The View From the Stage

I did it may be one of the best feelings in the world.

And today, that’s all I felt. I walked across a big stage and shook a lot of different hands, and was given one of the most important pieces of paper I will ever receive. It’s funny how years of work and frustration can boil down to just one moment. An entire college experience wrapped up in one sheet of paper. Three and a half years culminated in a walk that took less than ten seconds. Even the act of walking felt mundane; I felt more like dancing.

I held onto that paper for dear life. I never wanted to let it go.

It’s just a symbol, of course. My real degree will be delivered in the mail within the next couple of months. But the accomplishment is real. The smiles and the hugs from my family and friends are real. The fights and struggles I’ve lived through are real. I guess that’s what this post is: a celebration. A victory cry.

Today represented more than an academic accomplishment for me. It’s a celebration of everything else I’ve overcome–anxiety, depression, fear so crippling I thought I would never be able to breathe freely. I’ve fought hard. I’ve struggled. I’ve shed the person I used to be like an old skin that I had outgrown. I grew past damage and trauma and crippling mental illness. And now I’m here. I did it. 

I’ve described the issues I’ve dealt with as looking like mountains—they were so big, I had to tilt my head back to try to see the peak. At the time, nothing had ever looked so terrifying. I thought I could never climb to the top. But I started walking anyway, eyes always on the next step right in front of me. I never realized how close I was getting to there until I raised my eyes and the sky looked like something I could reach out and touch. The things that used to terrify me didn’t get smaller, I just got bigger. And suddenly, the mountain isn’t scary anymore. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. I never imagined how beautiful a mountain could look when you’re standing on the summit.

It looked a lot like the view from the stage.

I’m not done growing; I’ve still got more mountains to climb. I can’t wait to get started.

~Becca

For the Wesley

It’s funny how, when I began college three and a half years ago, I never actually thought about the eventuality of getting a degree. In the same way a six-year old never worries about how they’ll pay taxes someday; it all just seemed so far-off.  I just went to classes and picked a major, like everyone else did. It didn’t feel like there was a concrete end goal. It felt like it would never happen, until it did. Here I am, twenty-three years old, walking the stage to receive my degree in less than two weeks. Suddenly, it’s not someday. It’s now. It’s almost here. The future always sneaks up on me so quickly.

For the most part, it all feels like routine. What’s naturally supposed to happen. Par for the course. I’m doing the same things every college graduate does–I’m job-hunting, I’ve met with my advisor to be sure all the paperwork is set and I’m good to go, I’m picking out a quote for my cap decoration. But not everyone has the goodbyes I do. Not everyone has the Wesley.

If you’ve talked to me anytime in the past two years, you’ve heard mention of the Wesley. I call it a lot of things. “My church group.” “The campus Methodist outreach.” Sometimes, simply “my friends.” I call it those things because I don’t know how else to define it. To call it what it is. I never refer to it as “home,” or “the center of my universe,” or “the place that put my life back together.” Not out loud, anyway.

Of all the goodbyes that come with graduation, the Wesley is the one thing I find myself at a loss with. How do I find the words this group deserves? How do I find a way to communicate what my life has become because of the people I met there, or how lost I would be without them? What can I say that contains the magnitude of “I couldn’t have done any of it without you,” or “thank you for saving my life?” This is the dilemma I’m faced with.

When I say that almost everything good in my life came from the Wesley, I’m not exaggerating. I walked in the doors of the building for the first time in September of 2015, a much different and less loving person. I was alone in the worst way possible. I woke up alone in an empty dorm, I went to classes alone, I ate alone, I didn’t have anyone to tell goodnight. When something funny happened, there was no one to text. When I wanted advice, there was no one to ask. I had alienated myself from every single person I had cared about, had pushed the big red button labeled SELF-DESTRUCT, and then taken the best cover I could, which in no way protected me from the blast. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left. Nothing but dust and wreckage.

I was angry, hurt, and confused. I had torn my life up from the roots because something in me knew I desperately needed to, but in no way was I prepared for the immense nothingness that was left behind. This girl, doubtful of everyone she met, was who first encountered the people of the Wesley.

