On Yes and No and Life In Between

Welcome back to the season of mild chaos. I’ll be your host, the Queen Bee.

Please, allow me to set the stage for our first scene:

 

It’s Sunday- a day of rest for many, but Game Day for me. The day begins early, the tasks piled high, the people running back and forth, the questions coming at me like I’m in a batting cage, one after another after another.

A quick break meant for backlogged schoolwork is quickly swallowed by a seemingly important conversation, as so many of my precious moments often tend to be swallowed, day after day after day.

Back in the car, off to the next thing, the cares of the day following me, but not overwhelming, for in the midst of this insanity I’m slowly learning to rely, learning to dwell in peace and comfort and joy.

Parked and ready, I walk inside, taking in the new crowd of people, scanning for faces and saying hello, mindlessly working the crowd, my thoughts far from here.

 

I look down at my phone, and the noise around me fades.

 

There, in five small typed out words, is an invitation that beckons:

“Want to come to Epoch?”

 

Epoch is an awards ceremony for the unsung heroes of the front lines of mission work. It’s glamorous and beautiful, a treat for those in the trenches, a respite for those whose lives are not their own, an evening to celebrate and remember, to encourage as they press on.

 

It’s an invitation to a night I would desperately love to attend, and yet, even in that, it remains just another invitation to something outlandishly extraordinary.

 

And I get them all the time.

 

Since being home, I’ve received invitations to countries and conferences, to speak and to listen, to meet and greet and work and live with the movers and shakers of our day. They come by phone or text or email, in words and pictures and conversations over coffee.

 

There is no end to the opportunities, but there is an end to my abilities.

 

This is a season where I have no choice but to say no, and to say no a lot.

 

“No, I can’t come hold African babies.”

“No, I can’t come teach at your orphanage.”

“No, I can’t come sit with you while you process through your life.”

“No, I can’t come be Jesus… because He’s already there with you.”

 

Each no is soul-wrenchingly difficult, and I say them so often that some days I feel like my soul is being scraped, shred by shred, out of my body.

 

Because I want to say yes to holding babies and hugging teenagers. I want to go to the inner cities, to the brothels, to the rehab centers and the jails. I want to paint the frail nails and hold the small hands and look into the eyes of those who seek the One who died to set them free.

I want to celebrate those who are on the front lines.

 

But instead, I said no to these wonderful moments, and continue to say yes to moments right here.

 

I stayed home and I made dinner for my moody adolescent brother, sent him to bed and woke up early the next morning to pack him a lunch and take him to school.

I pulled out my microbiology notes to review, preparation for a day when I walk around with a badge that has the letters “RN” in bold on the front.

I turned worship music on (loudly) and praised the God who enables me to go onto the heights, but sometimes calls me to first wait in the valley.

 

And into all of it I am continuing to learn that this this is life, and it is ok.

It’s ok to turn down the supposed opportunity of a lifetime to wrestle with a baby brother who will one day be a man.

It’s ok to wear a sweatshirt at the stove instead of a ball gown on the dance floor.

It’s ok that I’m in America, working and studying and trying to make disciples, instead of sitting in a hut in Africa surrounded by babies who may one day call me, “Mama.”

 

This is a season.

It’s a season of learning to say no to the good- to the wonderful- and choosing to say yes to the best- even when the best is mundane.

It’s a brief season that I will look back on fondly for the sweet moments and quickly forget the frustrating ones.

It’s a season of lessons and patience and grace for the moment, of preparation and strengthening and power for the journey ahead.

 

It’s hard and it’s fun and it’s long and it’s good.

It too will pass, but for now, here it is.

Come and join the celebration.

 

Sunrises and Celebrations

I think I’m in love with the sound of fingers slipping in between guitar strums.

 

Maybe it’s because it feels a little messy and incredibly real, or maybe it’s because the few times I’ve ever picked up a guitar that was the only sound I could consistently get.

 

But I love it.

 

I love the soft crescendo of a song as it reaches its moment- that second where your soul just wants to explode and you can’t help but send your body out into the space before you, trying to recreate physically what may at best be described as a spiritually thin place, when heaven threatens to rip open the dividing curtain and flow onto the earth.

