they really do exist.

Well today is officially my last day of Virtual IOP. I haven’t written in 3 and a half months and that’s about how long I’ve been in treatment for my eating disorder. I didn’t really tell many people and I was way too busy and exhausted to write. So...surprise!!

I knew I had a problem. Things had gotten out of control. I won’t go into detail because I don’t want to trigger anyone. But things were not good. So I had decided to do Virtual IOP. Scheduled my intake. Went through all the questions. And they were like, “No. The waiting list for VIOP is 2-3 weeks. You can’t wait that long. You need Virtual PHP.” And of course I burst into tears.

Virtual PHP was 8am-2pm 7 days a week. There was no way I could pull that off. But I did. For 7 weeks. I did VPHP from 8-2, had therapy twice a week, saw a dietician once a week, saw a psychiatrist once a week, got labs drawn once a week, and attended a treatment team meeting once a week. I also worked 2-6 Monday-Friday and a bunch on the weekends to stay on top of my work life. It was brutal. But I did it.

Then I switched to Virtual IOP. That was 11-2 Monday-Thursday. I worked 7-11 and 2-5:30 Monday-Thursday and 7-3 on Fridays. And I did that for 8 weeks. Wow. What a ride.

I had my appointment with my psychiatrist this morning and I got really choked up. I mean this has been a serious journey. Besides Mercy, I think I’ve gotten the most out of this program than I have in previous treatment endeavors. It was intense.

So I have a lot of feels today. But do you know what the biggest feel is? Pride. I am so stinking proud of myself. I did treatment for nearly 4 months while not falling behind at work and studying as a full-time college student. In the middle of a freaking pandemic. How the hell did I pull that off? I have no idea. Nothing but the grace of God.

I’m discharging today, which doesn’t mean I’m cured. I still have a ways to go. I’m set up with a dietician, therapist, and psychiatrist to help me stay on track. I’m also thinking about joining a virtual support group. I’ve never done that before, but I think it could be helpful. I just really want to set myself up for success.

My time in treatment overlapped with the holiday season, which made things a little bit rough. But there’s a Christmas tune that we sang, and I’d like to write out a verse or 2 of it here:

“All ye beneath life’s crushing load
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow

Look now for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.”

— It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

I was in a rough place. Hardly eating. 2 trips to the ER for IV fluids. Messed up labs. I was bending low. I was toiling. My steps were painful and slow. But through treatment, Jesus, and the angels singing, I was able to rise from the crushing load and see hope and life again.

I’m a few weeks late in proclaiming it, but it’s a Christmas miracle.

They really do exist.

Merry Christmas from me and my kitty :)

Not My Story To Tell

Happy New Year, friends!!!

I have a few exciting things going on to ring in 2020 this January.  First of all is school.  I've been in the process of transferring to Western Governors University to finish out my degree in accounting.  It was a big decision.  A hard one.  But I think it's the right move for me and I'm excited to hopefully wrap things up in 2ish years.  Orientation opens tomorrow and I officially start 2/1.  So yay!!  Second of all is strength training.  Yesterday was my first evening in a women's strength class.  It was hard and I am oh-so-sore today, but I think it will be good for me.  Don't panic, it's not some maniac weight loss ploy.  It's just getting stronger, which is going to be good for my overall health.  So we'll see how that goes.  And the third exciting thing that January 2020 has brought me is the opportunity to share my story with a group of women at my church!

The women's ministry director asked me if I would be willing to share my story at a Chapelgate WM event on January 25th.  I took a day or so to think about it, then agreed that it's a good fit and said yes.  Then I got worried like, "Oh my gosh, I've only ever shared my testimony as an advertisement for Mercy and I actually have no idea what I'm doing in real life."  Mercy gives you 5-8 minutes.  At Connect I'll have up to 20.  How in the world am I supposed to turn my 5 minute Mercy testimony into a 20 minute story about what God has done in Brittany's life?  Yikes.

Then I remember that I HAVE done this before.  I shared my testimony on a Thursday night at CR when I was on leadership at LifePoint.  Score.  So then I started digging around my hard drive and dropbox looking for that document.  Turns out I did that in 2013.  Wow.  That's 7 years ago.  And a lot has happened in 7 years.

So I started reading through my 2013 testimony and it brings tears to my eyes.  For multiple reasons.  Both good and bad.

It's crazy how easily I forget.  I get so caught up in the day-to-day life that I forget where I've come from.  I forget the pain, the struggle, the trauma, the tragedy.  Which is good.  I mean, I shouldn't dwell on that.  But if I forget about that, that means I also forget about the miracles.  The transformation.  The healing.  The freedom.  And that's something that I don't EVER want to forget.

So it's good to look back and remember where I've come from.  And when I say that, I mean like...now compared to 10 years ago.

But it's also important to look at where I am.  And when I say THAT I mean like...now compared to 7 years ago.  2013.  When I wrote the testimony I'm currently editing.  Because boy am I editing it.

Right now, in this moment, I'm mostly sad.  I'm looking back at this 26 year old Brittany and I want more than anything to be her again.  She was filled with so much passion.  God was so real.  She had genuine meaningful friendships.  She was plugged in.  Her life had a purpose.  And all of those things seem so...not me right now.

I'm mostly blah.  I have a hard time connecting with God.  I don't have many friends.  I'm trying to get plugged in but I just feel like it takes so much effort.  I'm not entirely sure where I'm headed...I feel like my work has purpose, but as a human I'm not so sure.

So I'm having to edit my 2013 testimony to account for reality and what I'm seeing as several steps backward.  Which is rough.  Which then makes me question why I'm even doing it.  Like given that last paragraph, what do I have to offer by sharing my story?  Should someone like me really be given access to a platform like that?

Yikes.

And I know the answer.  It's always the answer.  The answer is yes.  Yes, I should.

Because if I told Judie no, what would that mean?  That would mean I fail to recognize the miracles, the transformation, the healing, the freedom.  All those things I never want to forget.  If I say no to Judie, I would be denying their existence.  Because even though I'm not 2013 Brittany, I'm definitely NOT still 2010 Brittany.  I'm somewhere in the middle.

And if we're really being honest...that's where most people are.  Somewhere in the middle.  And I think that makes me relatable.  My 2013 testimony is awesome.  But I don't identify with that girl today.  And if I take a step back, I'm not sure that many people would.  And how would that help?

I believe sharing your testimony serves several purposes.  First of all, it's personal.  It's like a memorial.  It reminds you of where you've come from, what God has done, and who you are as a person.  And that's important.  Second of all, it's public.  It shows other people what God is capable of doing in a person's life. Third of all, it lets people know that they are not alone.  All 3 reasons are extremely important, but I am a strong believer in reason number 3.

Number 3 is what gives me the confidence to speak truth, even when it's embarrassing or shameful or difficult.  Because people need to know they are not alone.  I believe that this kind of vulnerability literally saves lives.  So I do it.  Even though it's uncomfortable and itchy.

So my 2013 testimony is on the pottery wheel slowly being shaped into something more representative of my life today.  Something I'm hoping at least one person will relate to.  I've read it out loud a few times.  There are moments when my voice shakes.  My eyes get damp.  My fingers tremble.  Sometimes it happens because I'm recalling a tough memory and sometimes it happens because I'm reading a scripture that just speaks so much truth that I can hardly believe the words are real.  I think both are important.

Overall, I think I'm feeling pretty good about where I am.  And it leads me to a fourth reason to share my testimony.  Because the preparation for it has spurred me into action.  Or at least contemplation.  It's brought to my attention the fact that there are some things I'd like to change about my spiritual life.  Life in general, even.  I'm not sure what that looks like, but I know what it DOESN'T look like.  And that's a start.

I like to think my story is inspiring.  The theme is redemption.  And I hope it's relatable enough that people think "hey, maybe I can get access to a miracle, too."  Because if I'm really being honest with myself, that is what my life is.  A miracle.  My God is a god of miracles.  And if one can be worked in my life, it can certainly be worked in yours.

A lot of people think they know my story.  But most of you don't.  You know pieces.  The ones I choose to share in an effort to drive home a point or paint a picture or explain a decision.  On the 25th I'll share the whole story and you'll see that the story really isn't mine.  It's God's.  The story of how he redeems the broken and heals the wounded.  How he makes something beautiful out of ashes.  And if you live around here, I hope you'll be a part of it and learn that you are never alone.

(this is a girls only event, so sorry dudes...maybe next time)

I don’t even know

I have this intense desire to write, but I don't really know what I'm writing about.  I have a couple of ideas, but no real direction.  So I'll just start and see where we end up.  Sound like a plan?

Last weekend we broke out the photo albums.  You know we're looking at old pictures when we're breaking out albums.  2 huge ones.  From 17 years ago.  Gosh that's an eternity.  And it is.  At least it feels like it.  It feels like an entirely different lifetime.

This time 17 years ago, we were finishing up week 2 of a 3 week trip to Australia.  The trip of a lifetime.  From the outside looking in, I was one lucky girl.  I was involved in an organization called Job's Daughters International and I had been selected to represent the young women of Maryland in 2002.  There was a lot involved.  It was a big commitment.  At the time I would have told you that one of the greatest honors and responsibilities was to compete in the Miss International pageant.  That year to be held in Australia.

I took my role as Miss Maryland Job's Daughter very seriously.  I was super involved. Very dedicated.  Extremely invested.  Everything you'd want in a Miss Job's Daughter.  And I desperately wanted to represent my state well in Australia.  A lot of people believed in me.  Put their confidence in me.  Thought that I had a fighting chance.  And so did I.  The pressure was immense.  A lot of that pressure I placed on myself, of course.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say there were outside pressures, too.  A great deal of it.

I don't know if I've ever told anyone this, but I made God a deal the morning of the Miss International Job's Daughter pageant.  I told him that if the interview, written test, and recitation would not win me the crown, that I did not want to be in the top 10.  I didn't want to have to answer that final question if I didn't have a shot at winning.  Well he held up his end of the bargain.  I didn't make the top 10.  And I'll never know if it was because I wouldn't have placed or would have been a runner up or if I honestly just wasn't good enough to make the cut in the first place.  And I'm okay with that.