My first impression was that they were loud. Unnecessarily so, I would think as I tried to stay in my corner of the couch, buried deep in a book. They talked all the time, to each other and to me. I tried to maintain my distance, but it didn’t last long. The people of the Wesley don’t believe in quiet or isolation. They pulled me out of my bubble, they started conversations with me until even I could see it was no use trying to huddle behind a book. Suddenly, I wasn’t spending lonely nights in the dorm. I was out with my new friends, getting pulled along on adventures in big, shining cities I had never seen before. They never left me alone, they wouldn’t let me stay quiet. They opened their hearts to me, and then they listened when I was ready to speak back. It was the most relentless love I had ever encountered. It was thoroughly annoying. Until it was wonderful.

Under that kind of acceptance, change was inevitable. I couldn’t stay the same bitter person I was before I met them. I couldn’t stay wounded when they made me laugh until my sides hurt. I couldn’t be lonely when I was falling asleep on a different friend’s couch every night. With them, I could heal. I could grow. I could be better.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened. There was no single shining moment of blinding clarity when I was A Different Person. Or maybe it was that there were too many to choose from–one thousand beautiful moments of clarity. Memories filled with city lights and melting ice cream and loud music and driving with the windows down and rooftop conversations. And, for every single one of them, I emerged from it just a little bit better. My smile reaching a little more of my eyes, my gait just a little bit lighter. The love of Jesus had never been a reality to me before, but the Wesley made it almost tangible.

I don’t know how to thank someone for making me all the good things I am today. I don’t know how to thank someone for changing everything. I can’t say thank you enough to the people who saved my life. I sincerely wish the language existed. But there are times when even I must admit–words have fallen short. I could spend years looking for them; I could write a novel trying to chase the rights words down. Or I could just settle for thank you. And I have so much to remember. And I love you.

You carried me. All of you, whether you realize it or not. You carried me when I couldn’t walk on my own, and then you helped me stand. When I thought God’s plan for me was the last thing I wanted, you proved me wrong. You are the reason I can walk–no, run–into the next chapter of my life. For that, I will never stop being grateful.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

~Becca

Belize, Day 1: Every Shade of Different

So far, everything I’ve seen of Belize is colorful.

Everything is green, or blue, or pink, or yellow, or something in-between. Everything is vibrant. The plants, the buildings, even the people. A Sunday church service consists of a dance performance, upbeat music that makes it impossible to stay still, and a big community lunch afterwards. Corozal is a tiny town perched on the edge of a wide blue bay, and the waves sound like the entire world taking deep breaths against the shore. The wind is constant, and it feels like it’s trying to take your hair out of your ponytail. Buildings seem close together, almost leaning into the narrow, dusty streets. Everyone here smiles, and whenever cars drive past our hotel, we can hear music blaring from the open windows.

Windows are always open here. There’s no such thing as a closed room – it would feel too stuffy without air-conditioning. Instead, the breeze is allowed through, carrying the smell of saltwater with it. Buildings are designed for the open air, with doorways propped open and windows facing toward the wind-filled sky.

The Wesley mission team has been here for just over a day, and I already feel like I’ve seen every shade of the rainbow here. We’ve eaten lots of chicken and rice, made friends with local schoolchildren, and swam in a sea none of us have been to before. It’s a ragtag group of around twenty college students and a few Wesley staff members, eager to see and do and experience as much as we can. But above all, we want to serve. Each and every one of us is here because we love Jesus, and we want to be put to work doing something useful. Painting a church, repairing a playground, putting time into friendships with kids we never would have met if it weren’t for this trip. We’ll only be here for a week, but we want to leave behind something that will benefit the people here.

What do I want out of this trip? Primarily, I want to learn. There are so many people in the world whose experiences are different than mine. They have stories to tell and things to teach that I wouldn’t find anywhere else in the world. Here, there are kids who learn five different languages in school. There are missionaries who have traveled to every country imaginable. There are people who have never left this foreign country I’ve never been to before. There is so much difference. What better place, not only to serve and work, but also to sit and listen?

Belize is different. It’s one of the most interesting places I’ve ever been. I have so, so much to do and learn and see here.

As I write this, I’m curled up in a hammock on the patio outside the hotel room I’m sharing with three of my friends. I can hear the waves in the bay just across the road, and the voices of the small crowd at the bar downstairs drifting up on the wind. Cars trundle past on the bumpy road, and stray dogs bark and passersby. It’s been a long day full of new things, and I can’t wait to find out what tomorrow has in store.

~Becca

Thank you so much to everyone who made financial contributions that made it possible for me to participate in this trip. You’ve made a huge investment both in my life, and also the people I meet while in Belize. 

 

To the Best Friend that I Lost

Hey.