 

I can’t help but appreciate the beauty of the prodigal sun, who wandered off one day to follow a call no one understood, leaving nothing but rainy, grey skies in her wake. But today she came home, and as the sky lightened this morning she finally burst through the cloud cover, triumphantly exclaiming to any who cautiously ventured into the chilly fall morning,

“Here I am! Come and be refreshed, come taste and see the land that has been covered in shadows, come celebrate in the joy of the morning and the light of a new day!”

Celebrate.

That’s what I love- what I’ve been loving.

 

In the frenetic chaos of this season, it’s so easy to stare out the windows and only see the endless sheets of icy rain, day after day after day.

 

But that’s not what I see today- it’s not what I’ve been seeing.

 

Yes, my alarm clock rings at an obscenely early hour and I turn my lights off at the end of the day way later than I’d like. My phone never stops beeping and I can usually get half a sentence out before I’m interrupted by another thought. I don’t know when my last run was or my next one will be.

 

And into this barrage of demands, the sun is shining and my soul is learning peace.

There is great joy in this season, an infinite number of reasons to celebrate.

 

So I’m turning up the music, the guitar strings slipping just a little and the crescendos building in intensity.

I’m reflecting on all of the blessings the Lord has shamelessly given me: a good measure, pressed down, shaken together and overflowing has been poured onto my lap.

 

The time to mourn is over.

Come, let us dance.

On Stillness and Foundations

Be still and know that I am God,

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth.

The riptide continues.

The emails are long past managing, the studying may never start. The text messages better not be serious, but they are, and they don’t stop beeping.

Be still and know that I am God…

And the waters grow deeper.

“Natalie,” I hear, “this busyness is idolatry. Read these books and do these activities and cut back… on everyone but me.”

With Gospel words baptizing self-improvement techniques, any step off the balanced line feels like a betrayal of heaven.

Be still and know that I am…

And everything falls apart.

Death and despair come rushing in, breaking the dams so carefully crafted to keep the pain away. The alarm gets set earlier so the prayers can go longer, but still, the waters rush in, steadily threatening to drown us all.

Be still and know…

Exhausted and so alone, I walked across campus this morning, the chatterings of excited college students buzzing in my ears. Without thinking, I glance at my phone, and see the news that a friend’s father was shot yesterday. He’s not coming home.

Be still…

I sat down in the back row in shock, tears too deeply buried to cry. The waters rose up all around me as the professor marched up and down, explaining the chemical reactions that sustain life.

Be.

Jesus holds all things together.
Jesus is the sustainer of life.

Be still and know that I am God,

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth.

The world threatens to overwhelm, and death is ever present at my heels.

But my God is good– and those statements are not in opposition.

The Lord Almighty is with us;

The God of Jacob is our fortress.

How awesome is the Lord Most High,

The Great King over all the earth!

On Heartbreak and How to Cope

When I got home from the World Race, my dad printed out all of my blogs and put them in a book, a year’s worth of memories in black and white type buried under newspapers and textbooks and half finished cups of coffee. They sat on the table for over a year until by chance one day my friend Amanda saw the book (with a lovely cover picture of yours truly several days past needing a shower) and took it home to read.

 

This season is getting crazy- day in and day out I feel like I’m caught in a riptide, barely hanging on as the phone calls and emails come barging at me. In the middle of the storm, I’m hurtling towards December, when all of my grades will be posted and I will take the real plunge into nursing school, an activity I have heard is difficult but as of yet I cannot comprehend.

 

As I bounce from class to work to church to Starbucks where my days are filled with text books and text messages and teenage drama, I am mentally preparing my application and I keep coming up short. She has better grades than me; he has more hospital experience. She’s done medical work in Africa; his parents are both doctors. Should I go back to volunteering at the hospital, or maybe get a part time job at one? Do I work in emergency, which is so scary, or in pediatric outpatient which is way easier? Should I study for this exam or work a few extra hours so I don’t have to take out a loan when school starts? What if I don’t get in?

