the hardest pill

My feet were dangling over the side of the doctor’s office pleather bed as I sat uncomfortably shifting from side to side. I could tell I was nervous because the noise from the piece of sanitary paper roll I was sitting on was constant. I don’t normally fidget, but my heart was racing. This was my one millionth visit to that doctor’s office in an unreasonably short amount of time. I had an inkling what was wrong, but it would be, quite literally, the hardest pill I’ve ever had to swallow.

When I was in high school, my youth group would give “awards” to every person at the end of our trips. It was a funny way to involve everyone and tell too many inside jokes. My senior year, I had to specifically ask to NOT receive an award that had to do with smiling, laughing, or being a Disney Princess. That was me; that was my identity. My whole life I have been the positive, calm as a cucumber one. If the glass wasn’t half full, was there even a glass? Everything was awesome and every idea was possible. Stress was something I heard about, but wondered if I’d ever feel it. Oddly, sometimes I would try to worry about something or force some faux anxiety, but that was entirely too much work for me. I just wanted to know what it felt like. I knew people admired my ability to let nothing phase me, but I thought I was missing out on something. In retrospect, that was a really dumb thing to wish for.

I don’t say all this to brag. I say it because those that know me, know what I’m about to say is tough. And for those of you that don’t, I need you to understand my background in order to understand where I am now.

I was a newlywed. I was buying my first home. I was working at a church I loved. Everything should’ve been hunky doory. But that day at the doctor’s office would change my life forever. That very identity I had rested in was about crumble. My doctor looked me in the eye and told me I was clinically depressed. The amount of questions that flooded into my head with that announcement was enormous. I couldn’t have imagined it. In fact, over a year later, I’m still processing it.

That wasn’t “me”. I was the happy one. With one prescription of antidepressants, he wrote off everything I knew as myself. My mind immediately skipped to how I could fix this, how I could hide this. I didn’t want people to know this new me. I liked the old one. Other people liked the old one. Who was this girl and what had she done with me?!

As I got in the car to pick up my phone to call my husband, I burst into tears which was normal those days. My husband had married the happy girl. My husband dated the “nothing bothers me” girl for five years. Now, he was getting a frantic, drowning in tears, panicked because of a pill girl. I know he loves me no matter what, but I couldn’t help but feel sad for making his life harder, too. The last year had been all about me: my health, my happiness, my feelings. What was going on in my head had quickly made me the most selfish person in our little family, and he was at the brunt of it. He quickly calmed me down, and reminded me that what was happening was an illness. The doctor had told me that serotonin had somehow drained from my body. I was sick. Jordan (my husband) said, “When you got the flu, didn’t you take medicine?” Well, yeah, but this was different. Everyone got the flu. By society’s standards, you got sympathy with the flu. With depression, you get pity. I had spent my whole life proving I was strong enough to need no one’s pity.

I drove back to work, sat at my desk determined to will myself out of this mess. I wasn’t going to tell a soul. Sure, I’d share with them I had some weird, unknown illness that was draining hormones from my body. But I was avoiding the big “D” word no matter what. That wasn’t me.

After picking up the prescription that I got only because Jordan wanted me to, I stared at the box for a long time. I don’t remember what I was thinking. I just remember I felt lost. I was lost for answers, lost for happiness, lost for any inkling of an identity. I read the directions at least three times as if a loophole would jump off the page. I didn’t take a pill that night like instructed. I waited until the next day. I had to build up the courage to swallow my pride and that pill.

Depression was an abstract idea to me. Sure, I knew about it. But even if I’d been around it, I saw the good in it. That’s how hyper-positive I was before. There was so easily a lesson seen when it was in someone else’s head. But when it was my own, I felt trapped. No matter how much a scratched, clawed, or cried my way to logical thinking, the ceiling of my happiness seemed to crumble with just a simple poke.

They don’t tell you how all-consuming depression is. It’s not something you can compartmentalize or escape for periods at a time. It’s like a gnat that you can constantly see and hear buzzing while still seeing the world around you. You just now see it through aggravation and annoyance. Everything becomes difficult. My social butterfly had its wings clipped with this illness. I felt like if I could avoid people, I could avoid them seeing the darkness in my eyes. I’ve always loved sleep, but my bed became not a place of rest, but my safe haven. I could cocoon myself away from people seeing the new me. Maybe I wished I was going to wake-up from a bad dream.

