It has been so incredibly dreary here since the beginning of January. I learned a long time ago that sadness often flourishes when the sun has yet to show it’s face. Staying in bed for a little longer than intended comes much easier when the sound of rain is pelting your window. Along with all of these comforts of the rainy weather, is the inevitable feeling of dread. Something about being nestled under my floral covers makes my mind immediately race back to that first week of September, where the only comfort and peace I could ever see was right in between my aching body and the warmth of the white covers.
Before my parents leave for work, they tell us to get up, get ready, and essentially be awake so they know that we won’t be wasting our days. However, with no eager voice calling out for me, it is easiest to stay hidden in my little unmotivated cocoon. Unfortunately, I have found this to be the constant behind much of the weightiness falling on my chest throughout the week. Pain and fear seem to grip my thoughts with more strength when I have spent my first hours of the day in my bed and not in the reality of my life. But the scary thing is how comforting this feeling is. After spending so long dwelling in a joy-forbidden land, my mind, body, and spirit are quick to teeter on the fence about stepping into the light. I don’t enjoy living in the fog of my past and anxiousness of the future, but trying something new was erased from the picture from so long, that knowing I have reached the surface feels surreal. Yet this time, I have the strength to peel my being my from the pink sheets and see the day ahead with joy rather than dread.
The fear never really leaves, the thoughts still linger, but none of this stays long enough for us to get to know each other. The difference between this time and the last is, instead of running away in shame from God, I can feel myself pumping my arms and legs as fast as I can toward the Father, with such a child-like longing. As I was reading Oswald Chambers‘s My Utmost for His Highest, he said that when we get intimate with Christ, we do not lack understanding, nor do we feel a worldly loneliness. I believe that a part of me has always known this to be true; however, running from Christ feels easier than admitting that I am in need of His strength.
I kept telling myself that I would be able to do it on my own. My feeble mind was reassuring my broken heart that together, they would overcome the unbearable shame painting my figure. Even after reaching the bottom of the pit, being dug back out, and coming to the day subsequent to being asleep for so long, every ounce of me felt entirely unworthy to ever think of hiding under the Lord’s wings. I had my foundation swept out from under my feet, my entire soul broken in a million pieces, and yet I still wanted to be in the comfort of my own control as compared to the Son of the Mightiest. In a way, I think God found it a little humorous in seeing me unsuccessfully try to navigate life post-crisis. I know He has a humor, and I look back and laugh at myself, so it is only fair.
The truth of it all is: I can’t do it on my own. I have been trying to since seventh grade and I have numerous reasons pointing as to why self-guidance isn’t efficient for anyone. While reading 1 Thessalonians 5, Paul writes, “But since we belong to the day, let us be sober, having put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation. For God has not destined us for wrath, but to obtain salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us so that whether we are awake or asleep we might live with him. Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing.” (v. 8-11) You’re probably thinking, “What does this have to do with running from God?” But hear me out: Being in Christ means that I belong to the day, the light, the life of who our Lord Jesus is. Even in the moments where clouds and fog seem to linger over everything I touch, the blood of Jesus covers me, and the helmet of hope and salvation protects my mind. I cannot change the inevitability of being clinically depressed. I cannot rebalance the chemicals in my brain, but I can refocus my visions on more stable things rather than inconsistent footholds that Satan splatters on my walk.
Running from Christ only makes the burden heavier. Being away from the comfort of His shelter only allows the attacks to be more frequent and harmful. Fleeing from the day will only make the night last longer. I’m tired of running, and I know that the only rest I can have is found in His wounded hands and gracious heart.
- Emma