A broken spirit and a contrite heart.
These, Lord, You will not despise.


Do not despise me, Lord.
Remember me, Lord.

A Second Chance

I thought my world had come to a crashing halt a few days ago.

Things got rocky.  Really rocky.  I didn't see a way out.  It less than fun.

I was thinking back on 10 years ago when I had a horrible breakup about this time of year.  I got so depressed that I stopped going to work for a few weeks.  I would sit at home on my couch, all clinched up.  I was so incapacitated by anxiety and depression that I could barely breathe.  Or eat.  I lost weight (I liked that part!).  But life was grey and dark and I didn't see much of a reason to live it.

This time wasn't like that.  The world got dark for a few days.  But I realized, and my mom pointed out to me, how much stronger I am, now.  Granted, I'm ten years older.  But I'm tougher.  I got up, scrubbed my face and went to work, sans makeup.  I taught my voice lessons.  I went to bed and got up the next day and did the same thing.  Between those things there was a lot of crying.  The were was a lot of steering wheel gripping and whispering "God help me" as I put on my cheery voice and face for the next voice student coming in for a lesson.  But I kept going.  This is a big step for me.  I didn't let emotional turmoil take over my life. 

And in that vein, I'm kind of done with emotional turmoil.

I've thought a lot about it.  Growing up incredibly scarred by such a rough relationship with my dad, emotional turmoil has been my comfort blanket.  It feels safe.  It feels like home.  Crying and not knowing what to do is just that...it's not doing anything.  It's putting energy into not doing.  It's diverting away from facing the real problems of pain, disappointment, hurt, broken friendships, breakups, getting fired, etc.  And putting it into harming myself and those around me with a deluge of tears and anger.  It's not pretty, and I'm not pretty when I do it.  

The cool thing is that I have a choice, now.  I have tools to help me, now.  I have a way out.  

It doesn't have to FEEL like there is a way out for there to BE a way out.

It doesn't have to feel right to be right.

It doesn't have to feel right to be the truth.

If it feels like the end, it isn't always the end.

I don't need to self-destruct because the world will try hard to destroy me anyway.  I don't need to help it.

There is a man who I love, dearly.

And I harden my heart to him when I'm afraid.

I get angry when things don't go the exact way I want them to.

I close myself off to him when he messes up.

I try so hard to protect myself and get defensive when I get hurt.

When all the while, his love, kindness, forgiveness, hugs, and presence are the very things I need.  Emotional turmoil hurts me, but it also hurts him.  I am so angry at myself for reverting to this stupid childhood technique of coping with abuse.  He's not abusing me!  But when I feel hurt, I cover up with things that don't protect me.  Things that hurt both of us more.

For the very first time in my LIFE, today, I felt the healing of Jesus.

I have begged Jesus for years to heal my heart.

To heal my hurt.

To heal my brokenness.

To heal the ways I try to cope that hurt me.

To stop the crying.

To stop me from being hurt by friends and family.

And it never seemed to help.

So this horrible time I've been through the past fews days left me terrified that I was going to lose the very thing that I love.  It made me more scared and angry and just...an emotional hurricane.  And I heard Jesus asking me, once again, to trust Him.  I guess what?  I opened up just a teeny tiny bit and let go of my pride.  Just a bit.  Seriously..not much.  I'm NOT good at this trust thing.  And Jesus reset my heart.  I stopped crying.  I felt calm for the first time in days.  I felt like I got a second chance to love Him.  And to love Christopher.  And to love myself. 

I am NOT patting myself on the back.  At all.  Please don't think I am! 

I really am not good at this stuff and I hope I don't fall into sadness again.  But I want to praise Jesus for helping me in a supernatural way, and I hope He does it some more.  And I hope I'm not too broken to love.  I hope that I can just be calm and happy and mature.  And that God will prevail even though I'm a beginner in being merciful and trusting.  A beginner has gone farther than a skeptic.  

I volunteer to take another step, if Jesus will have me.  

To life

You brimming bucket of catch-all maddness
Youthful exuberance mixed with a smattering of
Useless days, wasted expectations
Old ovaries and too many phone conversations
And starting over.  And over.  And over again.
Like looking in the mirror and seeing laugh lines
Turn to wrinkles, not from frowning
But too many days in the sun, too many
Too many cares and untied ends
Till it drifts again into an unending parade
Of alarm clocks, hitting snooze, feet on the cold floor
Coffee cups, watching the hours tick by
Trips to the bank, waiting for...what?
Acceptance from a shattered childhood
Memories burned into hearts like brand irons
And handkerchiefs full of millennial angst caught forever
Between cotton fibers, like running between raindrops
Raindrops, or were those tears?  Falling cautiously
Back to you, little bucket.  Half-full of life.
Or half empty?