I remember one night, I laid on the bathroom floor almost convulsing in tears, gasping for every breath all because of insecurity. My attempts to mask my new being put me in a place to pit myself against every other girl that crossed my path. I’m surrounded by some incredible women, on purpose. But that very thing I thought I was using to insulate myself from harm with these women loving me and encouraging me, became the enemy’s easiest target to pull me down. All of the sudden, the rules of the comparison game I had taught high school girls to avoid for so many years were actually meant for me.

Jordan would hug me and love me through these dark moments. He would try to talk me down from hysteria and logic me out of crazy thinking. He would often ask, “Where did this come from?” My response was always so empty. “I don’t know.” Not only had a lost the identity of “me”, but I had lost control of “me”. I didn’t even know how to pull myself up. All I felt was a freefall. I read book after book of encouragement. I sought wise counsel. I did everything I knew how. But would find myself back in bed, craving to just be left alone. I became weary of fighting. My body starting to take on other physical manifestations of sadness. I started losing my memory. I started having panic attacks that would come out of nowhere. I started passing out. The more I fought, the harder I would fall. I would constantly remind myself I had no reason to be sad. My life was “perfect”. Then, I would tumble into a snowball effect thinking that I didn’t have a reason to be sad, why am I such a sad sap, why can’t I just buck up?!

I would have small victories along the way, but to other people they were normalities. I would get advice such as “just start doing things again like you used to.” All along, that’s exactly what I had been trying to do. But to everyone else, that was normal. Little did they know, I was using every ounce of energy I had just to sit in a room and have coffee with someone.

I wanted, and still want, to blame something. Jordan and I just started seeing a new doctor to make sure it couldn’t be anything else. The doctors have told me their theory on the cause. But I think I have to rest not in a cause, but in a reason. Everyday I wake up hoping to have an “ah-ha” moment of why the Lord put me through this. Everyday, I learn a lesson that is washed away with high tides of insecurity, darkness, and sadness. The Lord has been faithful by keeping me safe. He’s been faithful in still opening doors for me to love on girls. He’s been faithful that this season of my life happened while I have Jordan. No matter how dark I feel, I know my hand is being held even when I can’t see it. By a Hand so firm that even my doubts can’t rip Its grip.

The enemy loves that I haven’t shared this with many people. He probably has a big, nasty smirk that I bought into a lie that the stigma attached to depression should stick with it. He doesn’t get that power over me or the Lord’s faithfulness anymore. The dutch door of my life has been only half open for too long. I’ve sat in the dark with the blinds closed hoping for a miracle for too long. I want to pull the strings to let the Light in and realize that the “me” I was before wasn’t my doing, but His.

Not only did I start to avoid people, but I started to avoid and doubt the Lord. I questioned His existence, I doubted His character, and I pushed His Word as far away as I could. I don’t know why, but it just felt easier that way. I guess I thought dead branches felt better than pruning. Before this season, I had no idea how many lies of this world I believed. But it’s far more than I ever care to admit.

But despite the lies I’ve learned, I saw more Promises kept. I would like to say, “That was then…” at the end of this post, but I’m still in it. I used past tense up to this point for storytelling’s sake, but I’m still here. I’m still grasping at straws for lessons. I’m still trying to keep my head above water. I’m still trying to rebuild the spiritual disciplines mental illness destroyed. I’m still praying daily, hourly for my redemption story to come now. I’m still madly, deeply in love with a Savior that continues to save me. I’m still learning that that saving is not just once; it’s daily. I’m still learning that the character, personality and identity He gave me before, wasn’t because of me. But I’m still here; so I know He’s not finished with me.

line in the sand.

I have a few more lessons I learned in the hospital, but I'm a processor....and I'm still processing. But in the meantime...

Adventures seem to begin when you never would expect them. 

I started an adventure to read more, learn more, and write more in 2015. And I've loved every second of it. (If you're unfamiliar with She Reads Truth, you'd better acquaint yourself, because it's awesome.) I want to read the entire Bible in 365 days. Totally possible. Totally intimidating.  Lofty goals bring lofty expectations. And expectations of myself are always getting me in trouble these days. 

I was reading in John as a part of my 365-day reading plan, and I read a story that is so familiar. It is the story of a woman that was accused of adultery. Her fate: death. She was to be stoned to death for her actions though those stoning her had committed sins equal of the punishment she was about to endure. We know the end of the story.  She doesn't die. Because Jesus uses some of his incredibly articulate wisdom to speak a loving and graceful truth into the situation.  But there are a few things about this story that distracted my thoughts this time. 

