God's Grace

This was a note I wrote on Facebook back in December, but it's been a train of thought for me again of late, so I thought I'd share it here:

I  was looking back through my timeline this morning, remembering the drama and craziness of college. Reminiscing about the people who have passed through my life for a season and I no longer keep in touch with, and also the ones who remain dear friends whether near or far.
Skimming through highlights of my life from the past seven years is strange--I forget so quickly the struggles, the times of tears, carrying a wounded spirit and a broken heart. And it's just as easy to forget the joys, the bright moments, the times of happiness and fun, and maturing into someone new. My time in college has started to blur together, and I have to remind myself that those three and a half years were a huge turning point in my life.
I went through a lot and came out the other side a better person, stronger, wiser, more sure of who I am in God. I don't want to forget how good God has been to me, how He walked with me as I went through counseling, challenged me to listen to Him over stupid people, called me to return to Him when I'd messed up, and just loved me where I was.
I'm thankful that He never gave up on me, even though I can be so stubborn and have a thick skull to get through. There were times where God pretty much had to beat me over the head repeatedly for me to be like, "Uh, I think you might be trying to tell me something, Lord?" I'm glad He's more stubborn and patient than I am!
The thing I am most thankful for is that I found my voice. I felt like I had no story, no great purpose to my life--I couldn't see how God was working. But looking back now, I can definitely see it. He was there, when I was a super shy freshman, when I went through an unhealthy relationship for two years, when I was figuring out being an artist, when I was juggling working full time and finishing school, and just figuring out how to be an adult. I couldn't see it at the time, being so caught up in the day to day of life.
But I'm starting to see how He has been directing my life, guiding my uncertain steps, leading me towards something good. And now I'm beginning a new chapter in my life. Not just getting married, though that's huge, but also stepping into new opportunities, accepting new challenges, considering new ideas and ways of doing things, and being open to God's leading down new roads. I don't want to let myself get hung up on the past, staying in a rut and not growing as a person. God wants more from me, I can feel it....and I'm willing to follow Him, to be open and willing to grow into a woman after His own heart (whatever that looks like). 

Grateful

Life can change so quickly for the better.
I was sitting here and it just hit me how blessed I am right now. Awed gratitude is the only response that I can give to God. Flowery praise and poignant prose really can't do it justice. I am blown away at God's goodness and grace. For some reason it's really hitting me tonight.

Within the last week or two, I have realized that God was preparing me 10 years ago to be the person I am today. Specific prayers I said as a 15 year old are now coming to fruition in my life. I could never have imagined what the answers to those prayers would look like, how God would bless me so greatly.

In 2002, I was just beginning the process of facing the tough stuff from my past. I was painfully shy, awkward and withdrawn. I felt removed from my peers, so different and alone. I struggled with so much fear and doubt and shame and self-degradation. I wondered if I would ever be able to truly be myself, the person I knew I was deep down. I didn't know yet that I had muscular dystrophy--I just thought I was klutzy. I couldn't foresee the tumultuous long-distance dating relationship I'd have during college. I didn't even have my driver's license yet! I'd barely begun to delve into being an artist. The thought of coherently and logically writing my thoughts and emotions like this would have been impossible. I was a teenager, full of zeal and little life experience.

Now it's 2012. I thought I'd have my life all figured out by the time I was 22, let alone 25. I've come so far though--I'm a completely different person from the Elisabeth that asked God for peace and freedom that fateful July night. I consider July 11th my spiritual birthday, because that's the night I reached the end of my rope and cried desperately out to God. And He answered. And my life was completely changed. Now, so much to be grateful for, even the so-called "little things." Even though I now wear leg braces and struggle some days with being so tired, I understand that God has used it to make me stronger. I can now talk about the "dark stuff," because I see how God has worked through it for good. I have an amazing boyfriend who loves Jesus and accepts me--all of me--and encourages me to seek after the Lord. I have friends who "get" me. I don't feel adrift anymore; I've found my place. And even though I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, I know God is in charge. And seeing some of His plan unfold has been pretty cool.