 

All of these questions swirl around in my head and I realize more and more that I am struggling with that age-old demon of comparison… and not just in regard to my nursing application. My roommate has a better wardrobe than me; my sister has a real job. My cousin has a serious boyfriend; my friend is a real missionary in Cambodia. Another friend is graduating with her BSN at 21 and a third will have her PhD before I have my bachelor’s. All around me are opportunities I feel like I’m missing: inner city work, painting nails at the nursing home, intentionally discipling teenagers, training for a marathon, spending more time with God.

 

Meanwhile, here I sit, 24 years old and I’m still a freshman. I’m applying to the nursing program but I haven’t quite worked out how I’m going to get through it, and the demands for my time and attention grow each day with no hope of ever satisfying them.

 

Into this mess came a text from Amanda (who still has the book of blogs):

“I’m reading your blog Watching Children Die and I’m on the verge of tears. I had to stop and go be with people.” (You can click on the link to read it, but be warned: it’s not a rainbows and sunshine experience.)

 

In that moment I saw what was happening: I had walked headfirst into heartbreak, and after months of feeling useless, I had started coping by filling my days and mind with activities- good activities that will ultimately lead me to good places- and in doing so I had quietly packed up the memories of toddlers running full force at me, knocking me over with their booger covered faces and smelly little bodies, into a neat little corner of my mind that, just like the book of blogs, was quickly covered by the trivial things that have been filling up my days.

 

On the way to work this morning I texted my sister, hoping that she would have the answers I seem to have forgotten.

 

“I’m overwhelmed,” I confessed.

“Well then,” Lexie replied, “journal, read Scripture and pray. You can’t force peace into your heart, you can only receive it.”

 

So this morning I’m studying how Jesus did it. He did ministry for 3 years and was slammed with pressing needs the whole time.

“Heal me!”

“Teach me!”

“Touch me!”

“Save me!”

 

And He didn’t do it all.

He didn’t.

Jesus didn’t do it all.

 

Did you catch that because maybe italics and bold weren’t enough?

Jesus, in His three years of ministry, did not heal, teach, touch or save everyone who swarmed His path.

 

Did His heart break when He heard about teenagers whose mom died? Or old ladies who sat in their homes alone every day? Or orphans who went to bed hungry night after night until their tiny little bodies succumbed to the disease that had killed their parents?

Yes.

 

But He was focused on the business His Father had sent Him to do, and instead of fixing every problem in Israel, He climbed a deserted hill to be crucified for the sins of the world. He bore the weight of the wrath of God and as He died, He declared it is finished.

 

There is nothing left now for us to do but look to the Risen Son of God, for whose sake I am now preparing to surrender my days, my schedule, my very life. I can’t save every Swazi baby and I can’t hug every old lady, but as I am continually learning, the world already has a Savior, and praise God, because His work on the cross was sufficient and all that I need to do now is preach the good news.

 

Let’s do this.

Riptide Life

I snuck out of the house this morning.

It was decidedly less dramatic than those sneak outs of my youth, when I would dress all in black and climb out a window, usually to be interrupted by my father who would causally walk in and say, “You know, the front door is open.”

It’s surprising, sometimes, how trapped a person can feel inside her own home.

Or life.

Or very skin.

And in the “just do it” culture where I live, when the going gets tough, the tough get going… to somewhere decidedly less difficult.

That was definitely an appeal to go on the World Race, and it’s no small factor in my deep desire to go to Africa.

So this morning, I snuck out the front door.

The last week got a little bit crazy.

I went from busy to having my feet pulled out from underneath me in a riptide of chaos, dragged and tossed about by a myriad of demands and unmet expectations, sucked under water so deep I didn’t know when I’d next come up for air.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the riptide deposited me on an island of dark circled eyes and 700 unread emails. I was alive, but barely, and with the last of the strength I had left, I came home and collapsed in my bed, to be awoken the following morning by the voice of my grandmother, telling my sister about all of the allegedly horrible things I had done (none of which were accurate).

I slipped on my sneakers, quietly packed my bag with the laptop that follows me everywhere and some books that explain the chemical workings of our bodies’ cells, and left. No words, no kiss on the forehead, no explanation of where I was going or when I was coming back.