It’s been a while. There are so many stories I wish I could tell you. You always were good at listening to my stories, whether over coffee, at the gym, or on a walk. You were the one person I could always depend on to hear what I was saying. And you had the best stories to tell me, too.

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but I couldn’t find the words. Every time I tried, I just found myself staring at an empty screen, watching the cursor blink at me. It’s amazing how an absence can say almost as much as a presence.

There are so many things I miss about being friends with you. I miss your goofy texts, and your crazy, off-the-wall stories, and the fact that I knew you’d pick up the phone no matter what time it was. I miss how we pushed each other to be better, whether on the running track or in school or just in life. I miss how I could tell you anything in the world, and it never shocked you.  But there’s also a lot that I don’t miss. I don’t miss having to compete for your time, or fight for your friendship. I don’t miss knowing I was your second-favorite. I know that’s not fair, but the way we feel rarely aims toward fairness.

You know how good I am at holding grudges. I was mad at you for such a long time; maybe I still am a little bit. You broke a promise. I wanted so badly to stay your friend, but everything spiraled out of control to the point where I had to walk away. And you let me. For the longest time, I couldn’t see past that one incontestable fact. All of our talks, our openness, the trust we had that seemed to happen like magic – all of it amounted to nothing. When it came down to it, I wasn’t the one you picked. I was the one who was shut out and left behind. I didn’t think anything would ever get me to forgive you for that…until a few months later, when I was the one who was forced to cut a friend out of my life.

It was the most unforgivable thing I’ve ever had to do. I wouldn’t wish the situation on anyone – my hands were tied, and I was forced to hurt someone I cared about. Having to cut someone out, block their number with no chance to give an explanation…it was the last thing I wanted to do. And yet it was my only option.

I won’t tell you the circumstances that led to that decision. The story would be too long and heartbreaking to fit in 1,000 words or less. But the lessons it taught me can fit into less space than a paragraph: I learned that you can hate yourself for doing something, but still believe it’s the right choice. I learned that there’s sometimes a bigger picture that can’t be explained. It’s hard to stay angry at you for hurting me when I’ve committed the same crime.

I don’t know quite what this letter is. Maybe it’s an “I forgive you” mixed with “I get it,” with a little bit of “I’m sorry” thrown in. As much as it hurt, I think it might be for the best that our friendship ended where it did. We had learned everything we could from each other, and it was time to go learn in different places. And I think I’m finally starting to understand why you made the choice you did.

I guess I wanted you to know that, when our paths cross and I leave the room or refuse to make eye contact, it’s not out of anger…not very much, anyway. Mostly, it’s because it still stings to look at you and see a wall where I used to see nothing but trust. But I understand. And I hope you’re doing well.

Filios.

~Becca

“I Choose Recovery”

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

Isn’t that what everyone says? They make it sound so easy. As if the first step is the only step; as if simply naming a thing makes it go away. I’ve found that’s not always true. Admitting you have a problem is only the beginning of a very long process. Facing up to your struggles only shows you how much you have to deal with. And I have so, so much to deal with.

The admitting came hard for me. It also happened when I was least expecting it – I was spending time with a friend one evening, and I had him read a piece of poetry I’d written about struggling to open up to someone. He said it was a good poem, and we discussed it for a few minutes. Then he read it again, and he did something that stuck in my head for days afterward: he looked at me with a gentle smile and said, “There’s the bitter, cynical Becca I know.”

I spent days trying to figure out why that bothered me so much. It was said jokingly, with no intent to hurt. And he wasn’t exactly wrong, either; I did tend to be pessimistic about trusting anyone I didn’t know extremely well. So why couldn’t I get those words out of my head? Bitter. Cynical. Closed-off. Scared. Then I realized that I didn’t want those words to apply to me. I didn’t want my close friends to think of me that way, as a closed-off, angry person. But what was making me that kind of person? I started thinking about choices, and all the ones I was and wasn’t making. I was choosing to hold all my old wounds and scars close, to let them bleed and fester. I was making the decision to stay hurt, and not to let myself heal. I was too scared to even admit how much I had to heal from.

Naming your damage is such a hard thing. But you’re never going to grow until you do it.

I decided to choose recovery. Recovery from what? From lots of things. Anxiety. Abusive relationships. Believing I’m not good enough. Carrying around my brokenness. Panic attacks. Depression. Feeling like it will never get better. Everything I’ve ever been through that I’ve refused to deal with. I choose to get better; I choose to leave it all behind.

But what exactly does that mean? What is this thing I’ve chosen?