Year in review part 2: Friends

In my last post, I focused on my family and God's grace in our lives over the past year. I'd like to turn now to my friends.
God's been teaching me a lot about what true friendship looks like recently. I need to reach out to others and form new relationships without neglecting the good friends I've already got. I tend to drift away from people after a few years for whatever reason; over this last year, some old acquaintances have come back into my life and our relationships have been renewed.

There's something very comforting about having someone who has known you for a while. You have those shared experiences and old jokes that you still find funny. An old friend doesn't need to dig for conversation topics, things just flow and an hour or two passes before you realize it. They know about your past awkward phases and bad haircuts, and love you just the same. I'm so appreciative of my long time friends. You know who you are, and I'm so glad you're in my life! My heart is fuller, my spirit richer because of your friendship. You put up with my faults and encourage me to be a better person. I love being able to share my weirdness and nerdy self with you. I might not see you for awhile, but we can pick up where we left off and have a grand time when we hang out together.We can talk about silly, shallow, light-hearted things, but we can also be real, deep and open with who we are. I love that. And I love you! I look forward to this coming year and getting to know you even better.

On the flip side, I've had to let some people slip out of my life, because I realized they're just not worth keeping in touch with. The problem with our Facebook culture is that relationships that would have naturally grown distant otherwise maintain this artificial intimacy. You see each other's status updates and Like their cute kitty pictures....but you haven't seen or spoken to them in person for over a year (or more). It's not like you hate them, they're actually pretty cool....but you don't have any kind of real interaction or relationship beyond the Internet.

Facebook is great for keeping in touch with long distance friends--I love that we can stay up to date and keep up with what's going in each other's lives. It supplements other communication. But for those casual acquaintances you wouldn't have kept in touch with, it can become kind of weird. We were friends once or saw a lot of each other at a particular point, some shared experience in our lives. But now? I haven't seen you since high school or whenever. It makes me feel mean to unfriend someone, but I realize I don't need to keep in touch with everybody. I can let them go and not be a bad person.

And some friendships I valued more than the other person and had different expectations for. I know that they don't place the same value on our relationship that I do and that will never change. I just have to accept that and stop trying to convince myself otherwise. It hurts a little bit to realize that and deal with it but it's the healthy and wise thing to do. I don't want to try to believe a lie. Letting go and moving on is the wise thing to do. I need to invest in relationships that are mutual not one-sided.

So, it's been the year of renewal and letting go, but also making new friends, relationships in their embryo phase. As I wrote recently, I finally found a church to call my own. Antioch Community Church has been a breath of fresh air into my life. For many reasons--which I don't need to go into here--I stopped going to church while in college and never got back into it once I graduated. I'd been sporadically attending the church I grew up in, but I'm a different person now and it's not the right fit anymore. I'm thankful for that church family--I grew up there and learned so much. Some of those people are more like family than those I'm actually related to! It's really like having a third side of my family. So this is not a diss to you, old church. I love many of you and will definitely continue to keep in touch. But it's predominantly a church of families and older singles, and I want relationships with my peers too. Also, it's in the suburbs and I feel called to the city seeing as how I've grown up here in Minneapolis.

So, Antioch. I checked it out a few times over the summer and committed to attending it within the last few months. I have never felt so welcomed as a stranger in a new place. I've gotten more plugged in as I've been able to re-arrange my work schedule. I'm hoping to go through their membership class coming up in January. There is something so REAL going on there, and I want to be part of that. I'm really excited to see what this next year will bring as I get to know more people. I feel like I can really share who I am--not just the "How are you?" "Good." "And you?" "Great." exchanges typical of churchy culture. I have gotten a phenomenal response of encouragement and desire for friendship back from sharing just a snippet of my testimony in church. I feel like I can be myself--crazy bright clothes, flowers in my hair and all the rest. I feel no need to hide any aspect of myself or partition off parts that might be unpalatable (part of that comes from getting older and more confident in myself too). For the first time in a long time, I'm excited to get up and go to church on Sundays. I look forward to it! I'm excited to go to community group and get to know people better. So, new church, looking forward to the next 12 months with you.