You know I only have one regret from that trip.  And it's not losing the pageant.  And it's not disappointing my state.  My biggest regret is not having more fun.  For being so invested in a competition that I missed out on the ocean.  The architecture.  The wildlife.  And the billions of stars that I'll never see again.  Sure, I made memories.  I had fun.  I loved it.  But I can't help but believe that it could have been a more enjoyable experience if I had made the trip without the weight of a cape and crown.  Both literally and figuratively.

That's all I'll say about Job's Daughters today or any other day, really.  Because that's enough.

Anyway, as we sat looking at old photos, I was reminded of the promise that God fulfilled for me 17 years ago while halfway around the world.  And it makes me tear up.  It makes me think of all the moments I've felt God the closest.  The moments I was comforted by his embrace. And I'm not talking about a lost title.  I'm talking about hurt and loss.  Failures, divorce, illness, pain, motherhood.  Real.  Life.  Stuff.

And it makes me realize just how distant I am from him.  Now.  Here.  In this moment.  This year, even.

I've faced many struggles this year.  My bipolar, my eating disorder, and now this debilitating dizziness that makes me barely able to drive and causes me to miss work.  I can't even think.  I'm waiting a month for testing and answers.  All I can do is wait.  And cry.  And wait.  And have I called out to God even once?

No.

After all the times he's fulfilled his promises and comforted me in my pain and suffering, I have yet to turn to him in the middle of this trial.  And that's a difficult thing to admit.  Especially working in a church.

Why don't I do it?  Why don't I cry out?  I don't know, really.  I have no good answer.  It's not like I doubt his ability to comfort and heal me.  I don't doubt it at all.  I know I need him.  I know this distance is slowly killing me.  My heart is hardened and my soul is weary.  I know that.

Yet here I am.  Alone.  With no one to blame.  I'm the one choosing to be alone.  Failing to cry out for help.  Failing to admit my need for Jesus.

So here I am.  Ready.  Finally.  Crying out to my comforter.  Even if he doesn't bring healing to my body, I know without a doubt that he can bring healing to my soul.  He has before and he can again.  And that is what I truly need, isn't it?

I thought I'd write more about how awful I feel right now.  The injustice of it all.  How great my struggle is.  Blah blah blah.  But my struggle is really no more or less than yours.  So it's pretty pointless to write about it.  At least today.

I don't know where to go from here.  I've fallen away and then come back into God's presence enough times, you'd think I'd know what I have to do.  But I don't.  I'm open to suggestions.  Every time is different.

How we went from photos, to crowns, to struggles, to healing, to confession in only 1,000 words is really beyond me.  And if you've stuck around until now, I'm impressed.  So thank you.  Thanks for listening.

What I really want to say is that you all inspire me.  As I watch my friends live lives that echo the heart of Jesus, it makes me desire that passion for myself.  That relationship with my savior.  That intimacy that fuels a life worth living.  So thank you for unknowingly proding my towards Jesus.  Like I said; you inspire me.

Dancing

Well yesterday was Easter Sunday. Easter is my favorite holiday. The birth of the King is great and all, but there's something about His sacrifice that really strikes a chord in my soul. It's beautiful to me.

So I'm standing there in church and we're singing some songs. And I don't know why, but my natural position is to stand with my arms crossed. And suddenly I hear Lauren screaming in my ear.

When I was at Mercy, we started every morning with Bible reading, prayer, and song. One day after we were finished singing, Lauren walked to the front of the room and started in on one of her speeches.  She pointed out how many of us were worshiping with our arms crossed. She asked us how we could accept Jesus and open our hearts to him with our arms crossed across our chests. How could we truly be free to worship like that?

It really hit home with me. Every time I'm standing up singing, my arms naturally fold across my chest and I hear Lauren yelling in my ear and I quickly drop my arms to my side and open my hands. Ready to receive. Ready to worship.

And it makes a difference. It really does. It makes me listen to the lyrics. It reminds me of my brokenness. It encourages me to surrender. It lets me embrace the love of Jesus.

Crossing my arms creates a barrier. It's like I put this wall up. I don't let anything in or out. And that's no way to live.

And it makes me think: if I do this while I'm worshiping, whose to say I'm not doing it when I'm talking to a coworker. Or my daughter. Or my friends.

Whose to say I'm not living my life with my arms across my chest? Wall up. Armor on. Ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

Whose to say I'm not letting people in? Isolate. Push away.

Whose to say I'm not giving back? Selfish. Miserly.

Whose to say I'm not embracing the good? Pessimistic. Unforgiving.

Whose to say I'm not accepting love? Unworthy. Alone.

All because I walk through life with my arms crossed.

I think Lauren was talking about more than just worship when she gave her speech. I think she was talking about love and surrender. Which I guess is what worship is all about. So maybe she was just talking about worship. I don't know what was running through her head. But I do know that she was watching out for us that day. Because posture is important.

Worship is about love. It's about expressing and accepting love. You express your love for Jesus and you embrace God's love for you. It's as simple as that.

When I was at Mercy I was introduced to a worship team from Bethel Church. They perform some of the most moving songs that I have ever heard. Here are the lyrics to one of my favorites:

“You steady me
Slow and sweet, we sway
Take the lead and I will follow
Finally ready now
To close my eyes and just believe
That you won’t lead me
Where you don’t go

When my faith gets tired
And my hope seems lost
You spin me round and round
And remind me of that song
The one you wrote for me
And we dance

And I’ve been told
To pick up my sword
And fight for love
Little did I know
That love had won for me
Here in your arms

You still my heart again
And I breathe you in
Like I’ve never breathed ‘till now

And I lock my eyes
With the one who’s ransomed me
The one who gave me joy for mourning
And I will lock my eyes
With the One who’s chosen me
The one who set my feet to dancing

It’s nice to know I’m not alone
I’ve found my home here in your arms”

— We Dance by Bethel Church

This song is about a dance between lovers. And that's what Jesus is. My lover. He spins me round and round. He gives me joy for mourning. He sets my feet to dancing. I am not alone. And in his arms I am home.

The world tells us that we must fight for love. Jesus gives it freely.

So I will open my arms and let down my wall. I will surrender. I will let love flow in and out. And I will dance.

love each other deeply.

For a long time, the lock screen on my phone was set to be an alpaca photobomb.  I thought it was cute.  And it made me smile whenever I picked up my phone.  We all need more cuteness and smiles in our lives.

But about 2 months ago, I changed it.  I was skimming through the She Reads Truth app and found a download that I liked.  It was simple.  A white screen with black script:

"love each other deeply." -1 peter 9:8

So I said bye-bye to the alpaca and hello to love.

Little did I know.

The original purpose of this post was truly to talk about my lock screen.  I have no agenda.  I take no sides.  After all, I've said it before: my heart is too soft for sides.

But as I sit here--my heart yearning to speak of love--my flesh is torn to pieces.  Love has become a battlecry.  A fight word.

And I can't even write about it without wondering what people will think.  How my words might be interpreted.  Whether I will offend anyone.  Or if my message will even be heard at all.  Above all the yelling, how could it be?

One of the top trending social media hashtags these days is this:

#lovewins

I'd like to ask you a question.  Actually, I'm going to ask you 2.  And you might not like the resulting conclusion.

1. If you were to see this hashtag 2 months ago, what would your reaction be?  Got it?  Ok.  Next.

2. What is your reaction to this hashtag today?

I'm betting you just gave me 2 different answers.  Regardless of which side of the fence you fall on.

I'm not going to tell you how you feel.  I'm not going to criticize or judge.  I'm just going to put words to what's been on my mind.  And I don't really care what you think about me.

It makes me angry that there is so much tension surrounding the use of the word LOVE.  Of all words?!?!  LOVE.

Love should ALWAYS WIN!!!

Opinions around this issue are electrified.  Few people are going to change their minds.  I can practically guarantee it.  And, in my opinion, you're entitled to yours.  That's one of the great things about this nation.  We are each entitled to our own opinions and our right to express them.  But disagreement does not have to breed conflict.  Most people will argue with me, but I don't see this as a fight.

The dictionary defines love in this way: an intense feeling of deep affection.

It really is as simple as that.

But instead, we use it as a weapon.  A topic of debate.  A sensitive issue.  We attack it or we avoid it.  Rarely is it truly embraced.  And despite the proclamation that #lovewins...our understanding of the word has brought division instead of unity.  A word that should bring goosebumps and giggles is now laced with heat and tension and apprehension and fear and doubt and scrutiny.

Someone recently called me a runner.  Twice.  The first time, it was used as a weapon.  They told me I'm always running from things.  That I'm afraid to stay and fight for love.  They said it to hurt me.  And it worked.  The second time, it was uttered in gratitude.  They were glad I was a runner so that I would chase them down.

By its very nature, love is intense.  It can be exciting, captivating, consuming, enthusiastic, cheerful, gracious, terrifying, suspenseful, arousing, passionate, devastating, and thrilling.  Just to name a few.

Growing up, we're sometimes told that love makes us do crazy things.  And it's true.  Sometimes we do act irrationally in the name of love.  Which is why I'm not up in arms about this most recent sociopolitical issue.  Who am I to say whether or not your words and actions are born of irrational love or hate?  That's one call I'm definitely not making.

By now you may be wondering what my point is.  And truth be told, so am I.  I am not a politician.  I am not a biblical scholar.  I am ignorant and uninformed.  Today I take no stand.  I make no argument.  I rest no case.

I only say one thing: We are called to love each other deeply.  LOVE SHOULD ALWAYS WIN.

I Still Don’t Get Why I Do This.

It's 3:00 pm on a Sunday as I write this.  I'm sitting on the couch.  My cat is purring next to me.  And I'm wrapped up in a sweatshirt blanket in an attempt to keep the icepack on my hip from freezing me to death in the middle of July.  I still don't get why I do this.

I've been trying to write for a month.  A blog post.  A journal entry.  An email.  Anything.

Nothing.

And it's not that I don't have anything to write about.  Nothing could be further from the truth, in fact.

I sit down to write and I have absolutely NO IDEA where to start.  I'm living so much of life in this season.  How do you begin to explain it?  Yet I want so desperately to document every millisecond.  I don't want to miss a moment of what I'm experiencing.