1. The woman was brought to the temple specifically to test Jesus. They didn't just stumble upon this woman to ask Jesus a question.  They were hoping to catch Him without an answer. But that's impossible. He always has the answer. 

2. Jesus does something funny. In the midst of this little test, He bends down and writes in the sand. It doesn't say what, but he does it twice. I've heard several theories on what He was doing. 

Theory A suggests that He was writing the sins of those accusing her. He was writing an account of the knowledge He has of His people. He was teaching us again the lesson we learned in Sunday School: that he sees everything. And how much of a shocker would it be for this man to just start writing your deepest darkest secrets in the sand...in front of everyone. If that doesn't prove the point that He is an all-knowing God, I don't know what does.

Theory B suggests He was writing a message to the woman.  It was customary for women not to make direct eye contact with a man, and she had just entered a temple full of men. Needless to say, she was probably looking down...right where Jesus was writing. He was writing to her to say, "I've got this. Don't worry." 

I contemplated all of these theories for a while.  I tried to put myself in temple. What was happening?  How would any of this make me feel? Which theory was more probable? Were there any other clues in the words I was reading to help me identify the details? Was this in any way shape, form, or fashion normal?  

And then tears. 

I just broke into tears. Because I realized this was the story of my faith. I try to figure it out. I try to learn my way into salvation. I concentrate on the details. And lose sight of the bigger picture. 

I'm not saying anything against studying the Word being bad when it's in detail.  There's a wealth of wisdom to gather from Scripture's Cracker Jacks and hidden treasures. But the "what do I do now" and "what am I supposed to learn" thoughts that easily distract me should never cause me forget the bigger picture. 

The biggest picture is grace.  Jesus saved that woman's life. Even though she was guilty. That's me. He saved me despite my guilt. 

I want to study. I want to learn. I want to sharpen. But my prayer is that above all, I grasp grace. I remember grace. I show grace. I see the bigger picture...constantly.

shampoo decisions.

Jordan and I have this dry erase board that hangs on the side of our fridge that reads "What do we need?" at the top. It's a habit I picked up from my parents to immediately write a need (grocery, toiletry, etc.) on the board. This prevents nights when you go to the sink with the hopes of minty, fresh breath only to be met by an empty tube of toothpaste in the bottom of the drawer. The intent is when one of us goes to the store, we will first look at the board and pick those things up. Sometimes it's a success, and sometimes I'm too preoccupied with getting the milk I need for my cookies to be bothered to look at the list on the way out the door.

Jordan knows that if I put shampoo, conditioner, make-up or any other toiletry on the board, I'll get it. You see, I have a problem. Jordan is a brand loyalist. He has used the same Suave shampoo since I've known him. Occasionally, he'll switch up the scent. I am the opposite. I want to try it all, use it all, never have the same experience twice. Buried deep in my mind is the prospect that there may be something better out there. I am the loser that actually reads the labels of conditioner to find out its individual perks. (P.S. Why can't they make a shampoo, conditioner, or face cream that has multiple remedies at once? What if I have color-treated, curly, blonde hair?! I digress.) It takes a lot to captivate me when it comes to toiletries. I want things perfect...exactly the way I want them to be. I'm always on the lookout for the next best, or better, thing. I require serious captivating. 

As we spent two weeks coming and going from Vanderbilt Hospital (Story here.), I realized that the Lord has been trying to do just that. He's put just about every sign and roadblock in my way possible to point me to Him, to His purposes for me, to my obedience of Him, but I've been looking for the next best, or better, thing, knowing deep down none of it will satisfy. Sitting by Bill's bed three days after we'd made camp in room 5003 of the CVICU, I was more focused than I have been in a long time. Pouring out prayers and scriptures in my mind over Bill as I reassured him about every ten minutes that he was okay when he woke up, I felt the Lord just say, "Watch Me." I was sitting in the room with a miracle. The medicine and minds that it took to replace an essential organ in someone's chest cavity is mind-boggling. I was spending days and nights focused on the frailty of human life, the importance of relationships, and the brevity of time. It took a man's heart being ripped out to capture my focus. 