Processing Feelings

To my blogger friends, I have a question.
When I was younger and blogging was a 'thing', I would often, almost daily process my feelings through blogging.  I'd ask open-ended questions and get great feedback through comments, etc.  I really miss that.  I'm not sure if it was mature or not to publish things without having an opinion or having come down on the finer points of discussion.  But it really seemed to help me.  Having a blogging community really helped my life (I'm pointing the finger at you right now, Xanga team, who ran the site into the ground!)  I miss it.

I'm trying to re-establish that here on this blog and it's proved difficult.

So my question is this:
If you are a blogger, do you mostly post things about how your life is going (Here's our trip with our beautiful family to the Arboretum and the magazine-perfect pie I baked afterwards and my 5 angelic children eating it)  ?

Or do you blog about politics?  Or thoughts you have?  Or crafts?  Or comic books?

If you are a blogger, and you read this, PLEASE leave me a comment so I can connect with you.  I need a blogging community!  Even if you aren't on Blogger (all my Wordpressers, I'm there too! )

Thanks!

My Road to the Catholic Faith - Part Two: A Rich Heritage

Some people were brought up going to a Southern Baptist church.

I was raised Southern Baptist.  As in, our entire family was Southern Baptist.  My dear grandfather was was an ordained Southern Baptist pastor and helped found, lead, and was a professor at a Baptist University until he retired at age 90.  He was an awesome, godly, kind, and sincere man who I still revere so highly that I cannot think of a better man that I've known.  I love and miss him every day. He is my hero.  God rest his soul.

My grandfather with Billy Graham. 

My grandfather helped me see the value of faith and a simple life lived according to the teachings of Christ.  He loved hymns, sang often, spoke highly of people, was kind to strangers and showed me that these were good things.  

My uncle and father were also Southern Baptist pastors.  I guess I grew up thinking that this was the norm.  It felt very solid and good to be in a family so connected to church and to church people.  Church was every Sunday and Wednesday night, like clockwork.  Private school taught me a plethora of scriptures and manners and not much room for error.  Church taught me that God was known readily through the Bible, and that singing and praying were very important parts of life.  It wasn't okay to cuss, act up, disobey parents, do drugs, drink, dance (although this was always a curiosity to me).  The highest things we could do were to read the scriptures, know them, pray, and know Jesus intimately through these things.  I loved Jesus so!  He was more than an idea or a thought.  I felt him close to me. 

I had a conversion experience at age 6 or so where I felt the need to do something about my faith, and I "prayed to receive Christ" and was subsequently baptized by my father.  In explaining this to people I always noticed the emphasis was on praying a sinners' prayer, in faith, because that brought about salvation through faith alone.  Baptism was a nice thing and a commandment and a way to join the church, but it wasn't part of that salvation.  I didn't ask questions, I just did what I was told.  I remember at my baptism there were kids dressed up as sheep hiding behind the "backstage" walls of the built in baptistry at the front of the church because it was a children's musical and they performed right after my baptism.  I missed it because I was blow drying my hair.  

Some of the dearest memories I have of the Baptist church were summer camps where we would do devotionals and pray alone (I LOVED this part of camp).  Also, my Sunday classes were so precious to me.  I remember several of my teachers and how they clearly loved Jesus so much to sacrifice that time to teach a bunch of wiggly kids.  

In middle and high school, our church seemed to go off the rails somehow.  We got a new pastor, who had a "vision" for the church and pretty much ran it like a C.E.O. hoping to maximize profits (members).  He changed the business strategy (made the service cool) and basically ran off the traditionalists.  My mom happened to be the pianist at our church and she had an awful time through all this.  We went from organ/piano and hymns to a drumset and electric guitar in a few years.  As a kid I was already alienated.  I was not cool, nor did I want to be.  I wanted tradition and the comfort of what I'd grown up with.  Where did it go?

The turning point for me was in 10th grade.  They canceled my beloved youth choir and turned it into a performing group that included hip hop dancing.  I am not exaggerating when I say this:  that night we danced to Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation to perform for our parents, at church, on a Sunday night.  I turned to my mom afterwards and said "I'm done".

