When We Sit Alone with Our Thoughts

Do you ever feel inadequate, incompetent, useless, unfit, like you just make things worse - like, do you ever have times when you feel so much this way that, even with the things you know you're good at (because everybody has something they're good at), suddenly, you feel like you aren't even good at those things anymore (or maybe that you never really were)? I had one of those moments (or more like, one of those evenings) last night. I got one thing wrong (and it was no small thing, but still), and suddenly, I was ready to throw in the towel on everything - to just go hide away somewhere and not try anymore, because "I just make everything worse."

That's not my "normal," anymore, but it used to be. And still, even now at 30, every so often, something happens like yesterday evening; and I hear that cunning, damned familiar voice - the one I've heard so many times before - that same voice that cozied-up to Eve that fateful day in the Garden, so long ago. It's not lying to me. (I sort of wish it were. I think that would be easier.) No, it's telling me the truth. It's pointing out a very real deficiency in my life in a single area; and then, I run with the deceptive narrative it spins for me based off of that truth: "You're not enough. You can't do anything right. You just make everything worse. People are better off without you."

Here's the things - and I think this is why it's so difficult for us (me) to recognize when we're being duped by the enemy: he rarely (if ever) just flat-out lies to us; he deceives us. And there is a significant difference between these two behaviors. Lying is giving a false narrative. Deceiving is taking a truth and twisting it in such a way that what's ultimately believed is untrue. Deception is, in my opinion, so much worse, because it's harder to recognize. Because it requires some untangling - some separating - some distinguishing between truths and lies, between what to accept and what to reject. And if we're tired (like I was, yesterday evening), it's easier to simply take whatever's dished up for us and consume the whole of it, bones and all, even if swallowing the bones might kill us.

We have a real enemy, and have had one ever since the beginning of our time on earth. He seeks to "steal and kill and destroy" (John 10:10); and perhaps the most effective way he is able to do this is by deceiving us. Because unless we are "tak[ing] captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ" (2 Corinthians 10:5) through the power of the Holy Spirit and the revelation of truth by God's Word, then we are a captive audience to the enemy's deceptions.

My untangled truth from last night's deception is this:

• I'm not enough, in and of myself; but I am enough in Christ, because His strength is made perfect in my weaknesses (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).
• Also, I can do some things right. Not everything... but some things.
• And yes, I may make some things worse, sometimes; but even those things, God can turn around and use for good (Genesis 50:20; Romans 8:28).
• God created me "on purpose, for a purpose" (Megan Fate Marshman); and that purpose involves the messiness of imperfectly living among and loving (and being loved by) other people (Ephesians 2:10; Philippians 1:21-26; Hebrews 10:24-25; Galatians 6:10; 1 Corinthians 16:14; Romans 13:8; 1 Thessalonians 5:11).

It took less than a minute for a single truth, spun into a tangled web of deceit, to completely unravel me last night. Less than a minute. But it took hours of sitting (or lying down, if I'm being completely transparent) in that deception, defeated, before I repositioned myself to hear and receive and believe the real truth - God's truth - again. And I think part of the reason I got stuck in that state for as long as I did was because I kept all of those thoughts to myself. I was so ashamed of my perceived failure that I tried to hide it away. (Reminiscent of the Garden, again, isn't it?) I tried to hide all evidences of it, including the poisonous thoughts that the enemy had whispered in the wake of my shortcoming: "You're not enough. You can't do anything right. You just make everything worse. People are better off without you." I literally laid on the couch beside my husband (who was reading, but who I know would have gladly laid his tablet down to talk with me, if I had just let him into the conversation that was already taking place in my mind); and I chose to "sleep it off" rather than telling him what I was thinking. Haven't we all been there before?

I spent some time late last night reading from my Bible and praying, and I am grateful that God did the work of untangling for me, despite my stubbornness and even my willfulness to stay in that state of entanglement. But I honestly believe I could've gotten out of that state sooner, if I'd just been willing to talk about it with the person God had provided so perfectly and so faithfully for me in that moment.

I think God gave us each other for that very reason - to speak truth over lies and deceptions - to help us see the full picture, when all we can see is whatever small detail we've fixated on and whatever conclusions we were able to draw off of that one detail alone. We so easily fixate on the wrong things and jump to the wrong conclusions - especially, when our eyes are not fixed firmly on Christ (Hebrews 12:1-2). Perhaps this is the enemy's greatest deception of all: to convince us that we're better off (or even capable of) working through our issues all on our own. Oh, what a cruel deception that is! Friend, we weren't ever meant to do this alone (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12; James 5:16; Galatians 6:2; 2 Peter 1:3-13). 

"What are you thinking about right now?" That's a question I ask my friends often, though it's one I hate to be asked myself. I don't always like sharing what I'm thinking, because sharing what I'm thinking invites someone else into the dialogue that's taking place inside my mind; and I don't know about you, but my mind can be a frightening, messed up, and even mortifying place at times. And by sharing my thoughts honestly, I'm giving that person permission to become a spectator of the most private conversations that I will ever take part in; and (if that person so chooses), to also become a contributor and a redactor of that most intimate narrative. For that reason, I won't answer that question for everyone; but I will answer it for a trusted few, because I know that those friends will listen without judgment, and that when the situation calls for it, they will speak truth and life-giving words into whatever fallacious, life-sucking narrative I'm believing. Those friends are gifts from God to be treasured. Life-savers.