Just like my choices in facial cream, my life has held a consistent theme of "what's next?". I felt a call into ministry when I was seventeen years old. The Lord has been so faithful to give me opportunities galore for the ministry He has trusted me with. But I easily get distracted with the thought of perfection. I want to accomplish it all now...which is my own timing. My focus moves from accomplishing wins for Him to fighting the thorn of pride in me. I realized sitting by that bed, and hearing that whisper that was distinct and comforting that it takes perfection to captivate me. All too often, I let the enemy steal what I already know as perfection in Jesus and replace it with a need for myself to be perfection. I want to be captivated. I want to see perfection, but only through the blood of Jesus. 

I have the joy of sitting on a living room floor with some pretty awesome ladies once a week in a small group. Every once in a while, we split off from our husbands for some girl time. There was a part in a chapter we recently read together that felt like it slapped me right in the middle of my cheek. The author wrote about the Israelites, and how they were given laws, restrictions, and ways to live their life by God. It was designed to work. It was beautifully oiled, but then the crazy humans kept trying to stick their own gears in the machine, which obviously resulted in malfunction. I've been reading through the Old Testament, and every time that a chapter starts off with "...and again the Isrealites disobeyed...", I think, Come on, guys! Why can't we get it together?! Then, I want to take every mirror off the wall in my house so that I'm not reminded that that's me. God designed me, perfectly. God designed my purpose, perfectly. God's love for me is...perfect. I know this, believe this, but then try to stick my own agenda in the pile that leads to see even more imperfection in myself. It's a vicious cycle I have to rely on the Holy Spirit to give me the patience and self control to break. Perfection for me has already been accomplished. It comes in the form of a perfect sacrifice that took my place over two thousand years ago. 

In all of my indecision that comes from striving for an unattainable perfection, I fail to focus on what is truly captivating. It takes a lot to captivate me. But may my heart, eyes, and intentions not wander from He who is most captivating of all. 

before the junior prom.

The day my mom asked me if she could go on a date was one I'd never considered happening to me. At the time, my little brother and I were the only humans that inhabited the second floor of our home, along with our puppy, Chip, and some dust bunnies that came along with teenage kids. My mom's bedroom was on the main level. Because we were both old enough to get ourselves up and ready in the morning, it was a rare occasion that she wandered up the wood stairs before we left for school. I was seventeen years old and the only thing on my mind was a mint green dress with a black lace band around the middle that I was about to wear to my junior prom. When she wandered up the stairs early in the morning, I knew something was up. But when she asked, it didn't feel forced or uncomfortable, but definitely out of place. Only because I was the girl and she was the mom. I think I even said, "Shouldn't I be the one asking you if I can go on a date?"

We live in Smalltown, USA, so she knew she couldn't get away with just going and talking to us about it later. Because as it turns out, half of my close friends did in fact see her on her first date as an adult woman. They proceeded to ask me all the details at church that night. All I knew was his name was Bill, and he had oddly been coming by the church bookstore where my mom volunteered each week for some time. Apparently, he really liked to read. Actually, he really liked my mom.

Growing up, divorce isn't something you ever picture in your life. I envisioned my future family. I envisioned my parents being grandparents. I envisioned what it would look like to have my brothers as uncles, but never did I consider having a blended family. My mom and Bill dated for almost three years before getting married. Stepfamilies were also something I'd never considered, but they are now a part of my story.

My step-mom, my dad, my father-in-law, me, Jordan, my mother-in-law, my mom, and my step-dad. 

After Bill had his heart transplant, I began to see redemption on a much more real level. [This is the beginning of a series of lessons that came from here.] As I looked around the room, I saw my family, brothers, parents, step-sibilings, step-uncle, cousins, etc. As weird as we all are, we are family. We didn't come together as a product of something awe-inspiring or even righteous in the eyes of the Lord. Divorce wasn't God-designed. But what the Enemy intended for brokenness, the Lord redeemed for good. Isn't that the story of grace? I come to the Lord out of brokenness, out of darkness, out of my flesh. And He redeems my situation, my hurts, my hangups, my mishaps, my mistakes for His glory...ultimately for good.

I love that I serve an all-knowing, powerful God that can take a broken family and create something new. Something that encourages me; something that pulls me closer to Him; something that teaches me constantly about His glory; something that takes me away from a belief in coincidence and points me to Jesus. That's the story I now hold as the one of my family.

In the book of Genesis, Joseph is sold into slavery by His brothers. It was a bad sitch. I'm sure he felt alone, lost, and hopeless. The devil loves us in that place. He can convince us of anything when we feel we are without help. If you continue reading, that wasn't the end of the story. Joseph goes from slave to prisoner to second to Pharaoh. He ends up feeding his brother and keeping the family that betrayed him alive. Sound familiar? Jesus went from helpless infant to ostracized nomad to criminal to saving you, me, and every person, present and past, from loneliness, brokenness, slavery that comes with sin.

