Psalm 44 With a Side of Frustration

Psalm 44 With a Side of Frustration

I read Psalm 44 from my Bible Chair this morning.

When I moved into my 3rd floor apartment last July, I knew that I needed a chair. And not just any chair. I needed the chair, the one that I would sit in for all of my greatest thinking and reading in the year to come. So, naturally, I hit up my local Goodwill Outlet. (In case you didn’t know, Goodwill actually has an outlet where all of the Goodwill rejects go. No joke. It is easily my favorite store. You wheel garbage bins around and buy everything for $1.39 a pound. It’s fabulous.)

During one of my routine visits last summer, I found it. Sitting right there. My Bible Chair. I just knew it. It emanated a sharp odor of cat pee, had upholstery from the 90’s, and was covered in animal hair. It was perfect.

20 dollars later, I was lugging my newfound treasure up three flights of stairs and setting it down in the middle of my empty living room, next to an office chair, which was my only other item of furniture. After a quick visit to Walmart, with odor and stain remover in hand, I spent the better part of the afternoon washing and cutting and vacuuming the thing to death. It was honestly the most fun I had had in a while.

(In case you were wondering, I have also bought two end tables from the Goodwill Outlet for 2 dollars a piece. I’m telling you, it’s a magical place.)

Now, as you know, it’s March. I have spent all year working in elementary school fundraising, which mainly means my life is one big hectic dance party, which some days I love and some days I’d rather stay in bed. As I have precariously balanced my introverted/extroverted self from day to day, coddling myself when I can’t stand to see another person or have another conversation, my chair has become a haven.

My Bible Chair is, of course, the chair in which I read my Bible. Although, honestly, it’s the chair where I eat my dinner, watch my K-dramas, work on my spanish on Duolingo, and call my mom. Or, in other words, it’s the chair in which I recharge. It may be the introvert in me, but sitting there, in my robe, with a cup of coffee on my $2 end table and Bible in my lap, I feel like I can take on the world.

But, as I read and journal and take moments to unwind, sometimes my chair is also the place where I feel the deepest emotions. It’s where I get rid of distractions and I ask myself what’s really going on. And, consequently, it can be the place where I feel the most abandoned by God because I allow myself to ask Him the most important questions and pray the most important prayers. And as I reflect on where He has brought me in these past few years, sometimes I just want to look at Him and be like “Where the heck did you go??”

I thought of this as I read Psalm 44 this morning, because that’s exactly what the psalmist is asking, too. (Maybe he also had a Bible Chair.)

O God, we have heard with our ears,

our fathers have told us,

what deeds you performed in their days,

in the days of old…

He was always told of how God delivered His people and how He went with them.

In God we have boasted continually,

and we will give thanks to your name forever.

He has stood by the name of God. He has even boasted to those in his life about how God is for him and has stood by him.

But you have rejected us and disgraced us

and have not gone out with our armies…

You have made us like sheep for slaughter

and have scattered us among the nations.

Whoa. What a bold statement. God, of course, has not actually sent His people off to be sheep in a slaughter, but the writer obviously feels like He has. And I get that.

Our heart has not turned back,

nor have our steps departed from your way;

you you have broken us in the place of jackals

and covered us with the shadow of death.

As I read this psalm this morning, I cannot help but understand. I get where the psalmist is coming from. Have you ever felt like God has just completely abandoned you? Or that He sent you somewhere only to watch you be devoured?

I definitely felt that way during my first year in South Carolina. When I was 16, I would sing along with everyone else:

“Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders,

let me walk upon the waters wherever you have called me.”

And when I graduated college, it became my moment to go out in faith and trust God with my future. And when I did, life began to grab hold of me like I was the punching bag. (Or, at least, it felt that way.) I was wrecked. I couldn’t stop crying. I was doing a fellowship program through a church, but I had never felt further away from God. I was depressed. I had to get back on my anti-depressant. I was sobbing in coffee shops. And I felt just like the psalmist felt:

But you have rejected us and disgraced us

and have not gone out with our armies.

The psalmist ends with a statement:

Awake! Why are you sleeping, O Lord?

Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever!

It reminds me so much of the story of Jesus calming the sea. There was a tremendous storm and Jesus and His best buds were on a boat. Naturally, the disciples were freaking out, but Jesus was sleeping. He was just taking a nap while the boat was about to capsize. And I love that.

I love that, as I scream at the sky and demand God to do something, He is undeterred. God has not been absent in my trials in life. He has been right beside me. He has simply known that He was going to bring me through them. In fact, I believe that He knew He shouldn’t save me from them because they are all in my life for a reason.

