need to be less about the world and more about the Lord (Romans 12:1-2 for those who would like a Scripture reference). Anyway, I think I gave myself the ultimatum that as long as I was still doing well in school, there was no harm done. I still wanted to understand, though: why was I so addicted to this thing that was so mind-numbing?

There was my answer: it was mind-numbing. One of my most consistent coping mechanisms when I feel the anxiety starting to escalate is scrolling through facebook. It is utterly illogical that reading the idiocy of provocative, inflammatory comments will give me any sort of peace, yet, somehow, the feeling that I'm better, or smarter, or more useful than some misinformed stranger of the internet has become solace during the moments when I'm feeling my most useless, worthless, hopeless, and out of control.

Questions could be asked about why I don't turn to prayer or scripture seeking the comforts of release and truth during these times. I don't know. I guess I'm afraid of the implications if God won't be who he says he is at the moments where I feel like I need him the most. It also takes a lot more effort to open a Bible or make my lips move with hopeful expectation, becoming vulnerable to the rebuke, challenge, and transformation of the Holy One. It's actually pretty scary when you really think about it.

So, lent. Different church traditions say different things about lent. There's quite the spectrum ranging from "of course we do this, and you should too, and here's why," to "this is heresy because Jesus/the Bible doesn't explicitly say to do it." I've come to appreciate church tradition more and more as I've explored how much of it actually is rooted in scripture, in more ways than most Biblical literalists care to note. Admittedly, I haven't done a terrible amount of research on lent, but I think it's fairly indisputable to say that it is a time set apart to remove the "little-g-gods" from our lives which tend to stand in the way of our communion with the big-G, real-deal Father in heaven.

All this to say (in a painfully typical Helenz, long, convoluted manner) that I'm saying goodbye to facebook and instagram for lent. I anticipate this to be a good move for my spiritual life, and mental health, and also that it'll be incredibly challenging--in many senses of the word. I'm looking forward to embracing a simpler life, for sure, but also wary of the repercussions of being disconnected in this age that says you need to be 24/7.

Yes. Call/text/email me maybe?

What's in a name?

I find Christian spirituality quite difficult to talk about. There are, of course, extremists on both ends of the spiritual spectrum within the faith--those who are quite flamboyant and open about how they feel the Spirit of God, and those who think that those people are crazy. I grew up in what I believe to be the latter tradition, although on the non-evangelical side of things, which makes it all the more atypical and confusing. And then there is the predicament of trying to explain spirituality, particularly connected to one religion, as legitimate…

I've always wanted to feel connected to God. There weren't very many prominent figures in my life growing up whom I felt were truly connected to God, but when I did encounter such an individual, I was drawn to their sense of peace and confidence in God. As a kid trying to hide feelings of depression, holy crap, did I need that confidence that God loved me, and had a plan for me, and was going to be my strength no matter what.

I could make excuses of why I thought I didn't deserve God, and play the blame game over how relationship with God was never modeled well or encouraged by the adults in my life, but I think by this point I've reached the point where I've acknowledged that I just need to get over it, be an adult, and be accountable for my own faith.

When I was first exposed to, well, let's just call it "non-liturgical spirituality," I thought it was bloody crazy. It seemed so illogical and ethereal. I thought that people who raised their hands or danced during musical worship, or spoke of dreams or visions or prophetic words that they believed to be from God, or claimed that God had done x in their life/in someone else's life after they had prayed about it, were freaking bonkers, and if I'm being totally honest, part of me wanted to slap them across the face and shout "control yourself, you're being totally illogical and stupid!" (There's a really beautiful irony in the fact that I'm now doing my masters in spiritual formation…) I had a theoretical, hypothetical understanding and knowledge of a God who was good, but little context for the application of that knowledge.

There have been revelations of that God that have entered the more non-liturgical spirituality side of things over the last few years. I've encountered God in many of the ways that I thought were totally illegitimate before. My heart has been softened a bit to that side of things.

But I'd be lying if I said I didn't still have doubts.

Does God actually care about the things that we care about, or is he preoccupied with his own interests? Where is God when people are suffering? Why does God allow people to do so many evil things in his name?

Generally, the last few months of being at seminary have been pretty stable on the mental health front, and as I've been growing in understanding of God and who he is and how he functions, I've been gaining confidence concerning his good intentions for humanity, and my place at his table--or so I thought.

In October I was on a retreat for a spiritual formation class. On the second night I had a dream interpreted that I'd had a couple of years ago. In half a sentence, it turned out to be a prophetic dream (now who's freaking bonkers, Helen?!) indicating that God uses me to speak into the lives of others when I share his Word with them. Cool. I was satisfied with that interpretation, but still apprehensive--what reason did God have to choose me for such an important task? What in me is even remotely worthy of such a noble call? 

When I went to receive communion in our chapel service the next morning, the girl who was distributing the wafers said to me, “Christ chose you,” as she gave me a wafer. I thought that “the body of Christ, broken for you” might have been a more appropriate statement for this context, but I shrugged off her slip of the tongue. After the service, she came and found me to advise me that those were not her words, she hadn’t said that to anybody else, and that she hadn’t planned to say it to me. I knew I needed to spend some time with God to figure out what that statement, “Christ chose you,” meant. 

Opportunely, there was a scheduled period of two hours’ silence following the coffee break after the service. I walked to a park with a group of people during this time, and sat alone by the river. I closed my eyes in prayer, asking God what the girl’s statement meant. I heard very clearly, “Christ chose you to share the message,” but wasn’t sure of the significance of that assertion. I sat in silence for a few moments, chewing on those words. As the sun was shining down on me, I was reminded of one of my favourite verses, John 1:5: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Then it hit me: my name, Helen, means “light!” I know that in scripture we are all called to be light, but to have that personally affirmed was very special for me, and very powerful. It gave me a sense of purpose and determination to stick close to God, studying his Word, listening for his voice, and following his lead.