Before Joseph dies, his brothers apologize. And he forgives in the most eloquent, faithful way.

"Do not fear, for am I in the place of God? As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive..." (Genesis 50:20)

The evil that the Enemy intended for my family and I through divorce was righted by an incredible Father that is a leading and loving head of His entire family. Joseph's brothers were fearful of the future, but Joseph had seen his life as a beautiful picture of the Lord's constant care.

I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in the God's providence. My mom, who was timid to ask me permission to date Bill, had no idea that Bill was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. She had no idea that when she said "in sickness and in health" that meant changing pick-lines for medication and spending weeks of her life in the hospital. It's no coincidence that my mom, with nursing AND physician's assistants degrees, married Bill.

Although being a part of a family that had to use the word "step" when referring to each other was something I never considered, the Lord used it as the ultimate Teacher that He is...for good.

Redemption and the Lord's providence are real. I have seen the Lord's constant care for me and my family, the whole family, and can tell you without a shadow of a doubt not to fear. Because the Lord provides a place of freedom, shelter, and goodness.

just a normal day.

I'll never forget that day.

Mom was leaned up against the desk in a polka dot dress. It was fitting for her. In the midst of one of the scariest days of her life, she was dressed in polka dots. She is always cheery. She always sees rainbows instead of rainclouds. There we were sitting in worn-out pleather chairs watching her answer the unmanned surgery information phone in the lobby of Vanderbilt Hospital. We watched her body language, evaluated her countenance, and waited.

She put the phone back on the hook. No one breathed. We were far enough away that we couldn't hear what she was saying through the tears. But Evan, my step-brother, was standing next to her. All of the sudden, he yelled something. And we knew it was over.

--

I was eating dinner at a friend's house before we were going to mosey across town for a Bible Study, just like we did every Monday night. Usually, we'd come home afterwards around 9 p.m., brush our teeth, watch some T.V., shower, snuggle and doze off to bed. We thought it was just a normal day.

I'd just ran in the 90+ degree heat and was still in my running clothes, unprepared for what was about to come through my husband's phone. We sat down for dinner, and ate, rushing because we were going to be late. I'd left my phone in the car, which I never do. Jordan got a message that he read to himself, and carefully placed the message next to my plate with a blank stare on his face. I read these words:

"I'm on the way home to get Bill and take him to the hospital. We got a call and there's potential he will have surgery tonight or tomorrow. We are on standby."

My mom always used proper punctuation in her texts. But her ambiguity in this one was quite out of character.

My mom married Bill when I was nineteen. I wasn't sure how I felt about having a step-dad at first, but, then again, I hadn't met Bill. He has had heart problems since I've known him. A pile of pills on the counter wasn't unusual after Mom and Bill got married. He'd been through a lot, and this text was vague. We'd been waiting for Bill to get a heart from the transplant list for fifteen months. It had become something we wished would happen, but were kind of losing hope that it would any time soon. He was still healthy, minus that heart and the battery operated pump that took the place of his left ventricle. The pump was put in in April of 2014. It had become customary to have two people jump up to grab a replacement battery when we heard the beep of the LVAD machine that was strapped around his waist indicate a low battery.  He was still going to work almost everyday. Days were normal. In October, we'd received a similar message. This one was from Bill himself asking if Jordan and I could run by the house, get some things, and meet him at the hospital because he was being admitted. That one wasn't for a new heart, just a malfunction in the LVAD. So when this message from my mom came, I wasn't sure what kind of surgery was going to occur in the next 24-hours.

I called my little brother, who sounded more alert than ever. He said they were getting Bill's things together and waiting on Mom to get home from work. This was it. They had a heart. It was just a normal day that had gone wild with no prior indication of its ending.

Jordan and I finished our meal, drove home, packed bags full of toiletries and board games (just in case), and headed south to Vandy.  When we got there, the family was using the waiting room for its intended purpose, and didn't have any answers for what was about to happen. This wasn't a normal day, and we had no idea what it held.

--

"HE'S GOT A NEW HEART!"

That was the yell that came out of Evan's mouth drowned out slightly by tears of joy when my mom hung up the phone for the at final surgery update call. After what was the longest 28 hours of our lives, William Speight Thomas, Jr. successfully received a heart transplant on Tuesday, July 21, 2015.