Continue on to Part 3: Me

Christmas Car Crash

Three years ago, just two days after I graduated from Northwestern College, I got in a horrible car accident on my way to work. It was a very cold day--a freeze-your-nose-hairs-when-you-breath kind of cold.
This was before I had my own car, so I normally would have driven the Saturn that my sisters and I were sharing. But that day, Leah had to work at the same time as I did, so my Dad let me use his Impala. It was icy and a little slippery as I set out, but it didn't seem unusual for Minnesota in December. I got on the highway, driving very slowly due to the ice on the road.

As I was going along, I saw a car that had spun out up ahead. Being the conscientious driver that I am, I moved over the the left lane to give the driver more room (in MN, you're supposed to move over away from cars on the shoulder). Well, I changed lanes right into the same black ice that guy had just spun out on.
I was only going about 35 mph, but I hit sheer ice and lost control of the car. Thankfully at that moment there were no cars around me. I spun around and around, headed straight for that other car. All I remember seeing was the front of that vehicle as I smashed into it.

BAM!!

I think I might have blacked out for a moment, because I couldn't hear or see anything for what was probably only a few seconds. I just remember hearing the crazy, insane beating of my heart, and then slowly, my hearing faded back in and I could hear the Celtic Woman CD still playing in the stereo. I had impacted on the driver's side of my car. I took a mental inventory of myself -- I was okay. Nothing felt broken. The airbags hadn't gone off. I looked down and saw that the seat was smooshed in. If that chair hadn't been so wide and taken all the impact, I definitely wouldn't have walked away so easily. I looked to my left and realized that the door was punched in, like a giant fist had smashed into it. But strangely, the top of the door was leaning away from me. The window hadn't even broken. My left thigh started hurting, and I realized that it had smacked into the steering wheel. Without even thinking about it, I put the car in park, and took the CD out and put it back in its case (it was from the library and I didn't want it to get scratched--funny what your brain focuses on in moments like that).
The other driver came running over as I was shakily taking stock of myself. Thank goodness, he hadn't been in his car when I hit. He had the same kind of Saturn that I would normally have been driving, and it was completely totaled. It looked like a giant had crumbled it up. All I could think was, "If I had been driving the Saturn, I would not be okay right now." Impalas are a much more heavy-duty vehicle than the chintzy Saturn.

When I crawled out on the passenger's side and walked around to see the damage, I was shocked. My car was totaled too, though not so bad off as the other vehicle; the frame was bent, the door was deeply punched in, the windshield had huge spider web cracking. My heart still was going a mile a minute, I could barely breath and I couldn't stop shaking.

I went to the hospital and got an X-ray of my leg, just be safe, but it wasn't broken, just spectacularly bruised. Thankfully, my Dad had full coverage on his Impala and got a new car pretty quickly. I went back to work two days later, with a sore leg and head ache.

It took me a little longer to get back on that highway though. It was hard to get behind the wheel after that. I wish I had a picture to show you of the accident, it was pretty spectacular. I had a slight panic attack the first time I drove after the accident. It was still winter, I still had to go to work and I couldn't have someone else drive me forever. Thankfully, I can just as easily take city streets as the highway to get to work, which is what I did for the next month.

Not giving into fear either

Three years later, I still get a tight feeling in my chest when the first heavy snow and hard freeze hits, and I have to drive in it. I have to remind myself to relax and breathe, and that within a couple weeks I'll be driving just fine in this weather. I push through the fear, because I don't want to be captive to the past. I'm going to live my life, which means I have to drive around the city year round. I refuse to let that bad experience hold me back from doing fun things. The fear is there, yes, but I won't give in to it. I'm definitely more cautious than I used to be when it comes to winter driving, however I don't freak out over every little slip and slide. Seriously, it's MinneSNOWta, the majority of the year it's cold and snowy here.

