Meet Maddie

Meet Maddie

I’m a writer because I know what it’s like to be the reader, curled up on the couch and searching for words that can balm the soul.

I write because this world can make us feel like we live on an island.

I write for “You too?” moments, those incredible breaths where you realize you’re not alone, that someone, somewhere under this big blue sky has felt the way you feel. I know the power in that, the kind of power to get you through a day or smile for the first time in weeks.

I’ve been there. And I write because I desperately want to you be there too.

I want you to know that you’re not alone. Whoever you are, however you have found my words, I pray that in some way they make a difference to you.

My name is Maddie. I’m 23, incredibly imperfect, but graciously saved by Jesus Christ. And that changes everything about me. You will find Jesus in my words because my story is nothing without Him, but everything because of Him.

I hope you find Him here.

Music is my passion, people are my calling, and writing is… well, writing is what fills my soul. I like to run (even though I’m not a natural), LOVE to dance (because I AM a natural. ha.), and you can find me reading young adult novels about space battles and ware-wolf princesses in my downtime (because, hey, I know worthy literature when I see it).

You will find some re-occurring themes on this blog, reflecting the seasons of my life as they come and go. I touch on mental health and the stigma it carries. Singleness and the loneliness it brings. And always, in every line, what God is teaching me in this life I learn.

I’m so glad you found me! Please take a seat and stay a while – these truths that heal my heart just may heal yours too.

Sometimes, I Can’t.

Sometimes, I Can’t.

I grew up believing that I could do anything.

Anything! I had a confidence that seemed unshakeable. It was exciting. I took grown-ups at their word when they told me that I had an army inside of me just ready to change the world. I sat with my family in our usual pew Sunday after Sunday and I pictured God and I taking on the world. No matter what came our way, we would fling it to the side and together we would laugh in the face of danger and fear. We would end each night with celebration and start each morning with renewal.

Now, I have come to realize that I was a bigger dreamer than most, but I do believe that in everyone’s heart is a similar desire.

Right?

 

So, last year I grabbed God’s hand and we stood together at a precipice. Do I move to South Carolina? Do I leave behind everything I know for everything unknown? Do I take the chance?

I remember exactly where I was when I was offered the opportunity that gave me a chance down South. I was sitting on my parent’s front porch. I had just finished a phone interview, and I knew that the door was open to me if I wanted it to be. My back rested against the porch pillar, the faint smell of dog pee crept up and I smiled a little because I know my dog wasn’t supposed to pee near the porch. This was home.

And yet, it wasn’t my nest anymore. Although my parents would have lovingly given me a bed and food during this post-college season, I knew I had to go. For some, that’s the right move. For me, it wasn’t. I knew it, my parents knew it.

And so I thought about God that day, and the promise we made each other to always go on adventures together. I was 10 years old again. How could I sit this one out?

Four days later, I was in my Volkswagon Passat making my way down South.

 

I want to tell you that I faced my life here with complete honesty and raw faith and with a confidence in the God who led me here. I really do. My Instagram might tell you that (and I apologize if it does). If you called me up today and asked me how my first year has been, I might tell you that. But it wouldn’t be completely true.

I bought a journal today, from a stand at a farmers market. I bought it because my head keeps spinning these days and I don’t know how to make it stop. I was handed an interesting deck of cards the day I moved here, and playing them all has made me dizzy.

I wanted to be put together and healthy by this point of adulthood, but instead I’m tired. I’m so tired. These past 13 months have held three different jobs, three different addresses, three different cars, (one car accident), two drained bank accounts, one break up, one new prescription for anti-depressants, and only one me.

That strong and determined Maddie became lonely Maddie, sad Maddie, confused Maddie, busy Maddie. And then I felt like I wasn’t Maddie at all. Where do you put it all? What do you do when you feel so many things all at once and those emotions simply have nowhere to go because you have a church event to get to?

Because the fact of the matter is, I became beat up. My first night here, I will never forget sitting down, after the hustle and bustle finally died down and I realized that I really did move here. By myself. And that my future was going to take a lot out of me. I haven’t forgotten how I felt in that moment. I have never been more scared, but instead of the ice cold panic I usually feel in those moments, all I felt was a low hum. I had no time for panic. I either put on a brave face and moved forward, or I admitted defeat and moved home.

And 10 year old Maddie would never allow me to move home. That’s not what I did.

