I’ve debated for days whether or not I should write this. It may never be seen beyond the glow of my computer screen, but I think I need to say it. Perhaps for myself more than anyone else. These past few weeks have been hard.
I’ve felt lost.
I’ve felt dejected.
I’ve felt tired. Continue reading “You belong here.”
Dear Mamas,
I am not one of you, not at this point in my life, but I know you well. I’ve been watching and listening and while rarely do I feel it’s my space to jump in and speak on the subject, I have something important to say;
You’re doing a really good job.
You are tired. You got angry this morning. You fed your kid partially hydrogenated soybean oil. You wonder if Paw Patrol or Daniel the Tiger are nannying your little ones. Your toddler learned a bad word from you when you banged your head trying to buckle that mother f@*%#!!! car seat again. You’ve considered going rogue, moving to the Bahamas, starting over because this life just feels like too much handle.
That’s okay. You get to feel those things. You’re doing something very hard. Continue reading “Dear Mamas.”
My sweet friend,
You are brave, but life is hard.
I get that.
Somedays the walls that keep you safe will feel like prisons.
There will be days when the rain that cleanses your soul will threaten to drown you.
And yet others when the darkness that once brought distress, feels more like a cozy blanket, protecting you from the world you fear will devour you.
The heart is weird like that, full of dichotomies that menace even the most centered of souls.
But what if you’re not one of those? What if you always feel a little left of centered? What if you wonder when the scales will give way and tip altogether?
It’s a scary place, this world is, when you’ve spent years seeking answers that only seem to foster more questions, more fear.
It’s ok.
Keep asking questions. Continue reading “Crawl if you need to.”
Last week I woke up, rolled out of bed and posted the picture and caption above onto Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. To be honest, I didn’t think too much about it. (Which may be a glimpse into some of my poorer social media choices?) The sheer number of responses I received floored me.
“Thank you for sharing this, nobody in my family knows I take medication for depression.”
“I have been feeling suicidal lately, this encouraged me to tell my mom and get help.”
“My pastor told me if I just had a little more faith I wouldn’t struggle so much – but you have faith, don’t you?”
“Thank you for reminding me that I can fight to heal the broken, even if I feel broken sometimes.”
WARNING: This post has not been edited by anyone other than myself, it’s my stream of consciousness straight from the worn out pages of my journal and therefore there are surely improper comma usages and such, as is my default. I’ll tell you what, I could not live without a proper editor, but YOLO, am I right?!
…
I’ve done a lot of thinking today, wondering what Holy Saturday was like in the life of Jesus’ followers. I scoured the gospels and to my dismay, found nothing to be said of the in-between time that is this 24 hour period before Easter. I mean, I can’t help but think that surely if I were one of Jesus’ roadies that of all days this would be the one in which I’d be pounding out my thoughts into my journal. Maybe, like I often do, they felt like these words were too intimate, too fractured to be shared with the world. But come on guys, couldn’t you have given us something?
I am someone who firmly believes I hear God speak to me – sometimes it’s loud, ringing in my ears, while other times a soft whisper into my gut. It seems that every time I hear Him I am confident in that moment, certain it was Him – only to question my own sanity days, hours, sometimes minutes later. The following weeks or more often, months, I wait vacillating between extreme hope/excitement for what’s to come and utter confusion/frustration, as I question my faith and mental state.
Was that this what Saturday looked like for them? How did it feel for the people who’d walked right next to Jesus and yet still often doubted him in uncertainty?
I want to freaking know.
Keep showing up to your life, I whisper in a borderline prayer, coaxing myself from the safe haven of my sheets.
There are mornings I don’t want to get out of bed. There are mornings when my anxiety feels like it will overtake me, mornings when it feels like hope is a lie and peace is a dreamy fairy tale only for the lucky few. There are mornings when it seems there’s no end in sight for the knots that threaten to twist my insides so tightly I am unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to whisper words of surrender to the God I long to believe hears me when I cry out to him.
As soon as the meal was finished, he insisted that the disciples get in the boat and go on ahead to the other side while he dismissed the people. With the crowd dispersed, he climbed the mountain so he could be by himself and pray. He stayed there alone, late into the night.
Meanwhile, the boat was far out to sea when the wind came up against them and they were battered by the waves. At about four o’clock in the morning, Jesus came toward them walking on the water. They were scared out of their wits. “A ghost!” they said, crying out in terror.
But Jesus was quick to comfort them. “Courage, it’s me. Don’t be afraid.” (The Message, Matthew 14:22-27)
Where are you, God? I cry aloud through tears. Why won’t you just heal me? Why won’t you fix this? Are you mad at me? I’m sorry. Are you listening? Hello? Do whatever you want with my life, use me…or don’t. I don’t care anymore, I just need you. I just need your peace. I can’t live like this for another day. Continue reading “Keep Showing Up to Your Life.”
Rachel Karman 