As the final days of 2018 draw near, it’s a good time to reflect on the days that have gone by. How do you evaluate a year? How do you determine if it was a good year or a bad one? I’m still imperfect, I’m still weak, and I am still a sin-prone human. But I’m not the same person I was 365 days ago. The God of amazing breakthroughs has changed me in tangible ways this year.
I remember some sage advice given to me in a Target checkout line many years ago. I was a young mother, with an energetic two-year-old daughter and a precocious four-year-old son with autism. My life was crazy, with birthday parties and T-ball games and lots of therapy appointments. As I was frantically trying to hold it all together in line until we could pay for our purchases, an older, wiser woman who was behind me in line uttered something that is a familiar platitude:
“Enjoy it, honey. These are the best years of your life.”
It was a beautiful summer morning and I was walking on cloud 9! The previous evening I had spoken to a women’s group, debuting my new message, “Beautiful Messes: Discovering Hope and Peace for an Imperfect Life.” I had shared a message of God’s grace for us as struggling humans who are not yet made like Jesus.
“Abba, I belong to you.”
“Abba, I belong to you.”
The words of the song filled my ears as the music drifted up to the rafters of the church building. I added my voice to the others but my heart just wasn’t in it. My mind began to wander as I contemplated the fact that I belong to God.
That weekend I had been struggling with panic attacks and it had been hard just to function. As I looked around my church and saw all the “normal” people who didn’t struggle with anxiety, I felt sure that God was really proud of them but not so much of me. I was broken, faithless, and medicated, and they were strong, full of faith, and depending on God rather than pharmaceuticals to function.
I felt ashamed and I was certain that God was ashamed of me, too.
Sharing is caring. If this post encouraged you, will you share it on Facebook so that it could bless your friends,too? Thanks for helping me to reach more struggling women with encouragement, hope, and grace.Shame had kept me silent. Few people knew the intense battle I had been having with panic attacks. Not even my pastor was privy to the emotional upheaval that existed in my mind. My doctor knew because he was prescribing the medications that were helping me to function. But fear of judgment had kept me from telling people how bad it really was.
The smallest thing caused me to feel panic. I was scared to take a shower. I was scared to wash my hair (the picture below was not staged). I was scared to fix my breakfast and let the dog go out and fill up my Tervis with ice. Why? Because in previous days, when I had done those things, my body panicked and my pulse raced and my chest felt like I was having a heart attack.
I walked slowly from the kitchen to my bedroom in the early morning light. With every step my body became heavier and heavier and as soon as I stepped through my bedroom door, my petite body collapsed onto the carpet. I could hear Brian getting ready for work in the nearby bathroom. I weakly called out to him. And then he called 911. I was scared but I also remember being mortified by the thought of an ambulance racing to our home, wondering, “What will the neighbor’s think?” That happened four summers ago.