And so I fought. I made it to work, day after day. I sat with myself through a season of depression. I learned how to tell the truth. I screamed into pillows. I was honest with God for the first time in my life. I cried because I didn’t want to break a boy’s heart but I knew I was going to. I mourned when my friends got engaged because they live thousands of miles away.

And, I learned, I can’t do it all. I just can’t.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot be any version of myself that I choose. That’s not up to me. My emotions and exhaustion demand to be recognized, and believe me they will always find a way. And I have tried so hard, day after day after day to stop them. But why?

I have come to learn that I had the wrong picture of a warrior in my mind. When I was little, I imagined strength in the form of happiness and optimism in the face of whatever life would throw at me. But I was wrong. Strength isn’t happiness. Strength is honesty. Strength is grief. Strength is driving to Publix to pick up your antidepressant when you swore to yourself you would never take it again. But in that moment, strength was admitting that I can’t do it on my own.

And God never promised me anything else. He knew our adventure would look just as it has, and He still assured me that it was a good idea. He saw my lonely nights, saw my stress, saw my seasons of mental-unhealthiness, saw my tears, and He still took my hand that day on my parent’s front porch and said, “Let’s do this”.

And He was right.

Maybe, He just wanted me to learn that sometimes I can’t, and He knew He couldn’t get it through my thick skull any other way.

 

 

 

379 Days Into Adulthood

379 Days Into Adulthood

379 days ago I decided to move to the South.

Well, decided is a generous word. Maybe, more specifically, ran away to the South.

I would never have decided to leave the stage of life I was in. I know that might make me sound like one of those people always living in the “good ole’ days of college”, but it’s true. I was happy there – on my little campus, in the cornfields of Ohio, in close proximity to almost everybody I really cared about on this planet. I was nuzzled up, as with a warm blanket on a snowy day. The cultural references made sense to me, the pace of life worked well for me, the people knew me. I loved being a student – loved getting out of class at noon and walking to my favorite coffee shop to tune the world out, listen to music, and get some homework done.

It suited me.

And, given the choice, I would not have left. But I wasn’t given a choice, really.

And that’s why I ran away to the South.

I’ve decided that moving across the country, as a single gal, to start life as a young adult is a lot like being a toddler again, lost in Walmart. You’re ridiculously small compared to all of the people around you. Everything is overwhelming. You’re lost, unsure what to do, paralyzed, and the only things in the world that could give you comfort are the arms of your mom, wrapping around you in relief.

That’s me. Except for I’m not a toddler, I’m lost somewhere much larger than Walmart, and mommy ain’t comin.

Adulthood, yeah?

It doesn’t matter how many times I feed my debit card into a cash only machine, or total my car, or break down on the side of the road, I can’t do a single thing to nuzzle back onto that fluffy couch called college. I can’t force all of my best friends to travel to South Carolina to give me a hug. I can’t not pay my traffic ticket. I can’t teleport back to my college cafeteria and eat several servings of hard scoop ice cream in one meal.

I ran away to the South, but now there’s nowhere to go.

Is my life terrible? No. But it’s not the same, and that’s the real heartbreak. I’m learning that 379 days in a new town is nothing, and that it will take several hundred more to feel at home here. I’ll wait it out, and it will happen. I’ll find my people here. It will become somewhere special to me. I’m beginning to realize that the real battle is letting it happen.

I spoke to one of my best friends on the phone recently. We reminisced about friends we had and memories we made, and I began to blurt out my feelings on this subject. How do I move on? She is a strong, solid woman of God so I know she’ll be okay, but I almost felt myself apologizing to her, saying, “You know how much it breaks my heart to live so far away. But I do. We do. So I have to make friends here. I have to create a life here. That’s okay, right? You’ll understand, right?”

And I know she will. I know she does. Because she loves me, and it’s what we all have to do.

And yet, that rational way of thinking didn’t keep me from curling up like an infant on the couch this past week, sobbing over friends of past, knowing that my affection towards them can’t make them move to the same apartment building as me. I prayed that they knew I didn’t leave them on purpose, and that I never would have chosen to. And that I still love them, even if I don’t call them very often because it’s almost more painful to hear their fuzzy phone voice than to not hear them at all.

I read in 1 John today about the love of God. I know it’s been a long time since I believed that God still has my back, and so I have to repeat it over and over in the early light of morning in order for it to effect me at all. It becomes starkly obvious to me these days, when I finally do crack open my Bible, how cold I have become to my first Love. It didn’t happen overnight, but somewhere in these past 379 days, I simply stopped believing that I’m still His girl, and that He’s still watching over me.