And now I have a million stories and a million lessons that I have been given through my hardest trials. As I sit in my Bible Chair, I cannot help but feel them all circle me in an embrace full of depth and wisdom and adventure, and for that I am thankful.

You Are Loved

You Are Loved

This February, I need to remember how much Jesus loves me.

 

I first realized my need to understand the depth of God’s love for me early on in this endeavor to move to a new state and do a new thing. I moved to South Carolina last September, and it didn’t take long for me to have a really hard time looking myself in the mirror, the level of self-loathing growing exponentially by the day. Because when you do something really hard, you start to realize all of the really bad things about yourself, and you are absolutely drowning in your inadequacies.

And that bar you set for yourself at some point looms over you, and you fall short. every. day.

The world tells you to practice some self love at this point. You know, do a few sit-ups to make yourself feel better or eat a banana or get a manicure or journal some more. And while these aren’t bad things, the question stood unanswered for me. Am I worth loving? All of this effort to make myself feel better… for what? The journey of my next year loomed dauntingly ahead of me, and I wondered if I could ever get that voice out of my head, the one that reminded me over and over that I never measured up.

 

This series is not about practicing self love. It is not about some self-improvement program that will make you feel better about yourself. And it’s not about being the caliber of person that makes someone want to love you, or being the “kind of person the person you want to marry wants to marry”.

This is about unconditional love. This series is a chance to join me as I learn about how much Jesus loves me. Because at the core of it all, I realized that all I really ever want is to know I’m loved not for what I do, but simply for waking up in the morning and being me, whatever that means today.

And honestly? I haven’t been reading my Bible a lot lately. I think there’s a part of me that fears the kind of Jesus that’s in there, like maybe He’s not as great as everyone says He is. But I want to find out.

So this month of love, this February, I’m going to ask the Bible what it says about a loving God who died for me, and I hope you join me. Because I know Jesus loves me, but I so easily forget, and I start to live like I’m not loved at all.

My prayer is that we would all leave this month with settled hearts and clear minds, not because we took more vitamins or plucked our eyebrows to perfection, but because we realize how loved we are by the One who will never let us down.

Honest Thoughts from a Recent College Grad

Honest Thoughts from a Recent College Grad

I’ve been told that as a writer it’s my job to tell the truth.

Which, of course, I rarely do because it’s terrifying. I can only hope I’m not alone in that. Because I can’t write what somebody else finds true. I can’t transcribe thoughts out of somebody else’s mind. And with every word I type I become more naked in front of you because you know that there is only one way for me to draw emotion on a page. It’s because I’ve felt it, because I’ve been there.

I haven’t written a lot this fall and that’s why. If emotions were an animal then mine would be those bulls that they ride for 8 seconds and then get bucked off. Most days I hardly recognize my own name so how could I possibly fashion 900 words into something comprehensible enough to post on the internet? I’m the young adult who, until a few weeks ago, left her spare car key in her car. And who spent an ungodly amount of money on Tropical Smoothie Cafe in the month of October. And who read an entire Captain Underpants book the other day because my brain can’t seem to handle anything heftier.

But alas, here we are. And you’re reading what I’m writing, so I’m going to try to be honest.

I am terrified of being an adult. Like, can’t see straight most of the time kind of terrified. I was just figuring out how to be a child and next thing I know I’m at my old college buddy’s house and we’re discussing budgeting. Budgeting. Also, I have “old college buddies”. Because I’m done with college.

It seems like a cruel joke sometimes. All our lives, we’re in school. And when we finish at one school, we go to another school. 5th grade to 6th grade. 8th to 9th. Then we’re in college. Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, Senior. And then you’re done. And then next thing you know you’re sitting on your friend’s couch talking about budgeting and you have this powerful urge to either curl up into a ball and cry or run into the front yard and do cartwheels and pretend that none of this “growing up” nonsense exists.

And yet, despite all efforts, two days later you find yourself googling budgeting websites because you really do have to buy a car. And save up for rent on the apartment you’re getting soon. And you sit on your couch, wearing a bath robe and drinking a smoothie, typing numbers and pretending like you have any hint of an idea what you’re doing.

 

A month ago I was in one of my best friend’s wedding. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. And it gathered together all of my favorite people at my favorite place, in my old college town.

The entire gig was over by 2:00. Reception and all. The new bride and her husband ran out the door and drove off and the day was still young for us un-married folk. Me and two of my best girl-friends ended up across the street from the church, warming seats in one of our favorite old coffee shops.

We had been there a million times. Doing homework on a Sunday afternoon. Grabbing cinnamon rolls with our hallways. That one time I sang at an open mic night freshman year. Just being anywhere near that coffee shop makes me feel like I’m home and that everything really is going to be ok. And in that moment, I was so glad to be back in Ohio, if only for a weekend.