The going got tough, and for a moment, I didn’t know if I was any longer worthy to be counted among the brave.

Last night, a dear friend asked a question that I’ve heard many times:

“Natalie, are you trying to do too much?”

Maybe I am.

Maybe this riptide life I’m living is more than any one person can handle. I want to go to school because I want to be a nurse, but if I take out loans then I’m trapped to a job for years when I graduate, and I have Africa tattooed on my heart. I want to hang out with teenage girls because I want them to know about the risen Son of God, and I truly believe that we are called to look out for the generation below us. As in, I am personally responsible for my role in the lives of 5 very specific teenage girls. I want to be able to spend the night at my grandma’s house so she doesn’t get scared, because she’s old, widowed, and starting to lose touch with reality. In the middle of the homework and the jobs and the nights spent in preparation of a Bible study, sometimes I like to, you know, hang out with people my own age.

And just like that, my schedule is overflowing, the waters rising higher, some days, than I think I can handle.

It’s into these moments where I have to remember:

God sustains.

Image: Pinterest.com

I don’t have to worry, I just have to be faithful.

Is that easy when the old ladies rant and the professors scream? Or when the emails pour like a flood from heaven, demanding immediate attention? Is it easy when the phone rings in the middle of the night, a quiet voice on the other end pleading for help?

The God who created the whole world knows it all before it happens, and He is my help and my portion forever.

As the great Gerard Forde said,

“There is nothing you can do now but, as the words of the old hymn have it, “climb Calvary’s mournful mountain” and stand with your helpless arms at your side and tremble before “that miracle of time, God’s own sacrifice complete! It is finished; hear him cry; learn of Jesus Christ to die!””

The very same power that rose Christ from the grave is alive and active and working in me (Romans 8:11). Come riptide or high waters, come scorching sun and desert heat.

My Jesus saves and my God sustains.

I am free, now, to live.

Skinny Shoulder Probs

My latest overused statement is “skinny girl probs.”

As in, chocolate for dinner? #skinnygirlprobs!

 

I’m not admitting to chocolate for dinner, but please don’t ask me about it, either. I’m kind of a bad liar.

 

Anyway, the last few days have been a little stressful, despite the lie that Shauna Niequist published about how if your thighs don’t touch together and you don’t have an underbutt then your whole life is easy, breezy beautiful.

I’m definitely not a covergirl, but my lack of underbutt has still not protected me from the drama of these days.

 

Here’s a quick snapshot:

 

Life with Grandma could be a reality TV show…. Like Survivor. Old women aging is a phenomenon that you can probably only understand if you watch it happen. Yesterday, she blew up at my request to buy a second-hand couch because it was stealing from my husband.

She clearly doesn’t realize that #foreveralone isn’t just a hashtag, it’s my way of life.

 

Grown up life (aka 3 jobs) is about as complicated as it sounds…. And school starts next week. And so does senior high coordinating at the church. Yikes.

 

Thinking about callings and vocations and what it means to be a modern day missionary took an interesting turn this morning when I blurted out, “After nursing school, I’m moving to the refugee camps in Syria.”

So I guess I need to start learning Arabic?

Or look for my missing mind?

 

 

And into all of this comes the steady barrage of requests:

Sponsor a child!

Support a well!

Volunteer in an orphanage!

Buy a shoe / watch / necklace / tee shirt and save a life in the process!

You are commanded to help widows and orphans!

Therefore, God has commanded you to help my cause.

 

Day after day, the burdens get heaped like sacks of mud onto my shoulders: family members who don’t know the Lord, teenagers who are struggling with their faith, orphans whose lives are in danger and old ladies who will cry themselves to sleep again tonight, all alone.

 

Sometimes the weight is so heavy I can’t.even.breathe.

 

But it’s there, crushed and broken on the ground, wanting so desperately to save the world but finding it so hard to make it to my feet, that I am reminded of a deep truth  I so easily forget:

 

The world has a Savior, and I am not Him.

 

I know a little about what’s happening in the world, but God knows it all.

I have a little strength to help a few people, but Jesus’ death can save them all.