But He is, isn’t He? “We love because He first loved us.” He sees my numbness of heart, my clouded mind as I train in my new job, my childlike sobbing on the love-seat in my 3rd floor apartment, the 2008 Mazda I tote around town. He knows where I’m at, and loves how I obsessively bargain hunt to decorate my apartment, how I re-read Nicholas Sparks novels while simultaneously complaining that there are no good books out there, how I fumble around my kitchen trying to cook.

And knowing that He knows, and that He sees me, gives me courage. I can make it. More than that – I can live through these years, not simply survive. I used to view this season as a marathon, but that just left me exhausted. Maybe it’s more like a stroll through town, if I relax enough to view it that way. I can take breaks to breathe and read and write and run. I can be me, even if I’m not always sure who that is.

My life changed in every way when I moved here. I’ve been miserable, but I’ve also been better than ever. Somehow, they mix. And somehow, after it all, I still believe there’s good to come.

 

The Painful In-Between

The Painful In-Between

It’s funny being a writer, because I so often find myself thinking in terms of blog posts. Something happens or I have a bad day or a really good day and suddenly my mind is filled with a title and a thesis and a hook. And I think “man I should write about that.”

But then I don’t. Most of the time. Because I begin to think, and overthink, and overthink some more and by the time I turned it around in my head enough times what once looked like a well-organized and thought provoking 900 words suddenly looks more like an overly emotional pile of greenish-brown mush and I figure that no one would want to read that anyway.

But the thing about being a writer is that if you don’t write, you feel it. Something’s off. There is simply too much in your head to not put anywhere, and so you walk around kind of lopsided, turning in circles like a dog settling in for a nap.

So today, I’m just going to write.

There are a million aspects to moving to South Carolina that I did not expect. I didn’t even know how to expect them nor do I think I would have. You know when people try to tell you about things you might struggle with or hardships that come with certain life choices but you brush them off because surely that would never happen to you?

I’ve recently been reading Steven Curtis Chapman’s autobiography, and he starts it off by comparing life to riding roller coasters. When he was little, he rode the “Wild Mouse”, one of those baby roller coasters with two “hills” and cars that aren’t even attached to one another. But to him, it was a real life roller coaster, and when he stepped off of it for the first time, he felt like he had conquered something tremendous.

And when he was a little older, his brother convinced him to try the “Screamin’ Eagle”, a much bigger ride with many more twists and turns and hills. And since he had already ridden the Wild Mouse, and he was a “roller coaster kind of guy”, he jumped on. He had enough guts to try scary rides before, why not now?

He reflects on his experiences by saying:

Before my Screamin’ Eagle experience, I thought I had been on a roller coaster, but this was a whole different journey. Yeah, I’d been on a roller coaster – I’d been on the Wild Mouse. Life is like that… I know mine certainly has been. You live through “wild ride” experiences with some tremendous highs, some horrible lows, some hand-raising moments of exultation, and some gut-wrenching twists and turns… the cheers and the tears, like the experiences, are very real and valid. But then things or something happens that takes you far higher and much deeper than you could’ve ever imagined. And you realize that your Wild Mouse journey has suddenly jumped the tracks onto the Screamin’ Eagle.

And you realize your Wild Mouse journey has suddenly jumped the tracks onto the Screamin’ Eagle.

Moving to South Carolina was a lot like jumping the tracks onto the Screamin’ Eagle.

The only reason I did it is because I had ridden the Wild Mouse before. When I went to college, four years ago, I didn’t just go to the community college down the road or the in-state university. I moved 36 hours away from home! I completely started over- new people, new state, new way of life. And I have never, not once, regretted that decision. I was nervous to try, but once I was riding the Wild Mouse I was so thankful that I went for it.

And so when I graduated, and I was staring down the opportunity to ride the Screamin’ Eagle, I thought heck yes. Now that I’ve ridden the Wild Mouse, I couldn’t possibly go back to the antique cars or the merry-go-round! And so what was surely an act of furious curiosity, pent-up energy, and a flaming desire to prove myself, I moved.

And MAN. Let me tell you.

I never could have expected the highs and lows. Never. Technically, this transition shares some similarities to going to college: I moved several states away, I surrounded myself with a brand new batch of people… but in reality, it’s nothing like it.