We bounced around for a while, at several Baptists churches.  I attended the Baptist university.  But it was all different.  I felt lost.  I wanted so badly to fit into my family and follow the same path, but it felt so broken.  I tried desperately to read the same books my friends read, to go to Sunday School classes, and to participate in choir.  But it didn't feel like the same church I grew up in.  Baptist churches are all autonomous, and there is no authority to keep things consistent.  I was very angry and broken: angry at my parent's divorce, really broken by my relationship with my dad, and suffering greatly. 

I was burned several times by churches, had a few bad experiences at my university, some bad breakups with boyfriends, etc.  College was tough.  I never stopped going to church, but it felt so laborious at times.  After college I moved to England as a missionary for 6 months.  This opened me up to more churches and a greater call toward traditionalism.  I was first introduced to the Church of England.  It was a profound time in my life.

After moving back began a time of trial.  My beloved Grandfather passed away.  To me, the Baptist world I had loved seemed to stay with him in that cold grave.  Something turned in me.  I also was involved in a situation where a minister made unwanted and inappropriate advances to me, at church.  No one believed me.  It was my word against his.  I stopped going.  

This wasn't the end, for me.  But it felt like it.  I had tried so hard to be a good Baptist.  I dug into the scriptures, but I couldn't find the depth that others seemed to.  I tried to.  I jumped into various programs and podcasts and groups to try to find what they had.  But I never could.  I tried charismatic groups.  I tried Calvinism.  I tried Lutheranism.  I tried Methodism.  I tried Presbyterianism. 

I wanted something more, something sweeter and nearer of Jesus.  Something more intimate.  My heart was longing for Him.

He is so patient.

This time of wandering and dryness seemed to stretch on so that I felt it would never end.  It was connected to my dating life, as well.  I'd start dating a guy and go to church with him, then it would end and I'd have to find a new church.  It's a pretty vicious cycle to be in.   Years, wandering years.  

He was so patient.  He knew where I was.  This wasn't the end; it was just the wilderness. 

I have a great love and respect for Baptists now.  They are people who love the scriptures fiercely.  They take their faith seriously.  They are the missionary-sending church.  They are the church of Jim Elliot, Lottie Moon, and Spurgeon.  They have done much good in the world.  I will always love them, but I have found a deeper way of being with Jesus.  I am forever grateful to the rich heritage which planted that longing deep within me. 

Other posts in this series: 

Part One: Reverence

Still fighting it

It's amazing what depression can do.

I have been depressed off and on, for probably most of my life.  Not in a bad, chronic way that totally disrupts everything.  That's happened a few times and it was awful.

No, this is a low-key, subtle thing.  It creeps slowly, along the ground like a poison.  Almost invisible, it climbs up and gets into things, my thoughts, my energy, my words, and eventually my heart.  It is nasty.  I don't like it.  Yet it's always there like an unwelcomed guest.

What can a Christian do about depression?

We are Christ-followers.  We are His.  I suppose a hundred angels fight for us on so many levels.  They do mighty things against our great enemy who so desperately wants our soul and to steal us away from our Dear Shepherd.  Maybe we can put out a little effort, too.  Depression weakens us.  It makes it harder for us to call out to Jesus.  It lies to us, tells us we are alone.  Tells us we will fail.  Tells us there is nothing we can do.  Makes it seem helpless when we try to do good.

Our number one help is prayer.

We are told over and over in scripture to pray.  To call out to God in our loneliness and weakness.  To ask Him.  This is so hard when we are depressed.  But maybe we should do it.  Maybe we should try.  Maybe He'll come through.  He has to. We are His.

Diet and exercise help me immensely.  If you can force yourself to drink a glass of water and get out and take a walk in the sunshine, do it!  I have never once regretted doing a workout after I was finished.  (During it...yes!)

Scripture is so good and filling.  The Psalms are full of hope.  Here are some of my favorites:

Psalm 84

Psalm 121

Psalm 37

Psalm 139

Psalm 27

But they are all good.  There is hope there.  Try to find it.

Reach out to someone.  Have a friend in mind who brings you the sweetness and comfort of Jesus.  Who reminds you of Jesus.  Who brings Jesus to you.  Don't have anyone?  Pray now for Christian friends.  And BE that person to someone in the future.  We really need each other, guys.  Need someone to talk to?  Please reach out to me.  I am so far from perfect but I can pray and I do care.