Anyone who's known me since I was a kid knows how much I hated my old lady name growing up, and probably also knows how upset and angry I was most of the time, mostly for reasons that were beyond my own comprehension. I cannot overemphasize how freaking awesome it is to see all of that being redeemed by the one who created me for a purpose that is infinitely greater in every way than anything I could ever envision for myself. Figuring out exactly what that looks like to live out that purpose is going to take some more time (like, probably the rest of my life), but I feel like I'm on the right track to getting there.

Just a quick little thing

I'm obviously supposed to be doing homework right now, but just thought it would be pertinent to give an update on how this whole seminary situation is panning out.

In short, I am completely convinced that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be right now. This is precisely where God has paved the path for me to be for this season, and that has been evident across so many different situations. Every day I find myself just sitting back in awe of how he has woven this whole thing together (and that I was actually able to listen and discern and obey!). I know he has awesome plans for me, and the next three (or more) years are going to be the most amazing journey--even more so than the last three years (as if that is even possible!).

Already, this experience has been unimaginably challenging. Starting at a new school and a new job, and living in a new city are difficult circumstances for any normal human to adjust to. Throw in an anxiety disorder and depression and the situation explodes. I did a science degree for my undergrad--the world of reading textbooks and writing papers is almost entirely foreign, and yet I've been tossed into it, being expected to read a few hundred pages a week while going to school full time and work part time (this coming from a kid who seldom read more than the back of a cereal box--mmmm, sodium benzoate!). I feel kind of dumb in some of my classes as someone who's never studied the bible academically, and who doesn't have a lot of "Christian" life experience. Many days I feel like my face is physically being pulled downwards and I'm upset for reasons I can't identify and I just become flustered that I can't verbalize my frustrations and angst and just have to take some time alone to sit and regroup. I've fallen back into old habits a few times and gotten so angry and frustrated that I've self-harmed… This has been SO hard.

But then I think back to four years ago, and even before that, how helpless I felt--days when I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed, but just in the silence of my own self-doubt came this notion that someone, somewhere wanted something better for me. I'm so crazy excited that I now recognize that that was God speaking to me, and that he's going to continue to shape and refine my life into something beautiful and useful. He's going to redeem all of that pain and suffering. I'm seriously getting super giddy and antsy right now, on the verge of a panic attack getting all excited about it.

I mean, even down to the points where I've been in panic mode during class, and have just felt a sudden profound wave of calm wash over me and I instantly stop shaking, not of my own volition. This has happened more than once in the short two weeks that I've been here. That same exact thing happened nearly three years ago and was what convinced me that God was real and cared about me and that I was his. He is real. He knows me. He loves me. He is working this all together and I'm 110% on board to see what he's going to turn this into.

As if it wasn't blatantly obvious already, this is absolutely impossible apart from him. I'm so unbelievably grateful for all of the individuals who have walked with me on this journey so far. You are all so, so special. God bless you.

I Surrender

"Go to seminary," they said.

"It'll be great," they said.

There's not a doubt in my mind that it will be, but it's also going to be hard--so hard…

I hadn't thought much about what the actual experience of sitting in a seminary class and doing the work was going to be like. I've done a bit of emotional maturing since the last time I graced a lecture hall with my presence--usually for about 25 minutes before being swept out of the room by a panic attack. Panic attacks are funny like that. Just when you think you're going to be okay and breeze through a potentially difficult situation unscathed, they like to attack you (they're so aptly named!), and all kinds of terrors you'd previously tucked away to rest take a joyride through your head, mostly with thoughts like, "we're right back where we were three years ago, nothing's worked" or "what am I even doing here? I have no freaking idea." or "I can't be a contributing member of this community or society if I can't even sit still like any normal human being and pay attention without my mind tricking me into thinking I'm going to drop dead suddenly sitting still in a lecture hall and my body spazzing out like I'm a hyperactive five-year-old who's just inhaled a whole package of Skittles."

I know that those are all lies, but good luck trying to get me to remember that in the middle of an attack when everything my body is thinking and doing is telling me "no, the panic is in charge, you have absolutely no agency here."

Today is world suicide prevention day.

I don't even know how to verbalize the sentiments of fear and gratitude that wash over me in a clear state of mind: if I hadn't have met Jesus, if God hadn't have found me in the sick, twisted state I was in and shown me a little tiny light in the black hole where I was trapped, how long would I have put up with existing as a shadow of the human being that I could be if my brain would just work properly? How much hurt and rejection and fear would it have taken before thinking and feeling nothing became the preferable option?

It's scary. I don't like to think about it.

But that's not the way it is. The recovery period from every panic attack is an emotionally-charged reminder of how, geez, even if God doesn't exist, I sure need something to store hope in right now, because I sure wouldn't have any confidence in myself in an emergency…

I'm confident that this "yes" to seminary was the right "yes". I know that he has come around me on all sides and isn't going anywhere. Jesus promises quite the opposite of sunshine and butterflies in exchange for following his lead.

So last night at 2 in the morning after several hours of emotional turmoil, I got down on my knees with open hands and said something like "I can't do this. This is all you, Jesus. This is all you. I know that you've blessed me into this, even though right now it feels like absolute crap, so just have your way."

"…I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me.  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." -2 Cor 12:8-10

It'll be good.