My friends and I currently occupy three different states, but for an hour or so we simply occupied the same table. Together again. These faces that filled my college years. Every day, for 1,000 days, eating dinner together, walking the sidewalks of campus and filling each other in on what boy we liked that week. Treating each other’s rooms like our own.

Until, of course, we graduated and were sent off to budget.

But for an hour, we were together again. And I wish I could tell you we laughed and reminisced and tucked our good ole’ college days into convenient pockets of memory in the plushiest parts of our brain. I wish I could say we all confidently left that day in pursuit of our new endeavors, excited and ready to tread our new paths and kick down some doors.

But instead, we cried.

“I don’t mean to be dramatic. But honestly, you guys, these have been the hardest 6 months of my life.”

They were the first words to come out of my friend’s mouth as we grabbed our seats. And I felt myself lean into them. Finally, some honesty. I thought, maybe all this time, I was the only one who had no idea how to do this whole post-college thing. That maybe I was the only one who cried for two months when I started off in my big-new-city because I have never tackled something like this before.

That maybe I was the only one who missed my college friends so much it hurts like a cruel joke that should be over right about now.

But I realized that day. I’m not the only one. We didn’t have any answers for each other. We still have absolutely no flippin’ clue what we’re doing. But we’re not the only ones who have no flippin’ clue what we’re doing. And, in a powerful way, that changes things.

 

I’m back in my South Carolina town for the spring. Pretty much everything about that sentence terrifies me. But, I’m realizing, it terrifies me less than it did in the fall. And that’s pretty cool, I’d say.

It’s not a straight line, this stage of life. It’s a roller coaster, a zig-zag, a house of mirrors, a wrestling match. It’s figuring out a million things about yourself. It’s deciding to read your Bible not because somebody told you to but because you realize you don’t actually get along that well without it. Even though you have a billion questions. It’s about asking those questions and then putting them to bed. It’s about looking yourself in the mirror and not being sure what you see, and just letting that be what it is. You’ll know, in time.

At least, that’s my prayer. For myself. Because these days I’m not always so sure.

But for now, college-grad, just know you’re not alone. Whatever you’re feeling, be sure that I’m feeling it too from my basement bedroom in my new South Carolina town. And I guess that’s the most honest thing I can say right now.

 

 

30 Days of Celebration: Honesty

30 Days of Celebration: Honesty

I’m not very good at being honest. Not with others, not with myself, and not with God.

I don’t like to be anything but fine all of the time, and when I’m not I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to voice the way I feel, which is particularly difficult because I’m one of those people who feel a lot of things.

But these days, I can’t afford not to be honest, not with myself and not with God. There’s too much change, and there’s too much transition, and I drown in my thoughts if I don’t put them in the light. And that takes honesty.

And honestly, these past three months have at times felt torturous. I went from one way of life in college and then everything was flipped upside down in an instant. I don’t like time alone, and I get a lot of it. I don’t know what to say to myself and I don’t function well.

Honestly, my head feels like it’s in a cloud most of the time. I don’t know how to be an “adult”, and it freaks me out. My faith is tested these days, and it doesn’t always stand up very straight. I go weeks without really reading my Bible. How do I take the faith I’ve claimed my entire life and actually give it feet?

Honestly, I know God lead me to South Carolina, but most of the time it feels like a mistake. Surely, it shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind, and I shouldn’t be so tired. I should know how to rest better. I shouldn’t be scared all the time. And I shouldn’t blame South Carolina. But, honestly, sometimes I do.

 

But it’s ok. That’s what honesty does, is it puts all of the monsters in the back of my head into the light and I realize they’re not actually all that scary. They only have power over me because I give it to them. I give all of my fears and doubts and worries little dark rooms in the back of my brain and I let them sit there, unattended, spreading poison to everything they touch. But honesty is the antidote, honesty is what flings open the closet door and gets them out into the sizzling sunlight.

And there, my little monsters slowly die. They can’t thrive under such exposure. They lose their power. And I realize that everyone has little monsters, and we would all be so much better off I we just took them out for a change.

 

I had coffee with an old friend last weekend, and after updating her on life in South Carolina, she told me that she was surprised. I had told her of my struggles and fears and she told me that she thought I was doing just fine. She had no idea. And why do we make room for such lies? Why do we tell each other half-truths? What good does that do?

I celebrate a God who lets me be honest. He’s not afraid of it. He encourages it, and it is medicine to my soul. I don’t know what I’m doing, but God does, and somehow today that has to be enough for me.