Recovery can mean a lot of different things to different people. For me, it can look completely different from day to day.

Recovery can feel like a victory. A few weeks after that late-night conversation, I attended an event on my college campus called Dear World. Participants wrote a message on their body, carefully picking the words they wanted to say to the world, and then posed for pictures to be posted online by the school. I rolled up the sleeves of my hoodie and wrote the words “I CHOOSE RECOVERY” across my arms. It felt good to tell the world this thing that I had decided weeks ago. I felt empowered; I felt strong. I had chosen to look to the light at the end of the tunnel, and I was going to get better.

The day after the Dear World event, I left a movie with friends early because I couldn’t stop shaking. I could feel a panic attack coming, and I knew it was going to be bad. I tried to make it home before it started, but I only made it into the parking lot of my apartment complex before I broke down. I realized that sometimes, this is what recovery looks like. Sitting in my parked car, hoping no one could see or hear me hyperventilating. Chest heaving and mind going a million miles an hour, racing between a thousand terrifying thoughts. It’s not always a victory. Sometimes recovery is as ugly as a panic attack late at night when no one is around to help. Sometimes it looks like smeared mascara and trying to get your breathing to slow down with counts of eight. Recovery can hurt almost as much as what you’re recovering from. But that’s not all recovery is.

Recovery is the best choice I could have made. Recovery is choosing to hope, to believe that it won’t always be this way. It’s getting back on your feet no matter how many time you’re knocked over, and taking another step towards the light at the end of the tunnel.

Recovery takes work, and it doesn’t happen right away. Coping techniques have to be explored and learned; therapy takes time and energy. It’s a choice you have to make over and over again. It’s an uphill battle, and it doesn’t happen in a straight line. There are times when I feel like I’m taking two steps back for every one step forward. There are times when I question if it’s even worth it. It hurts to heal. Digging out an infection isn’t an easy thing, and pouring on antiseptic stings. Growing won’t always feel good. But, in the end, it’s worth it.

~Becca

The Bible and Rom-Coms

Everyone knows the classic, Hollywood-worthy love story. Boy meets girl, boy and girl are obviously destined to be together, and all seems well. But then something gets in the way of their happy ending – maybe their romance begins only because he’s trying to win a bet, or they hate each other so much that it takes years of developing friendship for them to really fall in love. Whatever the circumstance, the problem causes a series of ups and downs, steps forward and backward, as the story continues and gradually inches the characters closer to where they’re supposed to be.

I’ve seen that type of movie a hundred times. But never did I think God’s word could be compared to a romantic comedy.

The other morning, I found myself sitting in a Sunday morning church service for one of the first times in somewhere around a year and a half. Seeing as how I usually attend worship on Tuesday nights at a ministry that’s geared toward and largely populated by college students, the atmosphere of an actual church was somewhat of a new thing for me. I was on-edge despite my friends sitting on either side, and I didn’t expect to get much out of the message. I felt out of place, like maybe I shouldn’t be here. For all I knew, the girl who chose to go unchurched stuck out like a sore thumb. But then the sermon started, and the pastor began talking about something I loved to hear. He was preaching about stories. More specifically, about how the Bible is a story. God’s word has been called a lot of things, he said, none of which he agreed with. It’s not an owner’s manual, he said, or Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. There’s nothing basic about this book. The Bible is nothing less than the story of the humane encountering the divine. I sat up straighter in my seat. I liked where this was going.

I’m a writer. From my earliest memories, language has always intrinsically made sense to me. Stories are something I can understand, they are something I study and love to learn more about. The idea that this book, this thing which had always seemed so lofty and vague and over my head, could be as simple as the plot arcs and motifs that I steep myself in, was new. And that’s when the pastor started talking about rom-coms.

At first I was lost. What about God’s book could be compared to a movie with a high probability of a sex scene? It was an entirely new idea to hear from the pulpit, almost sacrilegious to be coming from a pastor’s mouth. But then he described everything that happens in a typical romantic comedy, and it sounded a lot like the story the Bible tells us. The classic tale of the lover and the loved, the pursuer and the pursued. Could there be a reason we love that story so much? Maybe we can’t get enough of it because that’s the story unfolding all around us. The progression from once upon a time to happily ever after.

As the service ended and the day went on, I found myself pondering the subject of the Bible as a story more and more. If the Bible tells the story of creation encountering its Creator, that makes those in creation characters. That makes me a character. It makes the people around me characters. Everyone I come in contact with, from my classmates to the cashier at the Subway where I eat lunch, is a part of the story God has written. They have a plot arc, a backstory, a specifically-written chapter that gets them to where they need to be, somewhere in this giant storybook where we all live.