That day, that week, was a whirlwind of emotions, and lessons, that were carefully guided by the Hand of our Father.  The surgery in itself was a miracle. The doctors quite literally ripped his heart out. And he was alive to tell the story. We had many sleepless nights as he slowly, but surely, progressed. There were times we were scared, times we were joyful, times when Mom was so bored that she held his hand while playing Candy Crush on his stomach on the iPad. We had a routine that week. I'd stay with my mom at night, and then around 9-10 a.m., everyone else would show back up from their various places of staying with coffee, breakfast, and quiet voices. We made jokes about what sarcastic, outspoken Bill had to be thinking while he couldn't talk on the ventilator. They had set our expectations that this surgery would be easier than the LVAD surgery. Bill was walking the halls of the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit 30 hours after that surgery. Three days after the transplant, he was deliriously unresponsive to commands with a tube still breathing for him. Our expectations were rocked.

I thought a lot that week about life in this fleshly body. I thought a lot about family and community as people poured in the room to pray with us, bring us food, just sit with us. I thought a lot about diseased heart, and what it truly takes to make it clean.

I've been in one of the weirdest seasons of my life. Just read my last few posts. I feel like I'm constantly grasping for a lesson, and the Lord is faithful to always put one right in my face.

I drink everything through a straw. I mean everything...water, soda, orange juice, coffee, everything. At my house, the straws are currently located on the third shelf of the cabinet closest to the fridge right about the cups. You would think that is conveniently located. However, the box is laying on a bag of smoothie straws (yes, we do own multiple varieties), which makes it almost fall out every time. It is also slightly above my reach. Meaning every time I go to grab a straw to sip something delicious from my precious Mason Jar tumblers, I literally grasp at straws. On the toes, fingers extended, sometimes on the counter, reaching for whatever I can get. While I'm struggling, I think to myself, "Maybe I should find a new place for these." But then, distracted by the desire to get whatever I've poured in my cup into my mouth as quickly as possible, I shut the door and move on, only to be met by a Jenga game of straws each time it reopens. That's how I feel my lessons have gone lately. I see the solution, I know the answer, I feel the lesson, but I close the door and move on.

That day wasn't any different.

Over the next few days, I'm going to document those lessons. Because I don't want to make sit back and close the door once again. I don't want to put the God that constantly surrounds me with protection and faithfully is the bold, consistent Teacher that I need on the third shelf just to close the door. I want Him prominently and easily accessible to continue molding my heart.

May distractions no longer take my focus. May it not take life shattering events such as this for me to recognize His presence. May my experiences always lead me to His providence. May my heart beat for Him alone.

Stay tuned.

that white dress.

For me, it was my wedding dress. But for most people it happens before that. 
It was two weeks before my big day, and I decided I was going to starve myself. 
    

You can get by only eating like 150 calories a day. Just drink lots of water so you feel full. 

In all actuality, I drowned my self conscious thoughts in Fraps and Firehouse Subs.  I at least got the light options. 
It had hit me. The comparison bug. Like a mosquito creeping into my sheets, I didn't even know it was there until I'd been bit six times where it itched the most. I wanted to be the most beautiful bride, but not even for myself or for my husband to think I looked good. 

Mainly, crazily, I was thinking about what other people would think once they saw my pictures on Facebook. I admit that with every bit of embarrassment I have in my body. 

I grew up on top of the world in a sense. Confidence was something that came naturally to me. My parents thought I was awesome...so I thought I was awesome. I wooed people in school, extra curricular activities, personal relationships, church, etc. I never struggled to get noticed. Not that I thought I was the most beautiful person in the world, but self esteem was not a low point for me. 
Looks are an obvious topic of discussion when it comes to confidence, but my adolescence was also a tale of stability in who I was as a person, my character, my integrity, my sense of humor, my purpose. I often found myself not able to relate to people that constantly spoke from a jealous heart.  I didn't understand why girls brought each other down, trash talked each other's decisions, and made life so difficult to live contently. I was satisfied with who I was. And for the life of me couldn't understand why everyone else couldn't be, too. 

I think that was God's way of teaching me that peace is possible, contentment is obtainable, and confidence is in Him. 
I grew up. And slowly, but surely, that sneaky little devil of the Enemy stole my joy, killed my confidence and destroyed who I was, who I was created to be. I zipped up my wedding dress, pinned in my veil, and thought, good enough. Before heading out the door to meet my hunk of a groom. 