The weather today is what prompted this post--it's cold and icy. And I drove on the highway "like a baller," as my tattoo artist likes to say. (which means, awesomely)

Blast from the past

I was reminded the other day of something I used to do during my tween and early teen years. Back before Youtube, Facebook, Twitter or Myspace were in existence, e-mail was king. Nobody had ever heard of an iPod, "blog" was just starting to be accepted as a word, dial-up was still standard, small children were not yet toting around their own cell phones, and I had my very own email account. It was supposed to be spirit_of_love, but I was in a hurry and didn't double check the spelling...so it ended up being sprit_of_love. That was always confusing to people.

Anyways, I was a deep thinking homeschooled teeny bopper with a bad hair cut and wanted to encourage others. I started sending out a weekly e-mail where I would write out a few Bible verses and talk about them and what they meant to me. I used to keep a Bible journal and would jot down verses that stuck out to me, and that's what I used in my e-mails. I can't remember how long I did that, but it was at least a couple years. One of the pastors at my church even mentioned my e-mails in a sermon once, which totally put me on cloud nine. I had deep thoughts to share and people actually wanted to read them! That was some serious validation for my young heart. 

Over time though, I started getting discouraged (this was also when I was feeling disconnected from God and struggling with some depression). I felt alone and distant from people my own age, frustrated with my peers' lack of maturity and focus on shallow things. It became a battle to even sit down and type up anything. I'd think, "Oh, nobody reads this, or if they do they're just being nice. You don't really have anything to say. How can you tell others what God says in His Word when you feel like He's distant from you?" Eventually I just petered out and stopped writing them. I felt hypocritical--how could I write about Jesus and faith when I was struggling and feeling doubt? Then I felt silly--what did I, as young teen girl, have to say that mattered; who was I to say what the Bible meant? And lastly, disappointment--how pathetic that I couldn't even sit down to type up a few words about the book I said I believed in, some Christian I was.

Looking back on it now, I realize that Satan really doesn't like it when God's Word gets read or spoken of. The devil does everything in his power to make sure a person never turns to Jesus. If that fails and someone becomes a believer, his backup strategy is to make sure they never bear any fruit, remaining a nominal, inconsequential Christian. Those who stand up and try to be bold and different face great attack on many fronts. I've heard from people here and there over the intervening years how much they enjoyed what I wrote. That people still remember those e-mails almost a decade later tells me I was onto something. But I got beaten down. As I've shared before, I was battling a lot of darkness during my teens, and it got the best of me at times.

In the last few years, my faith has gotten stronger and deeper. Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church has been a particularly amazing blessing--his teaching has helped my understanding of God and love for Him to blossom. Jesus has become real to me in a way I can't adequately describe. I understand now that doubt and questions are okay and even beneficial at times. I know now that speaking boldly for Christ brings repercussions and to be prepared for spiritual attack. And sometimes God chooses to speak through zealous young people who long to go deep. I hope to keep my zeal as I add maturity and life experience to it. 

I despise cookie cutter Christianity

A while back I heard that Brio Magazine folded. And I was so happy to find that out. Let me explain why. As someone who grew up in fairly conservative Christian circles, Brio was the magazine to read if you were a girl. And I hated it. Sure, it had some good things to say, but the overall focus was modesty and purity. Like that is the most important part of being a Christian girl apparently. Actually, it was more MODESTY and PURITY!!! As if the pit of Hell would open up under you if your belly button ever saw the light of day or you wore *gasp!* spaghetti strap tank tops. Because that is the definition of a good Christian girl for some: you're modest and pure. That's it. As in the rest of our culture, it's all about the outward appearance, albeit with a different focus. Instead of pushing how sexy you can go, it's how covered can you get without dying of heat exhaustion?

We match our curtains!