So what does that mean I’m supposed to do? I’m supposed to be a good character. I started thinking about the stories I love to read, and about how different they would be if the characters started arguing with their author. If the Pevensies, once they had found Narnia, had told C.S. Lewis that they could handle it from here, thank you very much. If Harry Potter and his friends had cast aside the roles J.K. Rowling had for them and decided they liked being something else better. The writer, with their birds-eye view of the plot, has the most information about what needs to happen. Their goal isn’t to make the story pleasant for the characters, or to protect them from pain and inconvenience. The writer’s goal is the get all the characters to become the person they need to be to fulfill the plot and earn the story’s happy ending.

If God is my author, that makes me a very small part of a really big story. My character is here for a purpose; the story wouldn’t be the same without me. I have a role, and the only way to fulfill it is to listen to my Creator’s call, and to follow where He leads me. It’s not my job to understand, any more than it was Frodo’s job to understand why he was the one who had to carry the Ring. It’s my job to live my story.

The Bible is a hard thing to understand, but simply thinking of it as the story of the world can make it less intimidating. Our story is a long one, and not all characters are represented in what we have written down. But that doesn’t make us less important. We were written for a reason. It’s up to the characters to make sure the story is lived out.

~Becca

Thank you to the Rev. Johnny Brower for the incredible message that inspired this post.

9 Life Lessons of the Intentionally Single

First off, the obvious question: what is intentional singleness? For some, it’s a time of waiting and learning. For me, it’s been a chance to rebuild and heal from a destructive relationship and a series of poor choices that, one year ago, left me at rock bottom. God allowed me to come to a place of isolation brought on by my own mistakes and selfishness. I was alone, angry, and far away from God’s plan for me. Something had to change. So I made a deal with God – I promised to stay single and focused on Him for one year, during which I asked Him to retake control of my life. Singleness with a purpose was the best choice I could have made, and what followed was a year of intense change, challenge, and joy. God became a reality to me in a way He never had before. The best way I know how to describe it is that He happened to me. Through the joys of service and worship and the friendship of people who cared about me, I began to glimpse the character of the Creator. What began as a promise to stay single for a year became the basis for an education of sorts, almost like a curriculum that God had written and planned out just for me. He taught me and led me and gave me unending amounts of patience when I didn’t want to cooperate, or thought I had a better plan. Looking back, here are the biggest lessons that He’s taught me over the last twelve months of intentional singleness:

#1: Give it time. 

When I started out this year, I expected the healing process to be much faster than it actually turned out to be. Healing and growth took a lot of time, during which I processed everything for much longer than I would have thought I would need to. I needed every single one of the days of this year to learn the things that I did and be the person I am now. Taking my time was the best decision I could have made. I left it in God’s hands, and He gave me homework one tiny piece at a time. When I tried to rush it, He patiently waited for me to slow down. God’s plan rarely moves at the pace we’d like to, but it always gets us where we need to be.

#2: I’m not good enough…and I never will be.

A lot of this year was spent trying to prove that I could measure up and be “mature enough” for a relationship. I got caught up in the growth I was starting to see in myself, and I began to rely on my own ability to be a good person. It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise when (shocker) I wasn’t a good person of my own accord. I began to revert back to the angry, selfish person I started out as, and I had to come crawling back to my Creator and admit that I needed Him to clean up the mess I had made. It’s not my job to be good enough, it’s my job to step back and let God work. I’ll never be enough, but that’s okay, because He always is.

#3: God moves when you respond to everything with praise.

Over the summer, my pastor Joseph walked my friends and I through a weekly study of Acts. In the midst of reading the history of the early church, Joseph pointed out that every time God moved in the lives of His people, it was immediately following a period of intense praise and prayer. When we respond to life’s trials with worship, God acts. The best time possible to respond with praise, is when you don’t want to. It’s easy to turn your focus inward when life hits you with something painful – but it’s when you turn your eyes back to God that He does something powerful.

#4: It’s okay to not be okay. Seriously. 