As time went on, I wondered what happened to me. How did a confident girl like me snowball into this shell of discontentment? The more I compared myself to others, the more I compared others to...others. The more I wanted to see myself through a "Nashville" filter, the less I saw the good in others. If I couldn't see the good in myself, how was I ever going to look at the girls around me and see the beauty in their spirit, the shine in their soul and the radiance of their character.

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe in redemption.  

I don't believe in myself. I am human. Why would I? But I believe in the Spirit of the God and the abundance of gifts I undeservingly inherit.  That confidence that seemed to disappear with a bat of my eyelashes was a gift that I failed to recognize. 
Nine times out of ten, conversations I have with girls about struggles in their lives are of the comparison-type.
    

• I don't understand why MY family has to the broken one. I just hate watching other families be perfect. 
• I can't be friends with her when she has this boyfriend. She doesn't have time for me.
• We're both up for homecoming, and all of the sudden I'm being treated like dirt.
• This group of girls is going to make me popular. Don't you understand?  The things I'm doing aren't stupid. They're productive to my social life.
•  #thighgapgoals
•  If I could just hang out with that crowd... 
•  I'm not content with my life. It's not fair. So I've started to cut myself to feel a release, any relief, from the pain.

We approach each other through the same lense that we see ourselves. I'm not pretty enough, skinny enough, popular enough, funny enough, so why should she be? Why does she deserve it? Why can't I have it? 

And thus the state of girlhood today is born.  We lose heart in ourselves. And think that by wishing, wanting, provoking, gossiping, fixing, Pinteresting, we can bring something to ourselves, even if it means we steal it from each other. 

I lost heart in who I was. God created me with a passion and a purpose. And with a beauty that is the joy of bearing His image. I forget that everyday. I see myself the way I'm told I need to because of what other girls say, do, act. I started to believe the lie that others, or even myself, get to decide who I am, not the Lord.

I have this hope. A hope that we, girls, can rally for revival. A revival of the nurturing, loving, joyful creatures we were put on this Earth to be. There is a trove of untapped potential in all of us just waiting to break out. A treasure chest of individuals that were woven together in this story of life with unique qualities, beauties, and joys. 

I once asked some of the Godliest, most captivating women I know to write a letter to their teenaged self. All of them had a common thread: be unashamed of who you are. They weren't afraid to be, well...themselves. They found the courage to be who they were created to be. None of them said it was easy or that they didn't fall. But they all were women marked with a courageous heart to be themselves in a world full of girls comparing them to everyone else. They found peace and contentment in seeing their friends through the same view they saw themselves: unrepeatable and beautifully made. 

We don't get to do this life again. My hope is that the cry of our girlish hearts is to see ourselves as our Father sees us: an image-bearing princess to the Almighty King. We would find peace in the image we bear and the courage to live knowing we are one of a kind. Maybe, just maybe, then we'd be able to spread joy like icing. Glopped, messy, but sweet and delicious. 

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world. -Jesus (John 16:33)   

senior girls.

They showed up every week with Pop-tarts, Duck Dynasty cups, and a guilty look for being late. A large, creepy portrait of Mrs. Doyle stared at us in the corner. It was at 7:00 a.m., and none of us were morning people. I was often dressed in an oversized shirt that I'd slept in, and some Nike shorts. But they were there, every week.

Emily, Summer, Tori and Megan taught me more in our small group that school year than I fed into them. We laughed, drank our coffee out of whatever cup we found first, shared happies and crappies, and grew closer to Jesus. Sure, I was ten years their senior, but being an upperclassmen put them in this place where they wanted to capture the world, explore every aspect of their faith, and jump head first into adventure. It was so refreshing, exhilarating. We went through typical girl times when they didn't get along, had slumber parties where they laughed at my grandma pajamas, and struggled through tough life events; but ultimately learned what it was like to love each other in Christ's name.

I'd take a bullet for any of them. I'm 170+ miles away now, but if something happened to any of them, you best believe I'd be on a plane, train, automobile or even a bike headed their way immediately.

Each of the girls were given something so special and unique. They had an inheritance from the Lord that was evident.

Tori

Tori was the hostess. She never came to small group without some sort of breakfast food and drink which she would always offer to share. Hospitality was her love language. She always wanted to make you something or give you a gift.