I've started dating again.  It's been a whirlwind.  A rollercoaster.  An adventure.  As I was communicating with a guy the other day, I realized that most of our conversations include me  responding to at least one question with the phrase, "Well, that's a long story."

Finally it struck me.  My life is nothing but a compilation of hilarious and/or devastating long stories.

This week brought me to my knees.  But I refused to recognize it until I woke up at 4:00 am Saturday morning in the middle of a panic attack.  Although I didn't realize it was a panic attack until 12 hours later.  A panic attack?  I haven't had one of those in years.

When I find myself unable to write, I usually just start copying.  Quotes, that is.  I will read and write quotes for hours and hours.  Sometimes I have to rely on another person's words to reflect the emotions and experiences I'm immersed in.  I simply don't have the letters.  At least not in the right order.

It's frustrating to realize that it takes something drastic to slow me down enough that I remember to breathe again.  It shouldn't be this hard.  I should know better by now.  I run and run and run and run until I collapse.  I hold on and fight and grit my teeth and push push push until suddenly my strength fails.

Sunday: Fall down stairs and potentially jeopardize months and months of hard work.

Monday: Admit to physical therapist said fall.

Tuesday: Deny existence of said fall.

Wednesday: Confess to doctor said fall.

Thursday: Receive mixed signals from professionals about said fall.

Friday: Pretend that said fall is inconsequential.

Saturday: Legitimately forget about said fall due to all-consuming physical and emotional exhaustion.

Sunday: Acknowledge intense pain, stop fighting, and start treating said fall.

Mix in the fact that I'm desperately trying not to hurt someone I care about, taking on major duties of an out-of-town coworker, learning that a dear friend is fighting for her life in the ICU, and discovering what I am and am not looking for in a relationship.  I think it'd be kind of weird NOT to have a panic attack, you know?

Oh, and those darn meal logs.  After 9 months, I'm over them.  Much to the dissatisfaction of my dietitian.  But hey, I have bigger fish to fry.

Pain.  Joy.  Death.  Love.  Fear.

I was at physical therapy Friday afternoon.  I'm temporarily restricted from using the Arc Trainer for now, so they let me do the Biostep for some "cardio."  Cardio is in quotation marks because the Biostep is basically a modified recumbent bike for old people.  I'm sorry.  But it's true.  So I do 10 minutes on the Biostep, then do some strengthening exercises.  Seamus comes over and asks how things were feeling.  I shake my head.  He asks me what bothered it.  I start to choke up.  I point to the Biostep.

"This is PATHETIC."  I shake my head again.  "I was doing SO WELL, Seamus.  I was feeling stronger, I was feeling confident, I was...I was....  And I'm just so PISSED right now.  I'm sorry.  But I'm over it.  I'm tired.  I know this is just a set-back and I probably didn't do anything too horrible when I fell.  But I'm just really discouraged right now.  And it sucks."

You know what I like about Seamus?  He nods his head while I shake mine.  He doesn't try to convince me that everything is honky dory.  He doesn't tell me to turn my frown upside down.  Rick is like that too.  They share in my exasperation.  I can see they're just as frustrated as I am.  But they always end in, "We'll get you squared away."  Well, I don't know that I'll ever be square, but I do know I'm in good hands.  If they were going to give up on me, they would have done it 2 years ago when they still had the chance.

So it took a fall, an immense amount of stress, a 3:00 am irate phone call, devastating news, and a 4:00 am panic attack.  But I'm starting to feel like Brittany again.  And no, it's not just because I'm in pain.  Although I'm starting to feel like I won't know who I am without it.

The last 2 days have been rejuvenating. I've spent a lot of time alone.  I needed it.  I needed time and space to just be.  To take a 2.5 hour nap and sit outside for hours doing nothing but copy Story People quotes into my journal.  To finally decide it's not really worth it to sit in pain anymore, when I could be taking care of myself.  Until I eventually cleared my mind enough to come up with a few words of my own.

Although the last week brought me to my knees, it's the last month that has been nothing but crazy.  And it's gone from crazy good to crazy bad and back to crazy good again.  Sometimes in only a matter of hours.  It's exhausting.  No wonder I haven't had the time, energy, or words to write.  But through both the good and the bad, the crazy teaches me something new every day.  And that something?  It's usually about myself.  I get to know myself a little more each day.

Sometimes I get really frustrated.  I LOVE to write.  But it seems as if I'm only ever inspired when I'm in the midst of chaos.  I mean talk about a conflict of interest.  I'm beginning to believe this is something worth exploring.  Am I afraid to write about the good?  Or simply so caught up in enjoying it that I don't want to miss a moment.  Even if just to record its beauty.

I think I spent a lot of years believing that the "good" was always "too good to be true."  Why draw attention to the good?  You were only building a stage and spotlight for everyone to watch as everything went bad for you.

I don't have an answer.  All I know is that it's wrong.  All I know is that's no way to live.  Actually, the more I think about it, the more angry I get with the whole idea.  Embarrassed to experience the good that life has to offer?  If you're fearful of the good, then only the bad is a comfort.  And how twisted is that?

I'm tired of being comforted only by the darkness.  I'm through with only experiencing the good when coupled with shame.

People say life is both good and bad.  That's just the world we live in.

But guess what?  The bad doesn't have to be good, and the good isn't always bad.

There are more than 1 million words in the English language.  Why let ourselves be ruled by just these 2?

Use me, Lord. Use me.

There are people in this world that have no idea what they have done.  The significant role they have played in my life.  The way my voice cracks or my eyes tear-up when I think about them.  Speak their name.  See their picture.

These people marked the most painful pieces of my life with kindness.  Many will tell you they were just doing their jobs.  And maybe they were.  I mean, of course they were.  Obviously.  But their kindness...it overstepped the boundaries of obligation.

If you were to look at my life, you would see these people as peripheral.  You probably wouldn't identify them as major characters in my autobiography.  Or maybe you would.  Perhaps an outside eye would be able to see what I am continually baffled by.

The question I ask myself is always this: "Why?"

"Why did someone go above and beyond the call of duty to extend kindness to me in my darkest days?"

"Why does she remember me?"

"Why does he care?"

I've got nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

I usually try to earn a memory...the care and concern of others.  I work hard.  I'm friendly to others.  I try to be optimistic.  I'm a problem solver.  I like to be present and interact and become part of a bigger story.  I get that.  It makes sense to me.

But this doesn't.  This doesn't make sense at all.  Not one bit.

These people are from the seasons of life I'd like to erase.  Close my eyes and wish away.

But these people saw worth in those moments.  They wouldn't have stepped into my story otherwise.

Because being kind takes effort and energy.  Kindness is intentional.  You don't just fall into it.  You have to want to be kind.

I don't think it was out of pity.  Pity is transient.  These people are invested.  Years later.  Invested.  It's astonishing to me.

I know that a large part of it is simply a reflection of their character.  These people are just "those kind of people." The kind that remember your face and the name of your childhood dog.  Whose home is always open to a guest.  Who is passionate about their work, family, and faith.  Who lives intentionally.  With purpose.  In service.

They are.  They're just those kind of people.

But even they can't be that for everyone.  Even they must pick and choose.  Even they are faced with the decision: which person out of this sea of people will I invest in today?

So why?  Why me?

Suddenly I begin to see a bigger picture.  One that might sound prideful, but still, it must be said.

In those dark seasons of life, I did not even feel like a person anymore.  I was a shadow.  Death slowly swallowed me and hope drifted further and further away.

Yet still...from the shadows...my eyes must have reflected some light.

I thought it had vanished: my ambition, my determination, my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations, my diligence, my purpose, my strength.  I felt like a ghost.  An empty shell.  Whether I gave these things away or they were stolen from me...at the end of the day, they were as I: lost.

But it's impossible to loose your identity.  Your personality.  Your character.  For as long as my lungs breath oxygen, I will possess a unique aura that is distinctly Brittany.

We change.  We grow.  Some parts fade and others are nurtured from seedlings planted in our hearts.  But our identity...it's there.  It's constant.  It cannot be obliterated.  Despite our best and worst efforts.  We cannot be destroyed.

The Lord left some life in my eyes.  Although I was often unable to communicate using the spoken (or even written) word, He never separated me from my identity.  He was doing a great work within me.  He used those dark times to minister to my soul.  But while he was healing the broken pieces of my spirit, he left my virtues.  And every once-in-a-while, the light would catch a corner and they would sparkle.

But the sparkle was brief.  To have any chance of being noticed, someone would have had to be looking for it.  That's where those people come in.  The kind of people who look into a sea of individuals and pick a few to extend a hand of kindness to.

I may never know or understand the why.  And maybe that's a good thing.  Maybe it's better that way.

Even now--years later--these people still impact my life.  The words and acts of kindness they extended to me in the past continue to echo into my future.  Their occasional hello, comment, or smile...it sends me back into a tailspin of thankful reflection.

When I think of them, I am filled with gratitude.  When they think of me, I am filled with...purpose?  Value?  Worth?  Yes.  I am filled with purpose, value, and worth.  For who invests time and energy in a hopeless case?  Who extends kindness to a person without a future?

No one.

So what am I to do with this?  These people are walking around the world completely oblivious to the monumental impact they have made on my life.  And knowing these people...I can't be the only one to have been touched by their kindness.  A thank you just doesn't do them justice.  Trust me.  I've tried.

So I do the only thing I know to do.  I pay it forward.  I try to interact with people in a way that conveys the fact that they have purpose, value, and worth.  When they look at themselves in the mirror, I want them to see what I see.  Beauty.

A smile.  A ride to a meeting.  A cup of coffee.  A hug.  An email.  Whatever the Holy Spirit whispers in my ear, really.

So my prayer tonight is this.  Use me, Lord.  Use me.

So I Said No.

I'd like to say I'm sorry.

But not to you.

To myself.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I haven't written in a while.  I'm sorry this page has collected dust.  I'm sorry I haven't updated my plug-ins for a month.

I'm sorry I haven't been around.

I got swept up in another whirlwind.  My dreams are just so big.  Sometimes I get lost in them.