There is definitely worse out there,
but I want to keep this family friendly

Brio was predominantly pink and shades thereof. It was as sweet and saccharine as cotton candy dipped in honey. "Oh, surely you exaggerate, Elisabeth." Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen.

I rest my case

Here's the thing, I'm no hater. I'm a Christian, I love Jesus, I think His followers should be different from the surrounding culture. Teen fashion magazines in general are waaaay too sexualized, yet still offer some sage advice. I would love to see a teen magazine that bridges the gap between being culturally relevant and encouraging and nurturing a deep, vibrant, active faith. Brio was not that, in my opinion. It was sugary, sappy, fluffy christianity-lite. It tried to be too many things poorly. And don't get me started on the much hyped Brio And Beyond. It was supposed to cover deeper issues and such for older teen girls. The cover was different...and it literally had one extra article, otherwise all the content was the same. 

My sisters and I preferred to read Breakaway, which was aimed at boys. The difference alone in the covers tells you quite a bit. If you Google "Brio Covers" you see multiple images of smiling girls not really doing a whole lot of anything. However "Breakaway Magazine Covers" returns very different results, generally action shots of males doing something. (The passive vs. active imagery is a great commentary on how girls and boys are "supposed to behave," but that's another post in itself). Breakaway would actually cover tough, relevant teen issues, like cutting or addiction to porn or suicide. Matters of the heart and soul were well represented in addition to outward appearance (they had an ongoing section on exercise routines).

I'm weird, I know that--I've always had a desire to "go deep," striking out for the deeper waters of faith and thought rather than wading in the shallows of superficiality. But surely I can't be the only one who chafes against this portrayal of "feminine" Christianity? I wear skinny jeans, tank tops, jewelry, makeup (when the mood strikes)...but I also love long flowy skirts, peasant shirts and leaving my face au natural. 

My sisters and I are the prime example for not trying to lump Christian girls into one box:

Leah working security at Sonshine

Hannah surfing

Me in my Ren Fest best

We all love Jesus, yet we each follow Him in our own way. We don't follow what others say we should be, but what the Bible says a righteous Christian is. And it don't say nothing about wearing frumpy clothes and pretending like we don't have a brain.

At the end of the day, my point is not that I hate Christian publications (I don't), or that I never wear pink (I do), or that Christianity is stupid (it's not). It's just to call out that overemphasis on outward appearance and external actions for girls I've seen in the Christian circles I've run in growing up. We need to find that healthy middle ground and not swing to either extreme as we live out being women who love Jesus.

Green raspberries for breakfast

There are things we love not for what they are, but what they represent to us: Brie cheese will always remind me of college, because of the art department's gallery openings I regularly attended. The smells of a bonfire and pine trees recall my summers at Storybook. Carry on Wayward Son by Kansas was me and my roommate's theme song my last year at Northwestern. And raspberries evoke a very specific memory, one of the oldest that I can remember:

It's a steamy summer morning on the Iron Range of Minnesota. Enter a huge yard, filled with flowers and towering trees grown into the rickety metal fence almost the same age as my grandparents' century old Victorian house. Just outside the back door is a small garden, where two little girls are stuffing their faces with as many raspberries as they can reach. The blonde is my younger sister, Leah, and the curly red head, that's me all of four-years-old. We don't know much about gardening at this point; all we know is that what grows out here is edible. If the red ones are good, then the green ones must be okay too. We completely plucked those bushes bare from the ground to as high as our little grubby hands could reach. We hear the back door open and scamper away. My Grandpa walks out with his bowl of cereal in hand to add some fruit to his breakfast. He gets over to the raspberry bushes and looks around, trying to find any ripe berries that might remain. Leah and I were quite thorough. He looks over at us, our red stained faces, hands and clothes completely giving us away. He chuckles and shakes his head. "Those bushes were full just yesterday! I can't believe you cleaned them all off. I wouldn't be surprised if you got a stomach ache from eating so many, especially the green ones." He went back inside and I could hear him exclaiming to my parents and Grandma how quickly we had made short work of his berry crop.