Starting my freshman year at a Christian college was kind of like going to summer camp that lasted for 9 months. Starting adulthood in a brand new city all by myself is more like having your house picked up by a tornado, and while everything’s spinning and being pinned to the walls and the family dog is being sucked out of the window, you look up and realize that your house if full of guests and they’re there because you threw your sister a surprise birthday party and they’re staring at you because it’s time to serve the cake.

And so you serve the cake, and you go on with life like everything’s fine, and you just can’t quite figure out how everyone seems to be acting so normal when there’s a flippin tornado and the house is spinning through the air.

 

There are a lot of things you learn through a season like this. Lessons about trust, faith, value, identity. Hard work. Sorrow. Joy. How it is completely and entirely possible to be overflowing with gratitude and overwhelmingly sad at the same time.

I sat outside during my lunch break yesterday and I felt brittle, like I could snap in half if a breeze blew hard enough at the just the right angle. And I wondered why, since on the outside my life is robust and adventurous and full of life and people. But I realized that it is because I’m still in that painful in-between, and more than anything I miss my people. That even for all of the incredible things around me, I would trade them all for one hug or conversation or day spent walking around my favorite streets in Ohio.

And I think that’s okay.

One day, the Screamin’ Eagle won’t be quite so menacing or new, and I will wake up and realize that South Carolina is my home and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But today is not that day. It doesn’t have to be that day.

It can be the painful in-between. I give it permission. I’ll just let it be.

Summer Will Come

Summer Will Come

I wandered to a coffee shop during my lunch break today and thought I’d try my hand at poetry, which I rarely do. But something came of it, so I thought I would use it today instead of my stuffy prose.

This morning I spent some time in Psalm 18, and the theme of light has been reverberating through my brain since then.

 

I took my first gulp of air

in an atmosphere I’ve been living in since September.

I’ve been in a hole- dark damp and cold-  when I fell in I hardly remember.

My heart screams to say, since it’s Valentines day, that surely there’s love here for me,

not found in a kiss or a laugh or a gift but fleshed in my lover’s surrender.

Oh how I forget, my wandering heart, as days become months and the air seems to thin,

the sunlight feels foreign and I start to doubt if I really believe in Him.

I think of the childish tune to my soul long before I moved to the south- in my heart, in a car that died years ago, as I pray that the darkness won’t win.

But you are the spring, you are the summer, you are the one who lights my lamp. Like a foreign land in the dead of winter, you win in my heart as the sun goes down.

And summer will come. Summer will come.

I unwrap red paper in a café alone as strangers sip coffee around me.

It feels so strange to be writing here, a part of this big new city.

I’ve heard others speak of a lonely heart, their jargon foreign to, me but now I know, now I remember, I feel like I finally see.

“This too shall pass” he says to my tear stained face. I don’t doubt it’s truth.

But when, God? When, God?

Can I just please see you?

For you are the spring, you are the summer, you are the one who lights my lamp. Like a foreign land in the dead of winter, you win in my heart as the sun goes down.

And summer will come.

Summer will come.

 

Like A Child

Like A Child

“But to all who did receive Him, who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God.”

John 1:12

I’m an adult now, apparently.

I mean, I didn’t intend for it to happen. It just did. I was just walking along, minding my own business, when BAM! time to be an adult. I don’t know – I graduated from college, and then moved to South Carolina, and suddenly I’m supposed to know how to do a billion things I’ve never done before.

And so I act like I have some semblance of understanding, but let’s be real. In reality I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. And in the season of life where I thought I would be all confident and self-assured, kicking down doors and changing lives, I feel a lot more like I’m a little kid afraid of the monster under my bed. I feel like a little baby tadpole in a humongous pond. I feel like my skin is touching air for the first time.

And I realize, I’m a lot like a kid again. Or, more specifically, I never grew out of it, and I don’t think any of us really do. We go to college and then graduate and then do the next thing, but really we’re just kids. We pretend like we have it all together, but inside we’re terrified.

So why pretend? I believe it’s because we think that if we don’t take care of ourselves, no one will.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I was as a little kid. I was blessed with two loving parents, and so even though the world was big and scary, I was at peace. In my mind, as long as daddy was anywhere in proximity to me, I was safe. And so I didn’t spend my time worrying or thinking of “adult things” – I just spent all of my time being a kid. Playing at recess, reading books, laughing, crying, running into my parents’ arms when I was scared.