Last fall I started writing for a freelance agency.  I did a few pieces, then didn't really hear from them until recently.  Then the work started flooding in.  I was excited.

Perhaps too excited.

I kept saying yes.  I was afraid that if I said no, they wouldn't give me future assignments.

Until I realized that the work was flooding in because...well...they liked my work.  They need quality content.  I write quality content.  So they keep offering me gigs.

Fear gave way to the realization that I now had power.  I got to decide which gigs I took and which gigs I passed over.  The ball was in my court.

So I said no.

Flattery tends to get us in trouble.  As humans, we crave the words, "I need you."  We are so easily manipulated through compliments and admiration.  I'm just as guilty as the next guy.

We sacrifice what we love to do that which brings us glory.  We loose sight of the big picture.  We become dissatisfied.  Restless.

Restless.

You know, if ever there was a word that I would use to describe the overall theme of my life, it would be the word restless.

At times, I feel pursued by restlessness.

A lot of people will make accusations when you tell them you're restless.  "Oh, you're restless because you are not fulfilling God's purpose for your life."  "You will not be satisfied and content until you are in God's will."  Don't pretend you haven't heard it.  Or even said it.

I don't like that.  That makes restlessness a bad thing.  And--although it sometimes drives me crazy--I don't think restlessness is all that bad.

Yes, there are times in my life when I am restless because I am not seeking God's will for my life.

But I don't think that stillness brings contentment.  I don't think we're supposed to be satisfied.

I like that restlessness pursues me.  It challenges me to constantly evaluate my life.

Am I happy?  Are there things I'm doing that I don't want to be doing?  Are there things I'm not doing that I would like to be doing?  How are my relationships?  Am I the mother I want to be?  Does my work bring me fulfillment?  Do I feel that my life has purpose?

Being restless usually means it's time to start asking myself some of these questions.  The answers can be yes and they can also be no.  There is no right or wrong.  There's simply insight.  What I do with the insight I gain through my restlessness is really up to me.

Sometimes I'm ok to sit with it.

Sometimes I feel a sense of urgency; a need to make an immediate change.

Sometimes I simply find myself nudged into exploration.

There are times that my restlessness torments me.  "Why can't I just enjoy this moment and be satisfied????"

But then I stop.  I take a step back.  I look around.

In just the last 12 months alone, where would I be had I not experienced restlessness?  I would not have found:

• A new church to call home

• A new job

• New friendships

• A new car

• A path to healing for my hip injury

• Recovery from my eating disorder and depression

• Renewed relationships with family members

• Twitter

• My blog

• Freelance writing opportunities

• Buffer

• A date

• ...I could go on and on

And that's just from 1 year of restlessness.  There have been brief periods when I've been "content" (which in this scenario is simply the opposite of restless).  But the majority of this time has been spent in a state of restlessness.

Restlessness breeds productivity, satisfaction, joy, and growth.  It enriches my life.

I get comfortable too easily.  I need to be nudged.

So instead of asking for God to lead me out of my restlessness and into His will, I ask this:

"Lord, make me restless.  Pursue me.  Grow me.  Shape me.  So that I am never the same as I was yesterday.  Amen."

There Is No Us. There Is No Them.

I don't usually watch the news.  I find that if I turn it on, it's impossible to turn off.  And it's usually the same thing over and over again.  5 minutes worth of news lasts 3 hours as reporters and anchors tell the same story again and again.  It only fuels the fire and causes restless sleep.

I used to love politics.  Now my heart is too soft for it.  My ability to see multiple sides of an issue makes me worthless in a debate.  People are so passionate and I admire them and I used to be them and I get frustrated with myself.  I get frustrated because I'm not out there taking a stand.  Using my Facebook wall as a launching pad to change the world.  Shouting at the top of my lungs.

But I am passionate.  It's just that I'm passionate about people...not necessarily right and wrong.  I have morals and values and beliefs about the world and how we should act.  My passion used to come from rules that I created based on these beliefs.  Screw the rules.  I was never very good at following them anyway.

I'm not coming down on one side or another.  My heart's too soft for that.  So I'm doing the only thing I know how to do with this sort of passion.  I write.

I crawled into bed at 11 last night.  I tossed.  I turned.  Then I gave up and grabbed my phone.  Forget Facebook or Twitter, I went straight to my Notes app.  And this is what happened next:

We spend most of our lives learning to avoid and escape pain. Hide it. Deny its presence or influence in our lives. But we're wrong.

Pain. Pain is the great equalizer. I look at my world; both my tiny one and the one at large. I look at it tonight. I see it in the texts I exchange with friends. In the television coverage. In the fires. In my newsfeed. In the voices of the ones I love. Or the lack of voices...at times that's even worse.

Anger. Violence. Fear. None of it matters. All I see is pain. It destroys me. Pain in every heart. It does not discriminate. It is the essence of the human existence. It's the one thing that can be guaranteed.

Pain does not discriminate.

And I see it. In every face. Every voice. Every heart.

Please. Please. If we could just see each other's pain. I believe we could stop. I believe we could love. I believe tomorrow could be different from today.

But we've become masters of deception. We deny the existence of pain. So when it floods our lives...our cities...our world...we become broken. As if the world wasn't broken enough.

And so we watch as lives and buildings crumble. Paralyzed. Until all we have left is the inescapable call to face it. We see our pain reflected in the eyes of those around us.

Don't look at the fires. Don't tweet about broken windows and totaled cars. Take off the masks. Look up from your phone. Gaze into the eyes of PEOPLE. And I guarantee you'll find pain. And you will find yourself in the company of another human. Because all the time you spent avoiding pain left you stranded and alone. But acknowledging it enables you to enter into relationships again.

This is a chance to start over. Tomorrow is a new day. A day to grieve your pain and be blessed by its ability to strip away everything but the simple reality that each of us is human. That each of us has a story. A past. A present. A future. And although we experience pain, we are not commanded to be governed by it. Let it bring us together rather than tear us apart.

There is no us. There is no them.

Tomorrow can be different from today.

My “Last Chance”

I've talked about it before, but I'm going to talk about it again.  Because apparently it's a big part of my life.  You can't just ignore these things.

I'm 4 weeks post-op from hip surgery #7.  When people see me on crutches, they're all like "Wow, you're a pro!"  Thanks.  I've had a lot of practice.  But I sure would appreciate it if you'd hold the door open for me since you're just standing there with your arms crossed watching me.  I know I've perfected the technique of maneuvering through doors, but it's common practice "niceness" to help a cripple out.  Or so I thought.

Whew.  Vent over.  I didn't see that one coming.  Honestly.

Back to the topic at hand.

I initially developed my eating disorder following my very first hip surgery in January of 2005.  Ever since then, I believe that the 2 have been subliminally linked.  The eating disorder urges kick in when I'm stranded on the couch trying to let my hip heal from surgery.  Every time.  They're loud.  And this time is no different.

When I decided to have this final surgery, I was emailing back and forth with my physical therapist.  He had a lot of questions for me to ask my surgeon.  He also had a lot of questions for me to ask myself.  The one that I keep playing over and over in my head is this:

"Are you prepared for another lengthy recovery (physically, mentally, emotionally)?

I told him yes.

Was I wrong?  Was I overconfident?  Too sure of myself?  Jumping in blindly?

Should I have waited?  Should I have had more ED recovery time before signing up for even more surgical recovery time?

The answer?  Maybe.  But maybe not.

I think that the eating disorder thoughts and urges will always attack me when I'm weak.  I went 7 years in between hip surgeries 3 and 4.  I still found myself under attack.  So no, I don't think waiting another couple of months would have made this time any easier.

Besides, I think knowledge is power.  I know my tendencies and I was resolute to resist them when I signed up for this surgery.  It's easy at first.  Especially just discharging from ED treatment; I felt like I had some momentum.  Well that lasted for a good few weeks at least.

Then the monotony kicks in.  Boredom.  My motivation tanks.  I'm depressed and lonely.  Not hungry.  I'm tired of watching movies.  I don't want to sit outside. I don't want to go to sleep.  I hate myself for staying awake.  It's horrible.

Should I have thought harder when my physical therapist asked me that question?  Should I have said no?

Whenever you have surgery, they send you home with a discharge folder.  I would know, since I've had several folders in my lifetime.  I don't open them anymore.  I know what's inside.

Well one day...in my boredom...I opened the folder and found myself surprised.  First of all, I found a cute little card that everyone on my surgical team had signed...all the nurses, the anesthesia team, and my surgeon.  It wasn't anything super special, but it made me smile.

Then a little card fell out.

"Your recent surgery included the use of a LifeNet Health allograft: a gift of donated bone, heart or connective tissue."

What?  I had heard of labral reconstruction being performed using cadaver tissue, but I just assumed that he was going to use a tendon graft (like I'd watched on YouTube, of course).

That little card changed everything for me.  I had made all kinds of promises to myself.  "You have to take care of yourself this time."  "Don't let the eating disorder in."  "This is your last chance, Brittany."

But none of those threats hold a candle to that little card.  Someone died so that I could have this "last chance."  I mean, I know it's not a heart, liver, or kidney.  I don't want to be dramatic; I know it's pretty inconsequential in the big picture.  But it does make a difference.  A piece of someone lives on inside of me and it's given me another chance at leading a healthy, normal life.  Dare I say a pain-free one?

I'd like to say thank you.  To the family of whoever's labrum now lines my hip joint.  I want them to know that I'm grateful.  That no act is too small.

I've spent the last 6 months in treatment learning how to take care of my body again.  I know that it's important.  Very important.  I've always known that my body is "fearfully and wonderfully made."  But it's not just my body anymore.  Which makes it even more important.  Even more wonderful.

There are a lot of "blah" days right now.  I can't wait for the weekend, then I hate it when it finally arrives.  Part of that is because I have so many things I want to do with my life.  I feel trapped by impossibility.  But I have to realize that this is temporary.  What I do now will determine whether or not I'll be able to do all the things I dream of.

As much as I hate to admit it, recovery from this surgery is intertwined with recovery from my eating disorder.  I can't have one without the other.  It's going to take a lot.  Fighting is exhausting.  And so is resting.