Megan

Megan was the lover. Not in a weird way. But she was so in tune with the people around her. She made sure everyone was included, and loved. She was selfless beyond belief. She had this keen sense to make everyone around her feel welcome. She was goofy, but it just made her even more endearing.

Emily (and special guest, Peepaw)

Emily was the glue. I don't think she realized it. But she was the one that held us together. She knew how to break any awkwardness and help us move past it. She always had questions. And always wanted answers. She was an explorer and an optimist.

Summer

I remember the biggest lesson I learned (and am still learning) from one of them. Summer stood up in front of her entire youth group of 150+ people and told them they were worthless. It was so abrupt and true. Hearing it come so clearly out of a seventeen-year-old's mouth was piercing...in the most beautiful way. She was courageous and had a message: you need Jesus. In a world where we feed girls feel-good sayings and Pinterest-perfect quotes about being your best, Summer stood for something counter-culture. That's how Summer was. She made waves.

As I mentioned before, I am in a season that is new to me: one of uncertainty in my purpose and personality. I feel like I'm being pruned to be something other than who I have been. It hurts. Having branches of "me" stripped from my being isn't pleasant. I've always strived to be selfless, but recently have felt Selfishness rear an ugly, sneaky head into my thoughts, actions and being. I prided myself on being selfless. And there in, lies the problem. I prided MYSELF in being selfless instead of seeing selflessness as reflecting Jesus. (As you read this, selflessness is a great thing, but not when it became an identity that I made for myself despite the ultimate selfless example we find in Jesus.)

I've been told my whole life that I can be anything, do anything, am the greatest, and any other positive to Me spin you can give. I am an optimist, and I believed every bit of it. We all look for a ways to "fix" ourselves and humanity. We see what everyone else has or does, we see other people's partial lives and think our's is in trouble. Thus, self-help and be/do great lessons occur.

As Selfish has moved in, he brings his rancid friend, Jealousy. I see people that are selfless, and my heart wants that back. So I force myself to act selfless, and acting doesn't come from a genuine place. And the snowball effect commences. Selfish, Jealousy, More Selfish, More Jealousy. Instead of focusing on clearing the forest that I've been given as Joshua told the house of Joseph in Joshua 17, I look at other's inheritance, gifts, talents, personality, and try to write it in to my own script. I judge myself. I tell myself I'm good. I tell myself I need to be more, be less, do more, act less instead of selflessness being an overflowing of my heart that is focused on my need for Jesus.

Paul speaks to the Corinthians in chapter 4 of his first letter and says this:

"But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. For I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby acquitted. It is the Lord who judges me."

Paul has pretty much told the Corinthians that they're big babies in their faith for three chapters, and then he pulls out this. He says that it matters VERY little (he'd be lying if he said not at all) that he is judged by people. And then he says something that feels like a sucker punch to the ribs. "I do not even judge myself."

It's not my place to even judge myself, because, as he goes on to say, he's not aware of anything, but we're human. There's something to be judged about, because as Isaiah 64:6 says "our righteous acts are like filthy rags".  How can I judge myself when what I think is good, is worthless? My flesh doesn't have a scale to judge with, because what I think is good, isn't.

He goes on to say this:

"...brothers, that you may learn by us not to go beyond what is written, that none of you may be puffed up in favor of one against another. For who sees anything different in you? What do you have that you did not receive? If then you received it, why do you boast as if you did not receive it?"

He jam-packed these few lines with an avalanche of insight. I tell girls "Comparison steals joy", meaning if you look at everyone else's edited self versus your whole self, you're going to be disappointed. But Paul says here that comparison game is a double-edged sword. He says don't go beyond scripture to tell yourself you're awesome, because I'm a worthless sinner without the blood of Christ. My purpose is from Him, my personality was formed to reflect Him, my passions are given from Him. The beautiful, joyous parts of me, are nothing without Him. I inherited grace, mercy, love, freedom, and an abundance of gifts by accepting Jesus as my Savior. Why do I then boast at the things that were not God-given, but forced actions because of what I want people to see? Why do I see myself as an exception that I have to work for something, strive for something instead of clearing the forest of my heart?

Summer, you are right. I am worthless. I need Jesus. I need Him to continue cutting off limbs that are dead. To strip my pride so that His purpose will rise. I need His selflessness to be what is seen in my life, not my own.

Here's the pen, the page, the ink and even my hand. Write my story, Jesus, to be Yours, merely Yours.