So, what are you thinking about right now? If your thoughts are not bringing you life, then here's my challenge to you: share your thoughts with a trusted friend or mentor, and invite them to contribute to your internal dialogue. Don't try to sort it all out on your own - you and I are not as good at it as our enemy would like us to believe.

When You Can't Unpack All the Hurt at Once

Fall is my favorite season. I love everything about fall - the colors, the tastes, the smells, the holidays, the decor, the weather, the clothing, the activities, the memories, the associations - everything!

I get giddy around the end of August in anticipation of fall. I turn into that person - the one who finds an excuse to bring it up in every conversation that lasts more than twenty minutes.  

"I can't wait till fall, because..." 

"This fall, I'm going to..." 

"What's your favorite season? Because mine's fall!" (I'm always a little surprised when someone answers with something like 'spring' or 'summer,' or anything other than 'fall,' really.)  

"What's your favorite fall activity?" (I just assume everybody has one, but I recently learned, not everyone does.) 

"Did you know there are only X-more days until the first day of fall?" 

I can get pretty annoying about it.

Fall finally arrived 19 days ago, and the fall-scented candles have been lit.

Over the weekend, I found a few burnt-orange leaves that had drifted onto our back deck, and I squealed with excitement at the "first fallen leaves of the season."

Pumpkin muffins and homemade chili have both been made and consumed, and I've caught myself running the AC a little harder in our home so that we can pretend the weather is cooler than it is, making up for the fact that Florida, as usual, is running a little behind schedule.

We're 19 days into this fall season, and about one week in, I realized something was not quite right. That the only fall decoration to have been brought out of storage and put in his place was my friend "Edgar" the skull. (Edgar has turned into a bit of an inside joke in our home - both a nod to one of my favorite authors and to my darker sense of humor. He makes me laugh, and my husband roll his eyes. Edgar's really not a fall decoration at all; it's just easier to explain his presence in October than year-round, so he only comes out once a year.) And the only reason Edgar had been brought out of storage this fall was because he'd been stored in our bedroom closet - easy access - whereas all the other fall decorations are hidden away in one of the oversized storage bins in the garage...

In one of several identical, unlabeled storage bins, each containing something different - one of which is filled with memories. Old photographs and letters, small gifts, and other memorabilia that would hold no value to anyone but me (and, perhaps, the persons associated with them).

I used to love to go through that box and reminisce; but I haven't been able to look inside that bin since it happened - since the day, two Octobers ago, when one of my closest friends told me, out of the blue, that she didn't want to be friends anymore. Friendship is a funny thing, in that it takes two people to begin one, but only one person to decide when a friendship is over. It was her choice, and though I tried desperately, I could do nothing to change her mind.

It's been a hard couple of years, learning how to move past the unexpected (and largely unexplained) loss of a close friend. It's almost as if she died; and yet, she's still living - she just doesn't want anything to do with me anymore. That's somehow so much worse.

I have so many memories with that one friend. Years and years of memories. And I've kept so many reminders of her, saved throughout those years of friendship, stored away inside that one unlabeled, oversized bin. Reminders that I'm, now, afraid to stumble across...

Because I've finally gotten to a place, after over a year of mourning the loss of my friend, where I'm not sad or angry or frustrated every time I think about her. I've accepted the loss and moved into a season of healing; and I've finally gotten back to a place where I'm not cynical of others who try to befriend me, or scared to befriend someone new, myself, on the off-chance that they might do the same thing she did. I've started trusting people again. I've gotten back to actually loving people (myself included), and letting them love me as well. And I've finally gotten to a place where the hurt, though still there, is no longer overwhelming...

And I think that's what I'm so afraid of. I'm afraid that, if I find that box full of reminders - all the letters, the pictures, the trinkets - then all the hurt will come flooding back in tidal-wave-fashion along with those memories, and I'm not ready to face it all again just yet.

This is not a matter of unforgiveness. Honestly, I wish it was, because that would be so much simpler. But you see, forgiving someone for the hurt they caused you doesn't take away your hurt; rather, it acknowledges the hurt fully while releasing them from retribution for it. And so, I'm not bitter toward my friend, but the wound she left is still healing; and some days, small things rip the wound back open or pour salt into it, and I'm reminded that I'm not healed - I'm healing.  There's a difference.

But that's how healing happens, isn't it? It's done in layers, in parts, over time. We're complex people - physical, spiritual, intellectual, and emotional, all wrapped into one being - with complex hurts; and so the healing process is complex, too. And complex things take time.

After the tragic and unexpected loss of his friend and bandmate Chester Bennington, Mike Shinoda penned the following lyrics:

"Sometimes, sometimes you don’t say goodbye once,
You say goodbye over and over and over again,
Over and over and over again."

My heart resonates with these words. I have had to say goodbye to my friend so many times over the past two years, and I'm sure I will say it again soon. Maybe even later this week. Certainly after I find and open that storage bin full of memories, eventually...