The house is still there two decades later, though the berry bushes aren't, and my Grandpa won't be around much longer either. My grandparents sold it in 1992, and today it's my uncle's home--he bought it after two different owners almost ruined it. The interior of the house is completely different these days--my aunt and uncle renovated and remodeled the entire thing. I don't really remember much of what the inside used to look like; mostly I recall running around the yard and playing at the park down the street.  The back door garden is gone, but there's even more flowers around the yard as my aunt has quite the green thumb. The fence is still standing with the old trees grown up through it. The back door shutting sounds the same though. And I still remember where the raspberry bushes stood. I can hear the echoes of two little girls' giggling on a blue sky morning as they ate green (and all the red) raspberries for breakfast.

The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog

Sadly, they do not come together and form a Dark Ages Voltron

Today at work I got a blast from the past. I shelve in the children's section and came across an old chapter book based on a Saturday morning kids show, The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog. I loved that series; as an 11-year-old I thought it was so cool. There was magic, and dragons, and magic armor, and a kindly old druid, and they had to go to a magic well where they got sucked into the land of fairies and got magic weapons...did I mention there was magic? And it was set in Ireland, which in my mind was the land of awesome (I really liked Irish mythology...still do actually).

Anyways, it lasted one season and I was so bummed when it got cancelled. I hadn't thought about that show in years...until today. And of course, I came home and Googled it (thank you, Wikipedia, for helping me to recall when it was even on the air)...and was subsequently semi-disappointed. It's Power Rangers, Lord of the Rings style. They even have a Gandalf and Smaug. The vague half-memory I had of this show was way cooler than the clips I just browsed through on Youtube. (My sister, Hannah, just peeked over my shoulder and was like, "Of course you'd like something like that. It's magical Ireland type stuff. That's totally you.") However, I will most likely watch at least one episode of this, since some similarly nerdy person was kind enough to post them on Youtube.

We are so cool. We know you're jealous.

Look, it's our orphaned hero raised by the aforementioned kindly druid, the plucky independent princess, the "bad boy" friend, and the token minority, all dressed like ye old times! (mind you, this is supposed to be set in ancient Ireland--not really a place known for its ethnic diversity, but ya gotta be PC for the kiddies.) I see better costumes than this at the Ren Fest. Seriously, my Ren Fest costumes look better than her outfit (what is that on her head anyway?) *end nerd rant*
And, of course, their personalities match the elements they're the knights of. Grumpy, blunt bad boy can cause earthquakes and throw giant boulders; moody female character can control the wind, etc, etc. However they did not dress in the respective colors of their armor, which it makes it hard to remember who is who when they're all powered up. How am I supposed to remember who the green guy is if he doesn't wear green all the time?!  I just love how awful and clunky their armor was (shoulder pads were big back then apparently), and their weapons were just ridiculously huge. I was going to post a clip here, but it's being stupid and won't let me, so just watch this to see what I'm talking about.

Man, the nineties were awesome.

My Wings

way more awesome than my original idea

I recently fulfilled a long awaited life goal: getting a tattoo of wings on my back. And when I say "long awaited," it's been at least 10 years that I've been thinking about it (so, yes, starting when I was around 13). I originally only asked for basic black and white angel-type wings, simply because I couldn't think of what colors I would want. Brandon Heffron and Dan Claessens of Beloved Studios collaborated and came up with this amazing design; they each picked a side and worked on me in tandem (two people tattooing at once actually hurts less, I think). It took three sessions for a total of 11.5 hours: the first was the black outline, the second was most of the color, and the last was adding the highlights, shadows and finishing touches. You can take a look at a picture from after the first sitting to see how quickly they worked.