I will do what I can to encourage and exhort and admonish and love, but the strength of the Holy Spirit is living and active in the lives of all believers, and I don’t have to do it on my own.

 

So tonight, I can relax my skinny girl shoulders.

 

Sure, sometimes I do an occasional pushup or two (cheating style, of course), so these shoulders can handle more than some, but the weight of every problem, every injustice, every broken heart is not my weight to bear. Those burdens were nailed to a Cross some two thousand years ago, and I can stop killing myself over them.

 

Jesus died and now He lives.

It’s time for me to do the same.

On Birth Control and Gospel Preachin’

Spoiler alert: this is about to get personal.

 

I went to the lady doctor today.

It was a visit I was absolutely dreading, but since I’ve practically moved into the doctor’s offices over the last few months since my accident, they wouldn’t get off my case until I went in for my (overdue) three year checkup.

From the time I stepped foot into the cell room, I was asked at least seventeen times whether or not I was on birth control.

“I am not,” I calmly replied each time, relived to think I had one less thing to remember each day.

“Well,” my concerned doctor followed up, assuming by my age and appearance that at some point I had interacted with a man, “what are you doing for birth control?”

My favorite question- little did she know she had a missionary in the house.

“I’m a virgin,” I began, taking a deep breath to answer the question I knew I was coming next- why??– with my convictions about God’s word and my commitment to it because of the death of His Son and-

Wait.

 

She didn’t ask me why, at 24 years old, I hadn’t yet become sexually active.

Instead, with a slight pink blush, she changed the subject to my height.

Ummm…. what?

 

I’m sure, if you’ve spent anytime in church, you heard the expression, “Preach the Gospel, and if necessary, use words.” This phrase was tossed to us like candy to hungry children, we who were eager to see our worlds transformed by the Gospel but seemed to unwilling to open our mouths to herald its news.

“Live a good life,” we were told, “and naturally the unbelieving world will be curious, ask you questions, and get saved.”

I bought into it hook, line, and sinker.

I have many an unsaved friend who sees my life- not perfect, but not bad by comparison- but to whom I haven’t shared the hope that I have because I’m waiting to do it on her terms.

Pardon me if this is offensive, but whoever came up with that statement may possibly have been working for Satan.

Because, come on.

How can you preach the message of Christ crucified and resurrected without words?

Wait, I’ll take it one step further:

How can you claim the all-sufficiency of the Cross if you’re expecting your life to be the focal point for your friend’s salvation?

Let me explain:

If you expect people to come to Christ because of your perfect life, you are in error in two places. First, because we don’t save people, that’s the Holy Spirit’s job. Secondly, because our lives are in progress, not by any means perfected (check out Romans 7 if you don’t believe me, but make sure to follow up with Romans 8).

Don’t you see? It is impossible for our lives alone to lead people to Christ. Should we strive for holiness? Absolutely. But when we mess up (and, hello, I mess up daily), then praise God that it is not my deeds that are judged by God or that draw others to Christ.

It’s the sweet message that pours out of my mouth, declaring that Jesus, the perfect Son of God, was crucified for our sins, that He rose again on the third day in accordance with the Scripture, and that He is seated at the right hand of the throne of God where He waits to judge the living and the dead.

Being a 24-year-old virgin doesn’t send that message, no matter how nice I am.

Open your eyes: the harvest is ripe before you.

Let’s preach some Gospel news.

Source: http://www.depravedwretch.com/

Toddlers and Trail Running

If there are two things I love, they would be babies and long runs. And maybe a night with nothing to do but hang out with lifelong friends, but let’s try to focus here.

 

So this evening, when the sun had abdicated its furnace-throne, my dad and I headed to the lake to log some miles. Since we have different paces, we went opposite directions with the plan to meet back at the car when we’d finished.

And like that, we were off on our separate ways.

By a mile in, I was frustrated. My pace was too slow, but I didn’t have the stamina to go much faster, trying to cushion the blow to my knee with every step. While I was doing my best not to mentally beat myself up over an injury I couldn’t control, I started pushing just a little bit farther, just a little bit faster, just waiting for the Nike lady to congratulate me on a pace I would accept.