But 2 are greater than one.  And I've been blessed with 2.  How lucky am I??? Not everyone can say that.

Fighting For Our Lives

I haven't written in a few weeks.  Recovering from this surgery is slow, boring, and depressing.  There.  I said it.  I've had no inspiration.

Whenever I find myself lacking in inspirational material, I usually try to watch a movie that's sure to stir some emotions in my heart.  So that's what I did last night.  And it worked.  The lightning bolts always start going off at 11:00 at night.  I was so excited to sit down at my computer and compose a post this evening.

Then today happened.  And right now...I can't make any guarantees as to where this post will end up.

I'm thinking about writing a "This Morning" post and a "This Evening" post.  How can the world change so drastically in less than 24 hours?

This Morning

I watched The Fault in Our Stars last night and I bawled.  I'm not going to take the time or space to explain the movie.   That's what Google is for.  But it has to do with teenagers and cancer...joy and pain...life and death.

As I was falling asleep, I began to wonder why the movie created such intense emotions for me.  Cancer has never really been a devastating force in my life.  Why did a story about this disease move me?

Flashback to the Fall 0f 2014.  It feels like just yesterday.  I was in treatment for an eating disorder.  Sitting in a circle in a group of women and men.  All fighting for their lives.  One woman started talking about when she first told her supervisor that she was going to have to take time off of work to seek treatment.

"I had scheduled a meeting with my boss and I walked in and her face was full of concern.  'Please tell me you don't have breast cancer.'  And in that moment--I know this is horrible--but in that moment, I wish I did.  It's horrible.  I didn't actually wish I had cancer.  But I couldn't help but believe that saying I had cancer would be easier than telling her I needed to be hospitalized for an eating disorder."

This woman is not alone.  Every head in the room was nodding in agreement.  How many times did my treatment team beg me to talk to my employer about going into a higher level of care?  And how many times did they ask me what I would do if I needed treatment for cancer?  And how many times did I say "that's different"?  And how many times do I have to be reminded that eating disorders are the most deadly of all mental illnesses?

Whether we're battling cancer or an eating disorder...we're all fighting for our lives.

In the movie, this teenage girl started going to a support group for adolescents with terminal cancer.  She didn't want to make any friendships.  She was there because it made her parents happy.  But she did.  She made friends.  Friends that changed her life.

I think of all the women I've met sitting in a group like that.  I didn't want to be there.  I didn't want to make friends.  I just wanted to appease my parents or my treatment team.  But something happens.  Something always happens.  And you meet a friend or 2 who end up changing your life.  Forever.

Maybe that's why I wept last night.  The authentic friendships you form while fighting for your life in treatment are boundary-less.  I don't care what disease is trying to kill you.

This Evening

My memory is crap, but there are certain things I can visualize perfectly.

When I picture her, I see this tiny thing perched on the steps at Mercy.  It was my first day.  I thought the adolescents had to go to Nashville.  She looks like she's 12.  Not 28.

Despite everything I grew to know about her, she'll always be that girl to me.  The bubbly girl on the steps welcoming me into this unknown house.  Smiling as she invited me into a truly transformational season of life.

This girl was a miracle.  A complete and utter undeniable miracle of God.  The way she held her head on graduation day as she described her journey through hell and back.  You never would have guessed.  She glowed with freedom from her past that only comes through the purest form of healing.

There's something you should know about my sisters at Mercy Ministries.  We spent 7 months of our lives together working through the most difficult "stuff" that the world has to throw at us humans.  Day in and day out.  There was no such thing as a superficial relationship.  Everything was raw.  Everything was authentic.  Tears were real and masks were stripped away.  Any friendship cultivated in that kind of environment with that kind of intensity and that kind of time is something unique and pure and precious.

I don't talk to my sisters often, but when I do, it's as if we spoke just yesterday.  And there's never an introductory "Oh, hey, what's going on?"  If we have 15 minutes to talk once every 6 months, we talk deep for 15 minutes.  Soul.  Stretching. Stomach.  Wrenching.  Deep.

This afternoon I received a text from one of my closest Mercy sisters.  She informed me that our mutual friend was told she only has a few months to live.  The bubbly girl on the steps.  The bigger-than-life miracle.  I knew she had cancer.  Still, I hadn't kept in touch very well.  And now we are here.

I don't know what to say.  I've reached the point in my post in which I usually come up with some profound statement.  Obviously, I find it a bit ironic that I went from watching a movie about teenagers dying from cancer to finding out that one of my dearest friends is suffering through a similar journey...all in less than 24 hours.  Ironic isn't the word.  I don't believe in coincidence.

But I don't have anything profound to say in this moment.  I'm just allowing myself to sit.  Pace through the last day forward and backward in awe of the intricacies of the universe...both the beautiful and the ugly.

The opening line of The Fault in Our Stars went something like this:

“I believe we have a choice in this world, about how to tell sad stories.  On one hand, you can sugar coat it, the way they do in movies and romance novels where beautiful people learn beautiful lessons and nothing is too messed up that can’t be fixed with an apology and a Peter Gabriel song.  I like that way as much as the next girl, believe me.  It’s just not the truth.  This is the truth.  Sorry.”

— The Fault In Our Stary

The miracle God performed through my friend's transformation at Mercy is not voided because of some disease.  Her life is a miracle, but we're still on planet earth.  If perfection was possible, we wouldn't need Jesus.  Some pieces of the human experience are so messed up that they can't be fixed.  At least not on this side of eternity.

Me and some of my Mercy sisters getting ready for a pre-graduation mall group!

Tonight

I weep tonight for the same reasons that I wept yesterday evening.  I weep for the authentic friendships I formed while fighting for my life.  Not because those friendships are vanishing, but because I am so incredibly grateful for their existence.  And--despite the pain--today I can say that they're deepening and flourishing.

Stick with me for one more movie quote:

“I am not a mathematician, but I do know this.  There are infinite numbers between zero and one.  There’s 0.1, 0.12, and 0.112, and...and an infinite collection of others.  Of course, there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between zero and two, or between zero and a million.  Some infinities are simply bigger than other infinities....  You know, I want more numbers than I’m likely to get.  And, God, do I want more days for [my friend]...But...I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity.”

— The Fault In Our Stars

It's true.  We each have a number of days.  And each friendship comprises its own infinity.  What we make of our infinities is up to us.  I'm eternally grateful for mine.

My friend is still alive.  She's excited to see friends.  She remains optimistic.  Despite the fact that she lives in a different state, I hope to be able to see her soon.

I don't want your pity and neither does she.  That's not the purpose of this post.  I want only one thing: to make the numbered days in her infinity rich with love and peace.

Everything They Told You About Following Is Wrong

It's true.  Everything they told you about following is wrong.

When I first decided to embark on this "serious" blogging adventure, I did a TON of research.  I researched various blogging platforms, hosting services, themes, color schemes, marketing strategies, networking sites...you name it.  In the end, I picked WordPress over Squarespace, JustHost over Go Daddy, and the Genesis Theme over everything free.  I made an investment and I must say that I have been satisfied.  All the time spent researching has proven to be very valuable and fulfilling.

There is one thing, however, that I have been disappointed in.  All of my research on the subject of social media indicated that I should select just one platform to focus on at a time.  I decided to submerge myself in Twitter.  I developed what I considered to be a pretty decent following.  Everything that I read told you to follow anyone who follows you.  So I did.

Sort of.  I added a few of my own conditions.  I don't follow anyone who still has an egg head profile picture and I don't follow anyone who has a bio that mentions purchasing 1,000 followers for $30.  That's just sketchy.

Then I started seeing a lot of unwanted content on my timeline.  Some of which were inappropriate, some of which were just annoying.  So if someone follows me, I tap on their profile and scroll through their recent history to see what kind of content they promote.  If it's inappropriate, I don't follow them.  If it's appropriate but I have no interest in their content, I follow and mute them.  If it's appropriate and interesting, I follow them.

I thought I had this Twitter thing down to a science.  I was following the best Twitter advice I could find while maintaining decency and relevance.  Perfection.  Until I encountered something I never ever heard about.

One day, I tapped to follow a new follower and received this message:

Blocked: You are unable to follow more people at this time.

What??

Apparently, each Twitter user is only technically allowed to follow 2,000 accounts.  In all of my research, I never came across this information.  Everything I read said something along the lines of "to gain followers, you must first follow."  This technicality stands in opposition to everything I read.

Twitter is very elusive in describing this 2,000 follow limit.  Some say that there is a super secret ratio algorithm.  The number of people who follow you has to be at least 80% of the number of people that you follow.  That's bologna.  I follow 2,577 profiles.  If this ratio was true, I would need to have a minimum of 2,062  followers in order to keep following additional people.  I have 2,341 followers.  There is no reason that I shouldn't be able to follow more people.  It's ridiculous.

There's a moral to this story and it honestly has nothing to do with Twitter or ratios or 2,000 limits.

It has to do with the evolution of what a "follow" means to me.

At first it was just a way of building credibility.  In order to land a freelance gig, businesses look at sample work and various statistics.  Social Media "Presence" can play a major role.  From this point of view, a follow is honestly quite worthless.

Following later became a way to meet new people and network.  Which means I'm more selective in who I follow.  Today, I view a follow as an endorsement.  If I follow you, it means that I believe what you have to say has value.  It doesn't necessarily mean that I agree with you.  I simply believe that you have something to contribute.

In addition to Twitter, I'm also on Instagram.  My Instagram community is a lot smaller than it is on Twitter.  Quality over quantity.  I unfollow people if I don't like their pictures.  Call me a snob.

I recently unfollowed someone because of a single picture.  The individual is an "It Works" consultant and posted a before and after picture of a young woman (It Works sells wraps that claim to shrink away fat, stimulate hair growth, and build strong, healthy nails...among other things).  On the right hand side was the "before" image with the "after" image on the left.  In the before picture, the woman was standing in the ocean, kissing her husband, with a small child pulling at her leg.  In the after picture, she was standing profile in front of a mirror taking a selfie.  There were numbers; she had obviously lost a significant amount of weight between the before and after shots.