I had multiple people (other tattoo artists and customers at Beloved) come through to check out my back as it was getting worked on. They were amazed at how big and epic I was going for my first tattoo. Apparently, teeny tiny is the norm for your first, but I didn't want piddly little chibi wings on my shoulder blades. Visitors would comment how painful it must be and how hardcore I was. Actually it really didn't hurt that much (except for at the end of the second session). I may look delicate, but I have a really high pain tolerance. Getting a spinal tap, having lots of blood drawn, breaking numerous bones and enduring several EMGs over the years has helped me build up my pain endurance.

"So you sat through multiple tattoo sessions for some colorful wings? Aren't angel wings kinda cliche?" you might be thinking at this point. Sure, it is a common tattoo motif, but my wings have a long story behind them and hold a lot of meaning for me. The super short cliff notes answer is the wings are a potent symbol of hope and God's grace and mercy in my life. The Lord of the Rings length version (which I will edit here, don't worry) starts sad and dark but ends hopeful and triumphant. Brandon and Dan don't even know the history behind my wings, but they added elements to the design that illustrate my story even more.

I have told few people what I'm about to tell you, but I think it's time I share this more publicly. I am a living testament to the reality of God. I know God is real, beyond a shadow of a doubt, because of what I've gone through, the good and the evil.

I was repeatedly sexually abused by my best friend's older brother when I was a little kid (under the age of 9). I won't go into all the details (frankly, because I don't remember everything), but I know I was molested at least several times over the years. Anyways, I completely blocked those memories, didn't even recall that it had happened....until it all literally came crashing back into my consciousness one winter night when I was eleven. I didn’t know how to talk about what had happened; and as a kid, thought that I would get in trouble if I said anything. So I didn't tell anyone about it for years. I got really depressed and had what I later figured out were panic attacks at night. It took me hours to get to sleep sometimes, fear and shame and panic would knot my stomach. When I moved into my own room, I had to have a night light by the door; I couldn’t walk down into the basement without a light on, because the dark would feel so oppressive and scary. Some nights I just couldn't turn to face the wall because I felt like SOMETHING was lurking outside my door and would get me if I let my guard down. As a 14-year-old you don’t want to admit to anyone you’re afraid of the dark.

I just wanted the fear, shame, guilt and utter loneliness to end. I hid it really well though—friends, family, no one knew the pain I was carrying around. I just didn’t have the words and tried to stuff the memories away as I went about my daily life.

Occasionally from when I was around 11 to maybe 15 years old, I would have these dreams where I would be flying. I usually don't remember my dreams, but I can recall these ones in crystal clear clarity. I always felt better when I woke up from a flying dream, it was like a little candle lit in a dark room. I would feel some quiet hope that the darkness and pain wouldn't last forever. But eventually the feeling would pass and I'd just feel the heaviness again.

And it’s not like I was a walking wraith or something. I went to school, church, youth group, babysat for people, took Driver’s Ed, normal teen stuff. I did have fun and have many good memories from my early teen years…but there was always this burden I was carrying around that I couldn’t get rid of. And at night, there was nothing to block out or distract me from the overwhelming fear I felt. I tried to pray it away, but what I needed to do was reach out to someone. I couldn’t deal with it myself.

The summer I was 15, I had come to the end of my rope. I just wanted to give up, I couldn’t take it anymore; I felt so isolated and alone. Sometimes I forget what a low place I was in then. The night before I left for this two week trip, I remember just being at my absolute wit's end. I wrote down a prayer (which I still have somewhere), just crying out from the depths of my heart. Pretty much I was like, "God, if you don't help me right now and do something to change this, I'm done. I can't do this, I can't carry this weight anymore. I don't know what to do or where to turn, but you need to do something over these next two weeks." And He answered that prayer far more than I could have imagined. That trip literally saved my life.

If I hadn't gone, I don't think I would be here today. God opened the wounds of my heart and started the healing process. I had an amazing youth leader that talked with me for hours every night. If not for her, I wouldn't have started dealing with my past. I told her what had happened to me, and she just hugged me and let me cry. I realized what had happened to me wasn't my fault, that I didn't need to feel guilty or ashamed. To just open up and tell someone and be accepted not rejected...my heart had been crying out for that.

