This afternoon, I'm sitting at the desk of my room at my house in England staring out the window and watching flakes of snow dance across the sky (let's see how many prepositions can fit into sentence, shall we?).
The view from my window is an ugly one: crooked telephone poles in the alley frame the remnants of my neighbor's house that burned to the ground several months ago, surrounded by a backdrop of a neighborhood that signifies the beginning of the town ghetto.
It's nice to know that outside intervention can bring beauty to even the most desolate and ragged eyesores.
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Today is the 27th day of my winter break. Until about a week ago, I was counting these days like tally marks carved into the wall of a prison cell (I was not literally counting the days. I do not voluntarily incorporate math into my everyday life). Today, I am surprised to find that, if weather and road conditions permit, I will be traveling back to Arkansas Tech in less than two days.
It took some time to realize that the prison of which I speak is not the house that-- save a few trips to Little Rock and Russellville--I have been trapped inside due to its distance from my friends and the economy's intimidating gas prices. Suffocating as this town is, I found that the box in which I was trapped was the prison of myself. My thoughts, my emotions, and my physical being were all screaming because they were sick of Georgia.
These feelings are nothing new. I've had them before. All humans long to escape from the concept of Self. Fortunately, I know how to rid these feelings. I know that Christ died to save me from Self, to free me from Georgia. I know how to let go of Self, how lay Self at the feet of Christ, and how to live for Him so that I don't even have to deal with Self. But I also knew that taking my burdens to Christ would require examining them. Letting go of the things that were destroying me would mean giving them up. I knew that ignoring problems doesn't make them go away. So I tried dwelling on them instead.
Foolish girl.
A few weeks ago I drove up to my church in Russellville. I needed to worship and listen and talk and hug and receive hugs and simply escape for a while. After the service, a middle-aged couple who are very near to my heart (as well as the “correction is not rejection” kind of mentors I need) asked,
“How are you doing? Have you been feeling any better?”
“Was I not feeling well?” I attempted to fake confusion with a fake smile.
“Stop trying to hide, George. We see right through it. You’ve got to let this stuff go. You haven’t been yourself for too long. Where’s the spunky joyful girl we met a few months ago? This isn’t the real you.”
And then it hit me.
“Actually, that’s the problem. This is the real me. The flesh me, Georgia-minus-Jesus. You’re right…I’ve got to let it go…like, for real let it go. I’ve got STOP being myself.”
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Sometime and somewhere in the past two weeks, I’ve found healing. It’s come through a series of midnight interstate drives, kitchen-table coffee dates with David and the Psalms, time spent swapping between Donald Miller and Leslie Ludy books (because I can only handle so much of each of them in one sitting), laughter with friends, morning bike rides with Lecrae, tears in the shower, reflections on past seasons of my life, and a person who knew nothing of my situation yet seemed to know everything about my situation whose simple words led me right back to the feet of my True Love, where I was able to understand Christ’s longing for me more clearly than ever before. Ultimately, healing has come through submission of time, thoughts, emotions, plans, and life that was never really mine in the first place.
Restoration is a process, and it isn’t as easy as I hoped it would be. But in healing, there is change. Change for the better than turns wounds into scars that tell stories. Change that brings about growth and difference and strength and new layers. Change that takes the old and trades it in for something new.
Change that brings beauty to even the most desolate and ragged eyesores.
The view from my window is an ugly one: crooked telephone poles in the alley frame the remnants of my neighbor's house that burned to the ground several months ago, surrounded by a backdrop of a neighborhood that signifies the beginning of the town ghetto.
It's nice to know that outside intervention can bring beauty to even the most desolate and ragged eyesores.
-----------------
Today is the 27th day of my winter break. Until about a week ago, I was counting these days like tally marks carved into the wall of a prison cell (I was not literally counting the days. I do not voluntarily incorporate math into my everyday life). Today, I am surprised to find that, if weather and road conditions permit, I will be traveling back to Arkansas Tech in less than two days.
It took some time to realize that the prison of which I speak is not the house that-- save a few trips to Little Rock and Russellville--I have been trapped inside due to its distance from my friends and the economy's intimidating gas prices. Suffocating as this town is, I found that the box in which I was trapped was the prison of myself. My thoughts, my emotions, and my physical being were all screaming because they were sick of Georgia.
These feelings are nothing new. I've had them before. All humans long to escape from the concept of Self. Fortunately, I know how to rid these feelings. I know that Christ died to save me from Self, to free me from Georgia. I know how to let go of Self, how lay Self at the feet of Christ, and how to live for Him so that I don't even have to deal with Self. But I also knew that taking my burdens to Christ would require examining them. Letting go of the things that were destroying me would mean giving them up. I knew that ignoring problems doesn't make them go away. So I tried dwelling on them instead.
Foolish girl.
A few weeks ago I drove up to my church in Russellville. I needed to worship and listen and talk and hug and receive hugs and simply escape for a while. After the service, a middle-aged couple who are very near to my heart (as well as the “correction is not rejection” kind of mentors I need) asked,
“How are you doing? Have you been feeling any better?”
“Was I not feeling well?” I attempted to fake confusion with a fake smile.
“Stop trying to hide, George. We see right through it. You’ve got to let this stuff go. You haven’t been yourself for too long. Where’s the spunky joyful girl we met a few months ago? This isn’t the real you.”
And then it hit me.
“Actually, that’s the problem. This is the real me. The flesh me, Georgia-minus-Jesus. You’re right…I’ve got to let it go…like, for real let it go. I’ve got STOP being myself.”
----------
Sometime and somewhere in the past two weeks, I’ve found healing. It’s come through a series of midnight interstate drives, kitchen-table coffee dates with David and the Psalms, time spent swapping between Donald Miller and Leslie Ludy books (because I can only handle so much of each of them in one sitting), laughter with friends, morning bike rides with Lecrae, tears in the shower, reflections on past seasons of my life, and a person who knew nothing of my situation yet seemed to know everything about my situation whose simple words led me right back to the feet of my True Love, where I was able to understand Christ’s longing for me more clearly than ever before. Ultimately, healing has come through submission of time, thoughts, emotions, plans, and life that was never really mine in the first place.
Restoration is a process, and it isn’t as easy as I hoped it would be. But in healing, there is change. Change for the better than turns wounds into scars that tell stories. Change that brings about growth and difference and strength and new layers. Change that takes the old and trades it in for something new.
Change that brings beauty to even the most desolate and ragged eyesores.
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