But the part that truly angered me was the text.  Under the before image, the text said "miserable."  Under the after image, the text said "happy, happy, happy."

So when she was on vacation with her family, wading in the ocean, and kissing her husband...she was miserable.  When she was examining her reflection in the mirror...she was happy.

All because of subtraction.

We measure our satisfaction and joy using numbers on a scale rather than the quality of our relationships.  We're happier in our cubicles than we are on vacation because "at least we're more photogenic."

I'm guilty.  I do it all the time.  I look back at pictures and think, "If I was unhappy with my weight, I must have been unhappy with my life."  And sometimes it's true.  Sometimes weight and happiness collide, in the same way that sometimes the radio starts playing the song that's been on repeat in my head all day.  It happens.  But I can look back at other pictures, too.  "I look good in that picture, but gosh was I miserable."

Emotions and life satisfaction don't have to be linked to weight.  In fact, they shouldn't be.  Since when was that a thing?  It's something that's been bothering me a lot these days.  I gained a decent amount of weight while in treatment the last 6 months.  I won't be descriptive, but it was weight that needed to be gained.  That doesn't mean that I'm happy with it.  At all.  I've been "rehabilitated" and now I'm on to "maintenance."  They say this is the hardest part.  Sitting with it.  Not acting on symptoms.  I'd agree.  It sucks.  It's worth it, but it still sucks.

The other day I was flipping through the Bible that I used while at Mercy in 2012.  Tucked within the cover was a picture from a conference (the best women's conference EVER).  It was of me and several other Mercy girls.  I looked happy.  I remember being happy.  Genuinely happy.  And then I started thinking.  "Brittany, you know...in that picture...you actually weighed a little bit more than what you do now."

My hope is that one day, those kind of thoughts won't even cross my mind.  It makes me sad that weight enters into my train of thought when recalling happy memories.  But for now, that's my reality.  And this once, it might be a good thing.

I keep looking at that picture.  My smile is real, my skin is glowing, and I'm with incredible friends having an amazing time in room radiating God's presence.  I was happy.  It is possible.  And it has nothing to do with a silly number on a stupid scale.

I've never been one for vision boards, but I've been thinking about making one.  It would probably be a circle, because I find meaning in circles and this photograph would be at its center.  A daily reminder of the fact that everything I want CAN equal everything I have.  Right here.  Right now.

the struggle is real. FIGHT.

I don't think people truly understand why I write.  How can they, when I'm not always sure of the reason myself.

I never wanted to be a writer.  There were many things I've wanted to be:

• Oceanographer

• Lawyer

• Surface Warfare Officer

• President

• Doctor

• Artist

• Entrepreneur

• Forensic Accountant

• Professor

All of these careers were--at one time or another--a passionate dream within me.  These lofty goals drove me to be my best.  Unfortunately, they often got the best of me.

But writing?  That one never made it anywhere near the list.  Maybe that's a good thing.  Since my aspirations have a tendency to ultimately become my downfall, it's better that this remains a hobby.

I've had people tell me a variety of things about my writing.  And my life, for that matter.

Mostly, they say that I'm lucky.  Which floors me.  Lucky?  I'm sitting in 12-step meetings because I'm lucky?  Signing myself into treatment for the gazillionth time because I'm lucky?  Seriously?  You call this luck?

I can think of one situation in particular.  A young woman was confiding in me after a meeting.  She spoke of her struggles and the life-changing decisions that she was now faced with.  I shared with her my own experiences and she shook her head.  She told me we were different.  Told me that I'm lucky my life crumbled in the spotlight.  That I didn't have to hide my struggle because people saw it firsthand.  It was justified.  Understandable.  Accepted as a cruel twist in the plot that was my life.  She called that luck.

I don't know whether or not she's right.  There is some truth to her statement.  She made an undeniable observation.  One that caused me to think.  For months now I've been thinking.  Turning her words over in my mind.  In my heart.

They say that secrets keep you sick.  My life fell apart in such a way that there really were no secrets.  No hiding the destruction.  And maybe that was a gift.  With nothing to hide, I was able to heal.  But there's always something to hide.  Even in the spotlight there are costumes, masks, and makeup.  I'm certainly guilty of trying to act my way through life's great tragedies.  Yet still, she had a point.

With my luck comes a responsibility.  My struggle is accepted by many.  At times it is even respected.  Yet there are many who hide their struggles.  They are ashamed and embarrassed.  They feel their struggle is not justified.  That there is no satisfactory evidence for the legitimacy of their struggle.  They think they don't deserve support.  They feel unworthy of help.  Of healing.  Of freedom from their struggle.

No more.

I don't care what your struggle is.  Wether it involves drugs, alcohol, food, pornography, perfectionism, codependency, grief, or any other form of oppression.  Your struggle is real.  It is valid.  It is unique and sad and hard.  Man, is it hard.

You might not see the luck in your struggle.  And that's ok.  But at the end of the day, you have 2 choices: give up or fight.  I challenge you to fight.

I'm currently running a Teespring campaign.  I've designed a shirt that can be purchased in 3 variations: short-sleeved (grey for $15), long-sleeved (black for $18), and a hoodie (hot pink for $25).  The shirt was inspired by the countless people I've encountered who've decided to fight in the midst of their struggle.  People like you.

I'm hoping the luck that has allowed me to reach people through my writing will help bring awareness to a worthy cause.  That it's ok to struggle.  That mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of.  That you are justified and accepted in your struggle.  And that you have the power to fight.

The profit line is small on this campaign.  Half of the funds raised will be donated to organizations that provide healing environments for those who struggle with life-controlling issues.  The other half will be put toward the development of this website so that more individuals can come to know that they are not alone in their struggle.

I encourage you to become part of a movement.  Visit www.teespring.com/reali and order your shirt today!  The shirts will be printed and delivered in time for National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (February 22-28, 2015), but know that they were not designed solely for this event.  The shirt is representative of both my struggle and yours.

Thank you for your support of this cause!

If Only You Could See

It's funny how I can go a whole day receiving no texts, Facebook messages, or phone calls...then get bombarded when I sit down to paint my nails.  I mean giving yourself a manicure is hard enough, people.  Try doing so while engaging in 3 conversations at once...all while watching a movie.  It takes talent.

But I would never let those conversations sit unanswered.  I can't.

Suddenly, I'm transported to a time at Mercy.  My hardest week there.  Without a doubt.  We were blessed with the opportunity to share 2 days with a woman who had just released a book.  She spoke with us and shared the most vulnerable pieces of her own story.  She challenged us.  It was during the second morning of her visit that I received earth-shattering news.  I couldn't stop sobbing.  All day I cried like I've never cried before.  My counselor sat next to me while the speaker taught.  At one point in her teaching, the woman looked up and her eyes pierced my soul.  "You," she said.  "You have a soft heart."

More tears.  Where were they coming from, anyway?

Maybe it's my soft heart that overwhelms me with empathy and compassion when my phone blows up with messages from the hurting.  Those yearning for someone to listen.  With a love for these women who want to share their lives with me.

My Dearest Sister,

You are beautiful.  If only you could see.

See the flawless features of your face.  Your captivating personality.  Your laugh.  Oh, how seldom you laugh.  But when you do, it's glorious.  It fills a room.  Like your smile.  Your real smile.  Not the one you put on for the world, but the one that comes from a peace.  A peace that's so elusive.  I see the way you strain.  You twist and turn and grasp and cry.  If only you could see how close it was.  A state of rest.  The one you so deeply crave.  The one you deserve, despite your doubts.  If only you could see.

See that you are not alone.  That even as I speak to you, there are 3 others doing the same.  Expressing their state of brokenness.  Their shame.  Their hopelessness.  Their disappointment in what they've become.  You are not alone in your desperation.  In your struggle.  See the anger in my eyes.  The fire in my heart that burns with rage at the evil one who crushes your spirit and those of the ones I love.  If only you could see the lies.  That you have been deceived.  Oh how my heart breaks for you.  For us.  If only you could see.

See that the world is more than a shadow.  That you are more than skin and bones and blood coursing through your veins.  You have a heart.  A beautifully intricate heart filled with unique passion.  Talent beyond your comprehension.  You are an all-consuming radiant being.  Carefully crafted by an Almighty God.  If only you could see that "complicated" meant complex, not tormented.  Intricate in the most compelling way.  If only you could see.

See the light that is your life.  The darkness that would fill the world if you were not in it.  The richness you bring to the lives of those who love you.  See that you are loved.  Not for what you do.  For who you are.  See that perfection is a myth.  One that torments lovely women like you.  The trap.  Oh, the trap that leads to death.  Darkness.  See that grace covers everything.  That you are enough.  Now.  In this moment.  If only you could see.

See that you are where you're supposed to be.  That you are fulfilling God's will for your life in the present.  I see your yearning.  The way you punish yourself and wonder.  Oh, your restless heart.  It searches and searches and searches for answers.  The fear.  The fear that you are not where you're supposed to be.  That you made a wrong choice.  That you're on the right path.  See, sister.  See!  That every choice was a right one.  That you are always in God's presence.  Even in this season.  If only you could see.

See the end of the story.  The one that culminates in the ultimate victory.  The crown upon your head.  See that you are a princess; a daughter of the King.  Oh, the beauty of your character.  The loveliness of your heart.  The purity of your spirit.  That it's okay to yearn for more.  That you were never meant to be satisfied here.  That you were created for a different world.  A better one.  If only you could see.

See, my sister.  We are blind to the truth of our identities, yet we see it so clearly in others.  Believe, my sister.  That these words are true for you.  That you are beautiful.  Brilliant.  Radiant.  Unique.  Priceless.  That you are not alone.  Oh, if only you could see.  That the stories you hear are rare.  Embellished.  Edited and revised to convince you that you are not enough.  If only you could see my heart behind this letter.  That your story...your doubts...your loneliness...your shame...your restlessness...it is universal in a way that is devastating.  If only you could see.

See yourself in the mirror.  See the glow.  See yourself surrounded by your sisters.  Feel the love you have for one another and...for a moment...have compassion on yourself.  Let your love for others reflect in your own eyes.  See the truth and not the lies.  See the beauty within yourself.