 

But another mile came and went, and my pace didn’t improve.

 

The trail wasn’t packed, but it was populated, and eventually I rounded a corner and passed a family: mom, dad, toddler. Baby was racing Daddy, his tiny little legs threatening to trip him at any moment, but he was going faster than his dad’s casual walk. As I ran past, I leaned down (he came up to maybe my knee) and said the words every little boy loves to hear:

 “Race ya.”

He gunned it. I’ve never seen a kid that small go that fast- and we were on a trail with roots and turns and bikers. Amused, I slowed down a little to match his pace, but immediately we were light years ahead of mom and dad, so I turned to my new knee-high racing buddy and said, “let’s race back to your mom and dad!”

It took a little coaxing, but eventually he conceded, and when his parents finally caught up to their jet powered two year old, I handed him off and got back to my task, cringing when I found out that my average pace had slowed by 10 seconds.

 

On a 5 mile run, a 10 second average pace increase is a lot. I’m not going to do the math, but I wasn’t happy.

Immediately, I started thinking about spiritual analogies. Hebrews 12 popped into my mind first, talking about throwing off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. I wasn’t stripping down to the bare essentials and running with single-minded determination towards my goal- far from it, I had even turned around and run backwards.

But then I had a flashback to another time a little boy interrupted me. I was in India, and there was a little boy who was lost and crying. I stepped away from my team, which was collectively praying over an important event. At the time, I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do. (Intrigued? Read the full story here.)

 

 

Running with the little boy did slow down my pace. But one day, I’m going to have an orphanage full of little boys. Then pace won’t be my preoccupation, getting them to bed on time will be.

This life I’m choosing to live is no museum. From my car to my body, I am marked with imperfections. You can usually find my carrying around a Bible and a water bottle, trailing empty salad containers and marked-up research papers, covering up scars and evidence of skipped workouts. My life is full, but I wouldn’t have it any other way- I wouldn’t trade the chaos for a pristine calm that is devoid of breakfasts with teenage girls who are sorting out their lives, afternoons with college freshmen who think they’ve figured out theirs, and late nights with adults who are realizing the life they thought they wanted is a hoax.

Somewhere, woven into this fabric of these days, is my dream of orphan care. And, slowly but surely, I’m making progress towards that goal.

 

So here’s my challenge to you:

Run with the babies, and sit still long enough to listen to the stories from the old ladies. Ride your bike fast and with passion, even if you get a little bumped up along the way. Love wildly and recklessly, even if it means you have to give more than you get. Preach the Gospel, remembering that it will be necessary to use words.

 

This is life, and no one’s going to make it out alive, anyway.

I’ll see you at the finish line- I won’t be the fastest, but it’s sure going to be an exciting race.

Rewriting the Psalms

Early last spring, I was trying to shake up my devotional life, so I started rewriting the Psalms. I would take phrases I had read and memorized- or words I was certain I had never seen- and give them new life by making them my own.

Some turned out better than others, but every psalm I rewrote was a prayer kickstarter.

It’s halfway through July, and I’ve decided to start again. I found this one and I’m posting it here- if anyone wants to join me on this journey, I’d love the company.

 

Psalm 33 Redux

Sing with joy to the Lord
     all you who have been redeemed-
     how good it feels to praise our God!
Praise Him with strong chords and loud drumbeats-
     drown out everything else!
Sing a new song from the depth of your soul
     (make it good and shout it loudly).

For God’s words are RIGHT and TRUE-
     He oozes faithfulness for the world to see.
The Lord loves righteousness and justice-
     He fills the earth with His unfailing love!

God spoke and the heavens were formed,
     He breathes the stars into place.
He gathers up the waters of the great seas and
     pours them into mason jars-
          neat, contained, pretty.
The deep- the unfathomable- comes up to the surface
     at His passing thought.

Let all people fall to their faces before the Lord-
     this God who summons the winds and the waves
          to do His bidding,
     who calls us out upon the water
          and safely sees us to His side.

Let all nations fear the Lord  
     and praise His holy name.

