If you REALLY believed, you would be free from this depression/sadness/illness.
If I believed.
You mean, if it were up to me?
As if I were the mayor of crazy town.
So far in my 45 journey, I have yet to manifest anything too spectacular by my own accord. Granted I have birthed 4 children. Whether biology or magic… not so much by my own powers. I do make really good mashed potatoes, but it’s hard to botch something with a pound of butter and two blocks of cream cheese in the recipe.
So, if I believed “better” or “mucher” as our 3-year-old vandal son calls more of anything, I would be spared the heartache journey we currently travel?
Nope… still crying in my merlot.
What? Try harder? OK… grunt… great now I have the hiccups.
Thank you for that.
The wind here, on a hill on a ranch somewhere in West Texas is blowing 45 miles per hour.
It makes me want to stab someone.
My husband has hidden the knives. Furthermore, if I complain about the gale force winds, my throbbing head and stuffy nose to Justin, love of my life and keeper of my heart, he starts defending the situation as if it is his fault or compensating by pointing out things that may negate my hatred of the wind.
“It’s windy in other parts of the country!”
“No place is as perfect as home!”
“LOOK! A cardinal! Jami, you love cardinals, I bet there aren’t cardinals this pretty anywhere else in the world.”
“I heard that the wind is blowing 85 miles per hour in Omaha!”
“Wind is God’s way of reminding us He is planting seeds…”
It’s either hometown pride or an insecurity born of the fact he knows that if I leave, he gets full custody of the kids.
The reality is, I love Justin more than I hate the wind.
This speaks volumes, as my hatred runs deeps.
And this certainly isn’t just a litany of complaints but it’s not just the wind. I miss our recruit baby, John who is at Marine Bootcamp, the foster-love is spending more time at her birth home, my thyroid is out of whack, and it’s almost swimming suit season.
Yesterday, alone in my house for the first time in… ever, I had a pow-wow with Jesus that resulted in big tears and ended with me chewing a Xanax followed by a Snickers… and some Cheezits. Two hours later I woke with my face plastered to a Target Flyer. Drool and tears had matted my face to the magazine. I stumbled to the bathroom. My face was smushed like a double D boob shoved into a B cup and a 20% doorbuster coupon was tangled in my hair.
But here’s the thing… I am not sorry.
The line between wellness and a lack of belief have been so muddied for me for so long, I couldn’t recognize one from the other.
Recently in a conversation with author and speaker, Jeanette Hanscome, who is legally blind, we talked about the question of healing. Jeanette told me of numerous occasions when people have asked if she had been prayed over for healing. Jeanette’s response was wisdom beyond physical sight.
In the dark places, He alone is her sight.
Together, with her God, she gets by just fine.
His grace is sufficient.
But the Christian machine had me convinced my suffering was a lacking.
I bought the lie, my need for a prescription was a misstep in my walk with Jesus.
If only you…
If only I believed?
Like I said, I was all alone and the Xanax was still effective, so I tested my mustard seed faith… out loud.
John come HOME!
Head STOP POUNDING!
Heart stop BREAKING!
Foster-love… be in your crib when I walk in your room!
Would you grow in your faith more if those things had transpired? Or can I tell you most honestly, I sat on the couch with a cup, bowl, dang it, carton of Pecan Praline ice cream and sobbed?
Gut wrenching, heart scorching sobs.
Ah yes, if only I believed in mountain moving.
Still, in the stillness, I hurt.
Still, in my human-Jami-ness, I took a prescription.
Still, in my folly I ate, grazed, dang it, binged.
My phone buzzed a message of warning. “We are on our way.”
I let out another whimper. Breathed in (through my mouth of course, cause my nose is strictly for decoration and affords me no oxygen.) And then said, “Thank you Jesus for the nap, Xanax, snickers, Cheezits, ice cream, and anything else I might have snacked, eaten, dang it, inhaled. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the time alone. Thank you for these tears. This madness. This life… thank you. Also, I still hate the wind. I can’t thank you for that. Sorry. Amen.”
I stared ahead.
The wind howled, the house shook.
John didn’t come home.
My head is still pounding.
My heart is still breaking.
The crib is still empty…
And I am adored.
I neither took from nor added to the power of the Cross. In my weakness, He is strong. In my mourning, He is sufficient. In my folly, He is near. I can’t offend Him, run Him off, or get on His last Holy nerve. He wasn’t put off by the caloric madness… or the Xanax. I never make Him rub His head in divine confusion, “Well, dang, I never saw that coming… Gheez, Jami girl, you keep me on my toes!”
He wasn’t disappointed – He wasn’t mad.
He wasn’t mad.
He wasn’t mad.
Though my suffering is intense, He is immense. Though this season is hard and sad He is still King of my heart and head. Though I am in need I am not in want, for He is plenty.
He moves how He moves and He saves how He saves and He never leaves me… for He loves me.
In years, prior I might have asked Him to let this cup pass, do not test me, do not break me. Back then I was begging at the feet of a harsh, wrathful, and imaginary buttheaded beast of a god – now I am resting at the feet of an adoring Father. One who sat beside me as I napped on Xanax and elevated blood sugar. One who is slow to anger, rich in mercy, and asks that I call Him, Father.
Today I take this cup and sip, swallow, dang it, guzzle deep from the cup of His righteousness.
This place is free from condemnation and home to my weary heart.
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
Come near to God and He will come near to you. James 4:8
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