Sometimes, I joke about Xanax and wine.
Truth be told, I rarely drink.
And not because of my religious convictions. I rarely drink because of my weight struggles and thyroid disease/autoimmune troubles. Something I love NOT to talk about.
When I have to fly, which apparently is like once a month, I almost always have to have a Xanax. On more than one occasion a stewardess has had to wake me up from sedated sleep in my own lap. I hope to never see the poor person seated next to me on a long flight where I have passed out on their shoulder and drooled on their suit. However, better that scenario than the one where TSA puts me in the back of an ambulance after being tazed in-flight and wrestled into a straight-jacket.
I am terrified of flying.
And I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of FLYING. Yes, take me straight to Jesus when He calls me up, but please don’t lock me in a pressurized cabin at 30,000 feet where I can’t see what’s coming. I am ready to meet my Maker. I am not ready for the torture of flight. I can’t leave when I want to, bumps are incognito, and the guy next to me has no personal space boundaries, forgot to pack deodorant, and has an ongoing love affair with onions. This to me is grounds for a sedative.
Honestly, when I learned my daughter was seriously involved with a theater major, I had the same panic symptoms associated with flight. The theater sends me over the edge. They shut that big, heavy door, and etiquette denotes you don’t leave. You don’t know when the next thespian will burst into song or fall off the stage. You have no control over what goes on in that theater. Will I be happy? Sad? Hot? Cold? And frankly, I feel the same way about the movies. And no, I never went and saw Titanic. I know what happens to that ship. I am not paying $20 for popcorn to watch people die, that I knew were going to die, before I got there and they closed those doors.
But that’s just me.
That said, I have been working on this post on my phone for a while. Alas, the time has come… Let’s talk dirty.
Sometimes my help doesn’t come from the Lord.
Excuse me while I weep hysterically.
Ok. I am back.
I love Jesus.
In my walk, I hope to overcome everything that hinders me; every voice that haunts me. And every stronghold for which I stumble. I don’t want to alienate anyone. I am as genuine as I can possibly be. I confess, I don’t think I am funny and I have an unhealthy adoration for spray cheese, chicken biscuit crackers, and Cherry Kool-aid.
And some days I need more than scripture and my Francesca Battistelli CD. Some days, those things work like a charm. Other days I go to numerous crutches and then I weep over my failures as a Believer.
There is addiction, there is sin, and there is need. And Jesus is bigger than all of these. He is not surprised by any of them. He came to conquer, and He succeeded. For this I am grateful.
But it doesn’t make me perfect. I still have to make it through the day, cross country flight, or theater production. If you comment on this blog “a healthy relationship with God negates the need for Zoloft” I will delete that comment.
Sometimes I am strong in my faith. Sometimes a good word falls on me and I am utterly in love with the One who saves. Other days, when one of the littles will only eat things if it spells his name, we go to foster placement court hearings, or I need $8,000 for manbaby tuition, I want a quick fix.
There I said it.
Furthermore, I have humans I love that are clinically and chemically depressed, buried a child, or their marriage is in shambles. If I do nothing else with my words I want to break down the walls of the perfected religiosity that deems our faith unfit when we seek help or mess up or flat out fail.
Isn’t this the very people He came to save?
Of course, I believe He heals. Certainly, I believe He is my comfort. But I am only human. I could put one of those little apps on this blog where you have to prove you’re not a robot before you could read it, but I see that as excessive. And it’s a free country, not everyone has to read it, or enjoy it. If I learned anything in the last year of blogging it is that the masses are struggling to keep their head above water, just like me.
The bible is a perfect Word free from nonsense and exaggerated or flamboyant gestures, and it is a great read. This blog is just about a mom, who homeschools and sometimes doesn’t, manages vandals, manbabies, the notorious foster care system and can’t button my jeans. I can’t find any of my spoons and it doesn’t really matter because all of my bowls are gone too. I have a Master’s degree and I cannot figure out Snapchat. Occasionally, I drink coffee with Crest Whitening Strips on my teeth. And sometimes I eat my feelings and have panic attacks that are so bad we’ve called 911.
I am far from perfect.
My less than perfect life draws me ever closer to the foot of the cross, where I often go to kneel, beg mercy, healing, and forgiveness. Sometimes from way down here, where I am physically separated from my God, I turn to manmade fixes that get me by and put my feet back on the straight and narrow. I write about these incidents. I make light of them and I enjoy the camaraderie that comes from many women who like me, love Jesus and sometimes need a prescription.
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
When Jesus heard this, he told them, “Healthy people don’t need a doctor–sick people do. I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.” Mark 2:17
Tightly wound? Yeah… me too. Follow my tightly wound fun friend Katie M. Reid by following this link! She loves Jesus too.
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