See, my sister.  See.

This Time Around

I knew it would happen.  Still, I wasn't prepared.

I've spent a lot of my past in eating disorder treatment.  When I agreed to this intensive outpatient program, I knew the chance of seeing someone from my past admissions was high.  I was right; one of the IOP dietitians was a familiar face.

"You had a good run this time around," she said.

I didn't want a good run, I wanted a good life.

The words cut me to the core.

I swore I'd never go back there again.  I had been set free.  Jesus broke the chains of my eating disorder back at Mercy.  I claimed His victory over my life.  His light had cast out the darkness.

But the chains had dragged me into depression yet again.  I was back at the very place I had worked so hard to escape.

I had failed.

No wonder it took me so long to admit to a relapse.  It was shameful.  It was embarrassing.

I had disappointed so many.  My family.  My friends.  Mercy.  God.  Myself.

...or so I thought...

Anyone who has struggled with mental illness or addiction will tell you.  We all see and hear the stories of those who surrender their lives to God and are instantaneously transformed.  They no longer crave their substance or turn to their addiction as a coping mechanism.  The darkness is shattered with light.  Their transformation is radical.  Captivating.  The miracle is undeniable.

We yearn to experience recovery in such a way, yet the truth is most do not.  We think there's something wrong with us.  We wonder where we strayed.  We torment ourselves with guilt.  With shame.  As if our struggle isn't enough, we condemn ourselves for our humanity.

The world we live in is full of polar opposites.  Right and wrong.  Black and white.  Good and evil.  There is no middle ground.

Some chant the words, "Once an addict, always an addict."  But say this phrase in a church and you will likely come under attack.  "Jesus can set you free," they say.

"Your addiction is not your identity."

"The struggle is real."

"Surrender control."

"Fight for your life."

"Embrace your weaknesses."

"Stay strong."

My spirit is torn in 2 trying to decide whether to struggle, surrender, fight...be strong or weak.  And it doesn't matter what I decide.  Any choice results in failing to fulfill the others.  I will always come under attack.  Every choice is wrong.

Yet if I have any shot at recovery, I cannot stay where I am.  I must choose to move in a direction.  And any direction will do at this point.

So this is what I know to be true.  I am not anorexic; I have anorexia.  I am not depressed; I have depression.  My identity is not in a diagnosis, but in Jesus.

He HAS set me free.  I still struggle.  These 2 statements CAN coexist.  Although one can demolish the other, it does not always do so.  One gives purpose and the other serves one.  I cannot deny either.

The world demands that we step into the black or the white.  Rarely are we allowed to place both feet in the grey and stay.  Confidently.  It takes something special to do so.

We hear the perfect testimony and we immediately see the massive miracle of redemption.  We look at ourselves and we see only flaws.  But there are miracles within each of us.  Grace invades our lives every day.  Inviting us into another chance.  We are not set free to live perfect lives.  We will struggle.  We are set free to struggle WELL.

I DID have a good run, and I WILL have others.  Combined with the bumpy roads, my runs will comprise what ultimately becomes a good life.  Of this I am sure.

The Not-So-Christmas Spirit

"I feel like I'm out of control.  I have no way of channeling my emotions," I said.

"I was hoping your blog would help you do that," replied my mother.

"I can't write about this.  Not really.  I have called myself The Realistic Optimist, but I am anything but optimistic right now.  I'm drowning in darkness."

I know that my mother is wise, but she caught me by surprise when she looked at me and asked this simple question.  "Who are you to withhold your words from those who might need to hear them the most?"

She's right.  I was wrong.  And for that I'm very sorry.

I am The Realistic Optimist.  Sometimes I'm heavy on the optimism.  Other times the scale tips deep into the real.  I'm always seeking balance, but sometimes I fall short.

The reality of my situation hit me while sitting in Sunday school right before Christmas.  The rest of my family had already left for vacation and I was left in an empty house.  Our Sunday school class had been covering various individuals in the Christmas story.  This final week was spent talking about Herod.  The pastor leading our group asked us which of the characters we identified with the most in the story of Christ's birth.  We talk about Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise men.  Even the little drummer boy.  But rarely do we consider the role that King Herod plays in the greatest story on earth.

As we talked more and more about Herod, I came to the startling realization that there was no one in the entire Christmas story that I identified with more than King Herod.  It was everything I could do to contain my tears in that moment of revelation.

Every year after Thanksgiving, people refer to something called the Christmas Spirit.  It usually involves a joy of decorating, singing, and baking.  This year I experienced none of it.  I did not want to decorate.  I avoided Christmas carols at all costs.  And as for baking...and here's the "real" part folks...that just wasn't happening.  I'm knee-deep in eating disorder treatment and festive food is the last thing on my mind.

(That's right.  You read correctly.  Eating disorder treatment.  Today it may seem like I'm glossing over this radical life event, but I promise to address the issue in the near future.  For this story, however, you only need to know the nature of my struggle.)

Back to Herod.

While everyone else in the Christmas story joyously celebrated the birth of our Lord and Savior, Herod saw the event as a threat to his kingship--his power and control--everything he had worked for--his life.  The presence of Jesus in this world was a direct challenge to everything that Herod valued.

This year the Christmas spirit haunted me.  It burdened my soul.  It was not until that day in Sunday school that I realized the truth.  That the coming of Jesus threatens the control I've tricked myself into believing that I have.  My ability to control my food intake and body is an all-consuming illusion.  An illusion that brings me nothing but complete and utter misery.  An illusion that extinguished the true meaning of the birth of the King.  It robbed me of joy, left me in a perpetual state of exhaustion, and slowly drained the warmth from my skin and the sparkle from my eyes.  Yet I clung to my illusion and avoided anything that threatened its existence.  The thing I feared was the very thing I needed--the only thing that could save me--Jesus.

I'd like to say that this realization changed my heart and allowed me to joyfully celebrate Christmas with my family.

It did not.

Revelation does not always breed immediate change, but it does aerate the heart.  Which is exactly what I needed.

People often confuse the Christmas spirit with Advent.  They become blended together; a single entity.  But Advent is a season of preparation and anticipation.  It involves the heart and the soul, which means it might not always be cheerful or involve and upbeat melody.  For me, Advent meant observing my role in the story and realizing my devastation at what had become my reality.  In it's own way, the Advent season prepared my heart to realize the magnitude of what was to come: an all-powerful King who destroyed my very need for an illusion of any sort.

I know I'm a little late in sharing this story.  Most people have already begun taking down their Christmas lights.  We're going back to work and school.  Walmart is already filling their empty shelves with Valentine's Day candy.  But I thought it was a story that deserved to be shared.  Because I have a feeling I'm not the only person who found Christmas difficult this year.  Perhaps you don't have a heart like Herod. Maybe illness has shaken your world or a valued relationship has been destroyed.  There are many forms of pain that can keep us from experiencing joy.  Often our knowledge of this fact can be more devestating than the pain itself.  And that's ok.

It's ok to admit a hurt.  It's ok to feel sad.  It's ok to cry while everyone else appears to be laughing.

Because a King has come and the story has a happy ending.  The pain will not last forever.  This is not the end.

So cry.  Mourn.  Scream.

As long as you are breathing, there is room for a revelation.  One that will aerate your heart and provide a breeding ground for hope and renewal.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Wait.  He will meet you here.

Just Keep Showing Up

About a month ago, I was on the phone with a friend who I admire a great deal.  Actually, I must say that I admire all of my friends in one way or another.  Whether it's for their strength, character, vulnerability, or sense of humor, each of my friends has at least one quality that I personally desire to possess and grow in.  But I digress.

This particular friend  lives far away (I can say this without revealing their identity because, unfortunately, many of my friends live far away).  We don't talk frequently, but that doesn't mean our few conversations don't run deep.  We typically don't waste much time discussing the superficialities of life, rather we dig beneath the surface and address the core issues that we are experiencing on a day-to-day basis.  I believe this is want makes a true friendship.

It's no secret that I've faced some serious trails in my life.  I think everyone has.  Mine just happened to occur in the spotlight rather than the shadows.  I've been told that this makes me one of the lucky ones, but that's a story for another day.  During our conversation, this friend shared with me her recent struggle and her decision to work through the issue with a therapist.  She said to me, "Brittany, some days I don't want to go and I don't know why I even bother.  But I just keep showing up."

I laughed a little, not because it was funny, but because I thought she might finally understand a piece of my own journey.  The kind of piece you can only understand having gone through a similar experience yourself.  Our conversation didn't solve any problems or reveal the mysteries of the universe, but I think we both hung up the phone feeling a little less alone.

Her words have clung to me even now...more than a month later.  I think we all seek healing of some kind.  There are times we want to give up the fight; times we don't even know why we bother engaging at all.  But whether it's to a therapy session or life in general, we just keep showing up.  Sometimes we're fully clothed in armor and other times we hang our heads in rejection and exhaustion.  But we're there.

 5 Reasons Why I Keep Showing Up

1. It never leaves me any worse off.  Sometimes showing up to life or to an appointment doesn't seem to make much of a difference.  The things that cause us pain are rarely resolved in the short-term.  But I'm never any worse off as a result of showing up.  So I do.

2. It gives me something to do.  Having something on your mind is annoying, but not being able to do anything about it is even worse.  It can drive you crazy.  Showing up means you're taking action.  You might not be sure what the action is or what the result will be, but at least you're doing something.  It makes me feel better about myself.

3. I'm hopeful.  Not everyone has this reason; I've lacked it a few dozen times myself.  Today I'm here to attest to the fact that hope can be restored.  Lives can be transformed.  I've seen it and I've experienced it.  So even when I don't see hope in a situation, I am hopeful.

4. It's all I've ever known.  It's hard to break a habit, and showing up is one that's been etched into my character since youth.  If I felt unprepared, I took the test anyway.  If I was exhausted, I ran the race anyway.  If I was nervous, I recited my lines anyway.  If I was scared, I woke up anyway.  If I was weak, I asked for help anyway.  If I failed, I tried again anyway.  You might not see it in yourself, but I'd challenge you to search for it anyway.  If you're reading this, I'm certain you've had every reason not to do something...but done it anyway.  You keep showing up because it's all you've ever done.