But not today. Because, this is what I'm learning: In the process of healing, sometimes, it's okay to say, "I'm not ready for that yet," whatever that may be. My wound is feeling a little raw, right now, and so, it's okay for me to know that opening that bin right now will rip the scab right off. It's okay to wait a little while, because one day, that scab will be a scar; and scars don't bleed so easily.

So, if you come by our home this fall, please excuse the lack of festive decor. And don't you believe for a second that I've grown to love this season any less! I just need a little more time to heal before opening those bins again.


"For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace." - Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (ASV)

Doubts, Fears, Insecurities... and Me

After expressing some of her own faith-doubts a while back, a friend of mine asked the question, “Is there anything you have a hard time believing?”

Without hesitation, I proceeded to list about a dozen doubts that I struggle with, relative to God or my faith, on a regular basis. A dozen faith-doubts, right off the top of my head.

“You seem like such a rock,” she’d replied in a tone of surprise. “You have a strong grasp of scripture and knowledge of God. I would not have guessed that you have doubts like that.”

Her response floored me. Me? A rock? I am the furthest thing from a rock.  

We all have doubts and fears and insecurities, regardless of how grounded we are in our faith. It doesn’t matter if others can see them or not; they’re still there, in all of us. In him. In her. In you. In me. 

I tend to assume others can see mine (or at least see that they're there), because they are so blaringly obvious to me, and because I am (or at least try to be) fairly transparent with others about my struggles. But that conversation caused me to realize that may not be the case. Apparently, it is possible to see me – even to know me fairly well – and to assume that I am so grounded in my walk with Christ, or perhaps because I am a pastor's wife, that I never doubt Him or His will or His way or where I fit into all of those things. That is a lie. A from-the-pit-of-hell lie. I have lots of doubts, I am often afraid, and I can be so very insecure at times… just like you. 

And the notion that someone might think that I have a doubt-free, fear-free, insecurities-free faith bothers me, because that’s simply not my reality. It's not anyone’s reality, if we're brave enough to admit it – at least not all the time. 

So rather than assuming you know I struggle at times with doubts and fears and insecurities, I'm going to make a conscious effort to share some of them with you as they come up… share them, and then resolve them (because they are meant to be had and dealt with, not just had and kept).

My beast of an insecurity a few days ago was believing this lie: “There is no place for you (or someone like you) in this world.” 

The source of the lie? Well, it stemmed from good, well-intended, necessary words spoken to me by a friend; but its roots went far deeper. These words were initially heard by me as they were intended, and then read further into by me in the quiet spaces of my mind later that same evening. Those internally-elaborated-on words were then coupled with other words – unnecessary, untrue, wounding words that had been spoken to me years earlier by someone else. And though both sets of words had been spoken regarding two entirely unrelated matters, by the time my eyes, heavy with much day, had begun to fall shut in the darkness of night, those words had all meshed together, forming one cohesive, fallacious narrative in my mind. 

Mornings are a peaceful time of deep thought and reminiscing, for me. A time of welcome revelations and much needed resolutions. Mornings are usually my favorite time of day. That next morning, however, the sun’s rising was marked with deep unrest and met with a strong cup of coffee… and whispers from the enemy – the cruelest of all, the one who comes to steal and kill and destroy (John 10:10). The loudest whispers heard fully in the silence of morning. Reminding. Berating. Accusing. Shaming.

And so it came, the lie, spoken to the most-wounded part of my being in that moment: “There is no place for you (or someone like you) in this world.” And for a moment, I wondered if that were true. I wondered if the world would be better off without me. I wondered if I was simply too much or too different or too broken or too misunderstood for this life. I wondered…

I wondered, and I felt it – all of the wondering; and then, remembering the truth, I rejected the lie.

I remembered that being misunderstood or different or broken, or even being much – being "too much" – was not a crime. 

I remembered that God created my inmost being and knit me together in my mother's womb (Psalm 139:13). I remembered that I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). 

I remembered that I am His handiwork, created to fulfill good purposes which were preordained for me - specifically for me, in all of my too different, too broken, too misunderstood, and too muchness – to fulfill (Ephesians 2:10). 

I remembered who my Heavenly Father is; and I remembered who I am, in Him.

And by remembering these things, I could silence the enemy and declare this truth: that there is, in fact, a place for me (and others like me) in this world. I am who I was meant to be, and I am becoming exactly who I am meant to become; and God's handiwork is always good (Genesis 1). 

So you can see, I have my share of doubts, fears, and insecurities with the best of you. But doubts, fears, and insecurities are meant to be had and dealt with, not just had and kept. And how are they dealt with? By taking them to Jesus and allowing His truths to wash over us.  

The unmerited declaration of my friend still plays over in my mind. “You seem like such a rock...” No. I am no rock; but He is, and so I stand on Him.

"He only is my rock and my salvation, My stronghold; I shall not be greatly shaken." - Psalm 62:2 (NASB)

"Therefore thus says the Lord GOD, 'Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a tested stone, A costly cornerstone for the foundation, firmly placed. He who believes in it will not be disturbed.'" - Isaiah 28:16 (NASB)