And knowing Jesus is a lot like being a kid again. The Bible talks a lot about freedom, and lifting heavy burdens, and not worrying. But then us adults look at the world and see everything wrong and think “how is that possible?? how could I not worry? don’t you see this, and that, and that…??” 

For me, following Jesus means I get to handle worry like I did as a kid – with open hands, knowing I can’t do anything about it, and knowing it’s not my job. I’ve spent a lot of time lately taking on jobs that aren’t mine, and it’s a lot like a 5 year old trying to cook dinner, do the dishes, and drive the family car to the beach. I’m overwhelmed and scared stiff because 5 year old’s weren’t meant to do any of that stuff.

One time, someone asked Jesus who the greatest in Heaven was, and Jesus brought a child to Him and said “Truly I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven”. I don’t believe this was said like a threat. Instead, it’s Jesus saying that the entire basis of a relationship with Him is one of Father/Daughter. It’s about trust, and humility, and knowing you need Him.

And you can trust Him. Because He loves you. You can let go of all that worry and fear and cynicism not because there aren’t things to fear or worry about but because you know that your Dad has it all figured out, and that He loves you more than you could every comprehend. It’s His job, and He’s extremely good at it. And that is the only way I find rest in this tumultuous season.

“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.”

Zephaniah 3:17

“And Jesus said, ‘Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me – watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.'”

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

 

 

Never Too Far Gone

Never Too Far Gone

“For as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, so also the Son gives life to whom He will.”

John 5:21

I moved to South Carolina 5 months ago.

My move wasn’t calculated or planned. In fact, it was probably the most impromptu thing I have ever done (which is saying something). I needed somewhere to move after college, I was handed an opportunity, and I just went with it.

There are so many perks to doing something like that. I once told someone my story and they responded with, “Well, if you pick up a cat by it’s tail, you’re gonna learn things you just can’t learn any other way.” And it’s true. I have learned so many things, and experienced so many things, that I just couldn’t experience any other way. My life is a constant surprise, with twists and turns and a story I cannot wait to tell people.

And yet, it’s also a lot like drinking out a fire hose and running a marathon and throwing yourself onto a never-ending merry-go-round all at once. To move states, graduate college, start a new job, join a new church, meet 245 new faces, and do it all at the same time is no joke. Especially when you decided so last minute to undertake it in the first place!

So most mornings I wake up a bit paralyzed. And blind. And lame. And I think – is there redemption? I hardly even remember digging myself into a hole, and yet here I am, and I can’t seem to get on my feet. 

 

John chapter 5 tells us of a man who Jesus met who had been an invalid for 38 years.

That means that for 38 years this man couldn’t walk. And he was an outcast. Every day he lay near a pool with no one to help him in or out. Lonely, lost, no future.

Until he met Jesus.

John recounts Jesus seeing this man, and he says that Jesus knew he had been laying there for a long time. He wasn’t just a social outcast to Jesus – Jesus knew him. He knew his needs, knew his story, knew his name. And so he walked right up to him and asked him one question:

“Do you want to be healed?”

Chances are no one ever talked to this man. In fact, we know that no one ever talked to him because his response to Jesus was, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am under another steps down before me.”

In other words, he had no one. And no way to help himself. And he couldn’t walk or get work – in society’s terms, he was worthless.

And yet Jesus just looks at him, and says the simplest words that changed his life forever:

“Get up, take up your bed, and walk.”

And he did.

 

Sometimes I believe that I am beyond the healing powers of Jesus, that I’m too far gone. Lately, I feel that a lot. I am a vision driven person, and I love to know what I’m doing and where I’m going. I love to walk with confidence and purpose.

But since coming to South Carolina, I feel like I don’t know how to walk. At best, I crawl around all day and back into bed at night. And I begin to worry, thinking: how am I supposed to find my feet again? And even if I do, where am I supposed to go?

But this story doesn’t tell us that we need to find a way to heal ourselves. It doesn’t tell us to try harder or slave-drive ourselves into a “better version” of the person we are. This story tells us that Jesus sees us as we lay on the street, and He knows how long we’ve been laying there, and He walks straight up to us and asks,

“Do you want to be healed?”

Every day, it is my job to give Jesus my paralysis and blindness and lameness. Because I’m no different from those invalids Jesus walked up to that day, and I need Jesus’ healing words just as much as they did.

But out of His love for me, I believe that He walks right up to me every day and offers me new life.

(scripture taken from John chapter 5)