5. I'm not ready to give up.  I've felt like a failure many times over the years.  Just when I think I've defeated a stronghold, I find myself under yet another attack.  It's discouraging.  I've had many opportunities to give up.  Some would say I've even had good reason to do so.  But you know what?  I'm not ready.  I still have fight in me.  Each time I admit my weakness, I find a little bit more strength in Christ and suddenly I'm back in the ring.  I'm not ready to give up because I know that the battle has already been won.  Victory is mine.  Who gives up a battle they've already won?  While I may have been called crazy a time or two, I'm not foolish.  So I keep showing up.

Before I close, I want to make one thing clear.   "Showing up" is not equivalent to "fighting".  You can still show up, even if you don't have much fight left into.  Showing up just means walking through the door.  Being present.  Engaging in the process.  Sometimes you're conquering dragons and other times you're crawling out of bed in the morning.  Either way you're showing up.  See, you're already doing it :)

Why do you keep showing up?

Why Crutches Still Stand By My Mirror

It's been 2 months since I've needed them, but my crutches still stand by the full-length mirror in my bedroom.  My daughter pointed them out to me the other day and asked why they were still there.  I didn't have a very good answer for that one.  It wasn't until later that I discovered there are actually...

5 Reasons Why I Still Keep My Crutches Handy

1. I'm lazy.  Part of the reason the crutches still reside in the corner of my room is that I've been too lazy to move them elsewhere.  It's just that simple.

2.  I'm scared.  I'll be the first to admit that there is a sense of fear involved.  I've experienced enough to know that pain does not discriminate between days or seasons.  My hip can feel just fine one day, then cause me excruciating pain the next.  When experience mixes with the unknown, a degree of fear is not a surprising development.  So it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

3. They're a part of me.  There have been long periods of my life during which my crutches were just another accessory that I wore daily.  Just as I clipped on my watch or slid on my Mercy ring, so did a grab 1 or 2 crutches to get me through the day.  All of my most necessary accessories are within arms reach of my mirror.  It's natural.

4. They inspire gratitude.  When I look at my crutches, I'm reminded that there is much to be thankful for.  There were lots of things I wasn't able to do while using crutches.  Most things that I could do took a lot longer to do.  One of the most devastating realities of being stuck on crutches was my inability to carry a cup of coffee.  Now that's a rough life, folks.  So when I see my crutches at the start or end of the day, I'm encouraged to think of life's simple pleasures that I am free to enjoy.

5. They remind me.  It's true.  Those crutches remind me that anything is possible.  Both the good and the bad.  The world will try to knock you down, but there's always someone who will carry you.  Setbacks are practically guaranteed and nearly always unexpected.  But they don't last forever.  In a way, my crutches symbolize Jesus.  I don't put them away because I don't put Him away.  I always need Him and I always look to Him.  Some days I lean on Him more than others and that isn't necessarily a bad thing.  It's okay to need some help guys.  Jesus would rather me lean on Him in painful circumstances than try to tough it out myself.  He's strong enough to bear the burden that weighs me down.

I know it's a mixture of simple, silly, and serious, but it's all true.  You probably won't see or hear of me stowing away my crutches in the near future.  They're an important part of my story and I can't say for certain that their role is finished in the plot that is my life.

What random item have you been reluctant to place in storage?

“Someone Should Have Warned Her”

It was my first day of training and there I sat in our team meeting.  The meeting had started late because I was late.  I was in a car accident the day before and had to rent a car that morning.  Not at all the way I had planned on starting my brand new job.

The meeting was unlike any other I'd been to work-wise.  We started off in prayer, then went around the room sharing how our weekends had gone. The women listened attentively as I shared the story my accident on Monday.  They shook their heads and said, "Someone should have warned her."

Warned me of what?

Well that requires me sharing a bit of the backstory.  One that very few people have yet to hear.

I recently began looking for a full-time job.  There were many factors contributing to this decision and maybe I'll address them in a future post, but it is not today's mission to defend my decision.  I wasn't desperate for work--I had a great part-time job--so I didn't want to settle for the first job that I came across.  I trusted that the right job would present itself, even though I continued to be impatient.

Meanwhile, it turns out that my blogging has served as a vehicle for reconnecting with distant friends.  After reading one of my posts, a friend reached out and we got together.  We live less than 20 minutes apart, but rarely see each other.  I let life get in the way of that.  After spending an afternoon together, she invited me to her church that weekend.  My family had flirted with the idea of visiting some other churches, so we embraced the invitation and gave it a whirl.

I'm so glad I was vulnerable and wrote that post.  I'm so glad my friend read it and texted me.  I'm so glad we got together.  And I'm so glad she invited me to her church because it just felt like home.

We found ourselves there for a second Sunday and my dad leaned over to me and pointed to the bulletin: there was an advertisement for an accounting position at the church.  I composed a cover letter and submitted my resume that afternoon.  I didn't have the experience, but I had some skills and figured there was nothing to lose.

Later that week I had an interview, then there was a second interview, and before I knew it I was on the phone accepting an offer for a staff accountant position at the church.  There are a few other pieces to the story that make things even more interesting, but I'll just say this: only God could have brought things together in this way.  I would have been a fool to refuse.

So with a story like that, what should I have been warned of?  What did they forget to tell me during the interview process?

Well it turns out that even though I'm working in the business office, my career is still rooted in ministry.  We're working for the kingdom of God, which makes us prime targets for the enemy.  In accepting employment with the church, I was accepting a degree of spiritual warfare.  Although devastating, apparently my car accident the night before my first day was really no surprise to my coworkers.  It simply comes with the territory.  Someone should have warned me.

But I don't think a warning would have changed my decision very much.  And the accident certainly didn't cause me any regret.  I know no job is perfect, but this one is about as close as you can get.  I thought I would have to compromise.  I loved my job at the college and thought leaving to seek full-time work would mean I'd have to settle.  There would be no way I could find the kind of nurturing, challenging, and fulfilling environment that I experienced at CCC.  But I was wrong.

God has blown my mind yet again.  He does so much more than merely provide for me.  He blesses me beyond measure and I'm continually astounded.  And he does it in these beautifully intricate ways that let me know how deeply He cares for me as His child.  I don't want to come across as noble and important, but the price is one that is worth paying.  I've been desperately praying for purpose and meaning.  He answered my prayers.  I'd rather be doing work to further His kingdom and paying a small price than piddling away my time and energy settling for whatever comes along.

The people I'm working with are incredible and the environment is rich with passion.  I know there will be tough times, but I also know it's worth it.  I'll remember how blessed I've been and lean into Jesus for the strength to pull me through.  The hard days are made a little bit easier when you know your work has purpose.

There has been a lot of anxiety throughout the last 2 weeks.  The stress of the unknown combined with limited amounts of sleep will do that to a person, I'm told.  But I believe things will settle out as I move forward.  God has brought too much together to let anxiety rip things apart.

If there's anything I should have been warned of, it's the overwhelming love and support I've felt this week.  My last day at CCC was emotional.  My boss, coworker, and former professors all surprised me with a farewell lunch.  It was so sweet and thoughtful.  A bittersweet day for sure.  My new boss brought me a beautiful flower on my first day of work.  The support and encouragement have been amazing.  I couldn't have asked for a more loving transition; once again reassuring me of the fact that this step was the right one to take.

My life felt like it was falling apart in August.  I decided to take a break from school and I actually feared I had refracted my hip.  Life hasn't been all roses since then, I'm still struggling in many ways, and I really didn't see how things were inching towards this gorgeous season.  Someone should have warned me.

How have you been unexpectedly blessed in the midst of waiting patiently?

Stripped Away

Raw.  Naked.  Vulnerable.  This is how I feel.

Stretched to the max.  Out of my comfort zone.  At the breaking point.  This is where I am.

Crying.  Laughing.  Straining.  This is what I do.

In the past, I've written posts that draw the parallels between the lives of humans and rose bushes; I strongly believe that we must be pruned before we can grow.  I know that our lives have seasons, but what I'm experiencing is more.

Right now I feel like a tree.  I am stripped of all that flourishes.  The things that made me beautiful, that rustled in the wind, that provided a place of refuge for others, that protected me...my leaves have fallen.  I can hear them crinkle beneath boots.  While they no longer clothe me in brilliance, they provide joy for others as they jump into colorful piles of my former radiance with both feet.

I stand bare before the world.  Vulnerable to nature and the storms that threaten to overwhelm me, but strong nonetheless.  For my roots go deep and are nurtured in rich soil.  My vulnerability reveals the strength of the solid ground on which I stand.  It is good.

This feeling, place, and process is not without meaning.  With my leaves stripped away, I am free to see myself as I am.  Not as who I've imagined myself to be and not who I aspire to be in the future.  I see myself in the present.  Whole.  I make no judgement, but accept myself for who and where I am.  Now.

And that's when God begins to work.  Just as a tree must shed its leaves to give way to new life, so must I let go of defining characteristics to embrace my future.  God cannot bless us with newness until we have let go of the old.  We must be willing to sacrifice the beautiful in faith; trusting that the best is yet to come.

I am bursting.  While there are losses to mourn, the brightness of the future overwhelms me.  I am astonished at the blessings that are being bestowed upon me in my present condition.  In the past, this "raw" feeling would have destroyed me.  I would have been imprisoned by fear.

This week I've had several people ask me what has changed.  What allows me to function in these simultaneously joyful and sorrowful times?  That's simple: I've been set free.  I am no longer a captive of hopelessness.  The veil of darkness has been torn.  I've broken through the lies and I've seen the truth.  I still struggle.  I'm human, imperfect, and flawed.  But I struggle well.

The leaves on the trees turn lovely shades of red, orange, and yellow.  They fall to the ground.  And I'm reminded that we exist in a state of constant change.  I honestly wouldn't have it any other way.  It's painful at times, but I have no desire to stay as I am.  And the future is brilliant.  Transitions are scary and unsettling to say the least, but the tree doesn't die when it looses its leaves.  It lets the leaves fall because it knows there's newness in store.

God continues to strip away the comfortable to lead me into a greater story.

What does fall mean to you?