I don't fully understand why depression besets me sometimes.  I have everything going for me right now.  I have a great mom, a nice living set up, a couple of great jobs. I have my health and my talent.  I am dating the best man in the entire world, and the future looks so good for us.  But still I am plagued by uncertainty.  That ever-present spiteful guest who is full of snide comments and little things which seek to unravel it all.  Why, Jesus?  Why?

Depression runs in my family.  My mom and grandmother suffered greatly.  I'm not sure about my dad's side, but I know mental illness is usually not an isolated family event.  I come by it naturally. God have mercy on me and make me wholly thine in body and spirit.

One day at a time.

My road to the Catholic Faith - Part One: Reverence

Den saliga. 1901-1909. Gottfrid Kallstenius

Even when I was a rambunctious child, I got high marks in reverence.  

I went to fancy, Reformed Presbyterian private school.  We memorized the Westminster Shorter Catechism.  We memorized scripture.  We wore plaid skirts and knee socks.  We were taught the proper way to spell and use grammar and speak when spoken to, and how to do math and science and how to read in Kindergarten.  We were taught how to behave like ladies and gentlemen.  Our teachers sent our grades home once every six weeks, and that report card had a section where they would mark our character and virtues we were displaying.  I never got praised for my kindness, meekness, or respecting authority.  But I always got a check plus in reverence.  Really interesting for a kid who with authority issues.  I just knew there was something about Jesus and God, something about sitting still in chapel, listening and not talking and something about the space at the front of the church that was special.  Not to be trifled with. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I had to behave a certain way.  

I used to run and play while my mom was at orchestra rehearsals when I was about 10 or 11.  Our old Baptist church had a huge auditorium, where I was baptized.  (I recently revisited there to pick up proof of my baptism, and the auditorium had been transformed into a wedding chapel or something of the like.  The baptistry taken out and theatre lights installed.  Much cooler).  But back then we were very un-cool, and the church was decorated with mid-1970s decor, including these side walls that hid people if they walked along the side to their seats, as to not be distracting.  I used to play back there during orchestra practice.  I would pretend we were in an old Catholic church.  Not that I had ever been in one.  I just knew from movies and pictures (maybe the Sound of Music?) that Catholic churches had special rooms and areas where reverent things happened, hidden things...special things.  Holy things.  Things different than everyday life.  I wanted this, deep inside my little child heart.  I just didn't know what it was. 

I used to make a nest under the Christmas tree, in a space only gotten to by crawling under our grand piano.  I would save my favorite angel statues and set them up.  Sometimes I'd take baby Jesus from the manger and set him with the angels.  I would bring the light strands down from the tree and just stare at them for hours, bathed in soft blue light.  It was magical.  It was reverent. 

I think every child believes in magic, until the world squashes that precious hope.  Every child believes in Santa Claus, that his toys come alive when he isn't watching, and in Narnia.  We just forget how to get there.  We just get too jaded by this terribly harsh world.

Little Amy knew that Narnia and magic and Jesus were in the world, somehow, somewhere...out of reach.  And they were real.  And they were hidden and precious.  And they required reverence.

I had no trouble at church as a little girl.  The hymns echoed and everyone sang.  The families sat together.  They dressed in suits and dresses.  I especially loved my big pink 1980s frilly dresses.  When I was lucky, there would be a bell or two sewn into the petticoat so that I slightly jingled when I swished about, to my delight.  Church was a grand occasion.  But then in the 90s, something changed.  I thought it was just my "youth group".  I had never been allowed to wear jeans to church before.  But everyone did it, and I did it a few times.  The music changed.  The hymns slipped away from us, as did the lovely grey headed senior faithful which had always graced the pews, to my delight.  I have always loved old people, and they seemed to grow sadder and older with each passing year and each song that used drums instead of pipe organ.  By the time my youth choir was replaced with "crew" who danced to Janet Jackson at church on a Sunday Night, I told my mom I was done. 

We left the church where my mom was on staff as pianist.  This was only the first step in a long journey...a long, tear soaked, angry, bewildering journey toward the arms of the Catholic Church.  But my Lord called me years before, as a young one.  He let the echo of Eden not die from my heart.  I didn't know why I felt so out of place in the rock band concert that became my Baptist church.  But he did.  He left me with reverence.  At times a terribly heavy weight, but an undeniable force which even my Presbyterian kindergarten teacher saw in me past my foolish obstinate childhood behavior. 

More in this series:
Part 2- A Rich Heritage