He speaks and life appears.
     He commands the heavens to attention.
The Lord foils our selfish plans
     and thwarts our chasing after the wind.
He will see His plans through-
     the purposes of his heart will be fulfilled
          in each generation.

Blessed is the nation who worships God as Lord-
     those chosen for His inheritance,
          by name,
     before their births-
     the Jews and those grafted in under the
          New Covenant with Christ.

God watches over the affairs of the earth-
     He sees the heart of every man.
From on high He cares for each of us on this earth-
     He made me and loves me 
          and provided and way for my salvation
          when my sins had literally brought me to my grave.
No king is saved by his army,
     no warrior saved by his strength.
No girl is rewarded for her sharp mind-
     left on my own, I am nothing.

But I lift my eyes to the God who saves-
     I will hope in His unfailing love.
My heart rejoices at the sound of His name-
     be my vision and my delight all the days of my life,
          O mighty God and righteous King.
                              Amen!

On Gluttony

I’ve been curled tightly in a ball for the last hour, my arms pressed tightly to my body, my lips superglued shut, my eyes darting frantically around the room as I search for an answer.

My dad and I took Grandma out for dinner, and I feel ready to throw up all over the living room… but it was a salad- just the way I like it. No cheese. No bacon. No dressing.

Why do I feel like this?

 

July is racing towards August, and I still think it’s June. It’s been a rough few weeks juggling 6 hours of school a day with a requested 8 additional hours of work (yeah right), daily time with Grandma and marathon training with Lexie (Baltimore, October 2013- come cheer). I welcomed home a world traveller, comforted a handful of shattered dreamers, sustained an injury, and next week I find out if I need facial reconstructive surgery.

 

And in the middle of all of the chaos, something fundamentally shifted without me even realizing it.

 

Overwhelmed with details and stories and homework and traffic, I started self medicating. Not the normal way, with painkillers or happy hours- mine was a prescription of excess.

I started inhaling everything around me, from food to friends to facebook. If it could momentarily make me forget what was happening, I dove right in.

 

I would wake up in the morning too tired to think and scroll a newsfeed instead of reading my Bible. I would come home after class and eat whatever I could find instead of settling down in a quiet place to get work done. I would text and snapchat and facetime and call when I needed a break instead of going to bed early, reading a good book, or filling up my journal.

Who wants one drink when you can have five?

 

One night I was near tears with how empty my life felt, and my sweet little 13-year-old brother left the table and came back with ice cream.

“You’re going to be such a ladies’ man, Nick,” 18-year-old Jordan laughed as he wandered out of the room before he was able to watch me drown my woes in the bucket of love provided by my only two boyfriends, Ben and Jerry.

Yes, ladies, he’s single. And very underage.

 

From that point on, I seemed to have ice cream at every meal- it was as if a secret message had gone out and the world felt personally responsible to bring me my favorite food.

Or it’s been a steady hundred degrees every day.

Whatever.

 

And as I’ve stuffed my face and abused my phone and scrolled and scrolled and scrolled, I’ve felt empty and shallow and gross, wallowing in my own depravity just a little more each day, watching the numbers on the scale tiptoe up and up and up…

Until tonight, when my body said, “enough is enough.”

 

My mom told me a story about a woman to whom the Lord said, “Stop watching TV.” After a few weeks of questioning the verdict, she did stop.

For two and a half years.

The second I heard that story, I felt convicted, so today I deleted all the social media apps off my phone. I changed my twitter password and I deactivated my facebook.

 

Starting right now I’m going on as-strict-as-possible no sugar / no dairy cleanse.

 

And tomorrow morning, you can find me at the coffee shop down the road with my Bible and my journal and not my phone.

 

 

Gluttony doesn’t satisfy. It doesn’t even pretend to satisfy, because while you’re eating / doing / seeing whatever your drug of choice is, you feel shameful and disgusted.

 

Maybe that’s why the Bible commands us to be self controlled and alert, to discipline our bodies and prepare for Christ’s return.

The days are evil, and if we all spend our days fat and happy in front of a screen, when the war starts we’re going to be liabilities and not warriors.

 

 

Do you ever struggle with discipline?

What are some tricks you’ve learned on the way?