The reason I use pendulum.and.fire as a user name online is from that trip. The name of the worship time we had one night was called Pendulums and Fire. The point was that most people are like pendulums--they swing back and forth between being hot and cold for God. We need to be like a steady burning fire, a hot ember even. It's not what our "feelings" are but Who our hearts belong to that determines our Christian walk. We need to grab onto God and not let go, no matter what. That night has stuck with me since that summer in 2002. I felt God's presence like I never have in my life. I could literally feel the weight of the Holy Spirit filling that room, filling me. It wasn't just a "mood" or a "feeling," Jesus touched my heart that night and I have never been the same since. Whenever I feel doubt about God's presence in my life, I just point myself back to that night. If I never experience anything supernatural in my life again, that one night is proof enough for me of who God is and that He is near. Satan has tried to drag me down to where I think God isn't involved in my life or doesn't really care, but all I need to do is look back on that night and see the truth.

So, my life was completely changed. I came back a different person. Some people get on an emotional high (and I would see it all the time in youth group) and then when the conference is over, within a week or two it's back to business as usual. My youth leader friend commented about that over two years later: she said, "You never came down from that because it wasn't an emotional 'high,' God brought you to a new place."

My wings are a testament of God's healing grace and love in my life.

They are also a reminder of Isaiah 40, especially verse 31: "but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint."

And over the last 7 years as I've had to deal with health problems, my wings also speak to me of the hope I have for the future. That one day I (and Andrew, my brother) won't be sick. Andrew won’t have multiple diseases, innumerable drugs to take, illness to endure. I won’t limp around with wasted legs and painful joints, having to ration my energy. We will run through the fields of Heaven, never worrying about having to take drugs or getting tired out from walking up stairs. If I didn’t have that hope, this life would be completely unbearable. What is the point of a life of pain and sickness and misery and then you die, and that’s it? No, I have a hope and a future! Jesus said there is something to look forward to after death, and I believe that with all my heart.

So, my wings speak to me of the past, where I have been and where God has brought me from; they speak of the present, God's grace and sustaining power for what I endure today; and they speak of the future, a hope in what is unseen and not yet, a glorious resurrection and ultimate healing. That is the story my wings tell. 

A broken tree

The tree out back broke recently. Cracked right down the middle, like it got hit by lightning. But it didn’t. It simply cracked because it’s brittle. A highbred variety prone to being too stiff to withstand high winds. The day before I had just been admiring how tall it had gotten. My Dad planted it the summer before our neighbor, Mrs. Hanninen, died from cancer. I had laid my hand right on the spot where the tree would splinter apart. I looked up into the leaves as my Mom shucked corn from our garden. The sun played across our faces, and my Mom picked bugs off the cobs as we talked about nothing in particular. She was the one who remembered when the tree got planted. She and Mrs. Hanninen would talk across the fence as they hung laundry on the clothes line. I don’t know what they chatted about, I was too busy chasing bugs and running through the tunnels of drying clothes, leaving dirty hand print streaks on the clean sheets.
The crosshatching lines across the trunk reminded me of my hands, which are pretty lined for someone so young (I’m 24). Trees’ bark is a lot like human skin—they get stretch marks too. The tree had grown so fast its bark had split in places, like a tomato can rip open because the skin can’t keep up with how quickly its insides are expanding. The little tears had already scabbed over; new bark was stretching across the cracks, and would, in time, give the tree more character. Now, I’m just hoping it will make it through the coming winter. My Dad said he’s just going to let it be and see how it fares. If it survives, the tree will be stronger for its ordeal, and if it dies, we’ll cut it down and use it for firewood. I’m hoping for the former outcome though: I’d like to sit underneath that tree someday with my kids and trace the years on my hands as we talk about nothing in particular on a summer day as the tomatoes on the vine burst their skins.