I’ve spent the last twelve months unraveling some big questions. God pulled out some scary things that I had buried deep, and He told me not to run away this time when my past caught up with me. A process like that isn’t an easy one, and there were a lot of times when I needed a friend to hold my hand and let me talk or cry until things started making sense. And the good friends did exactly that. People aren’t meant to walk through life’s hardships alone; we aren’t designed to grieve and process difficult things by ourselves. Hard times and tough questions show us who our real friends are because we see who doesn’t walk away when we have nothing to offer them but need. Over the last year, I’ve found myself asking for help with a flat tire, company during an anxiety attack, and everything in-between. And, every single time, my friends came through. It’s okay to need help, and it’s okay to ask for it.That’s what community is for.

#5: God loves me even when I don’t love Him.

God isn’t nearly as easily offended as some might think He is. He can take it when we’re angry, when we’re unreasonable, when we don’t make sense. God has patiently waited out my rants, my shouting, and my selfishness countless times this year. His love is constant and unchanging, even when my love isn’t. That’s one of the many things that makes Him God – He’s so much better than I am. His character is the complete opposite of mine. He is infinitely good, abundantly patient, and endlessly loving. He offers me a bountiful supply of goodness, regardless of the fact that I can never deserve it.

#6: After you’ve lived your story, God calls you to share it.

One of the most pivotal moments of this year was when I sat down in front of a group of my girl friends to share my testimony for the first time. It was terrifying, and I shook the entire time I spoke. But after I was done, I felt lighter. My friends hugged me and said they were proud of me, even after I had told them all the worst things I had ever been through. And, most shocking of all, some of them told me that they had learned something. In the simple act of sharing my story, I had made a difference. After you’ve started to heal from the brokenness life puts you through, it’s time to tell people. You never know who may need to hear it. God can only use your story to make an impact when you start sharing it.

#7: There are so many things to fall in love with.

I wasted so much time this year tapping my foot, waiting for my time of being single to be over. It was only after I stopped being impatient that I realized I was missing out on a lot of wonderful things in my life. I didn’t fall in love with a person this year, but it turns out I didn’t need to. Instead, I fell in love with road trips with friends, and with walking into a coffeeshop and ordering the usual, and with the way warm cookies and cold ice cream taste late at night when you’re on an adventure in downtown Fort Worth. I fell in love with spending the night in a hammock, and with showing off new tattoos, and the Dallas skyline and the way the music at a concert vibrates in your chest. My life was filled with wonderful things this year, and it was only after I stopped focusing on what I didn’t have that I learned to appreciate all that God had given me.

#8: When you ask God to work, He will…just not in the way you expect.

When I started out the year by giving the next twelve months to God, I expected to immediately go into an intense spiritual challenge. I expected to start dealing with the big questions and issues I was half-aware of carrying around in my subconscious. I thought I was in for a lot of fear and uncertainty. Instead, God gave me a period of the most intense joy I had ever experienced. He sent a close-knit community of friends my way and opened up a spot in the group that could have been custom-made for me. He gave me a more genuine happiness than I could have imagined. It was only after I had undergone several months of this that God started to put the scary things in front of me. My healing process happened completely out-of-order, and it turns out that was exactly what I needed.

#9: I’m not done yet.

God has taken me on such an incredible journey this year, and I’ve experienced more amazing things than I could have imagined. But it’s not over yet. It feels like the biggest thing I’ve learned this year, is how much I still need to learn. I don’t know if God is calling me to another month of intentional singleness or another year or more, but I’ll listen for as long as He does. Even when He does eventually to call me into a relationship, He will never run out of things to teach me and amaze me with.

~Becca

It’s Not “For a Reason”

It’s hard to know how to deal with tragedy. It feels impossible to even know where to start. When you’re staring loss in the face, it’s so easy to come back with all the reasons this shouldn’t have happened. This is wrong. It hurts. I want it to be different. We weren’t made to deal with tragedy. God didn’t create us with the innate ability to bury our loved ones, or to cope with devastation. When life forces us through the unthinkable, something in us cries out in the knowledge that this is not how the world is supposed to work.

I’m young. As a college student in my early twenties, my concerns are mostly how to pass final exams or afford car repairs. The last thing on my mind is death. Or it was, until my sister called me a couple of weeks ago with the news that a friend I had known in middle school had been killed in a car accident.

My first reaction was shock. That couldn’t be right; someone must have made a mistake. My friend was lively and loving, and she was only 21. She couldn’t be dead. Even reading the Facebook posts her family members had written, something in my mind insisted that this was a misunderstanding that would all be cleared up in a few days. Then came the tears. The hurt for the devastation those close to her must be feeling right now. The choppy, half-finished prayers filled with questions that didn’t have answers. Why her?  I asked God. She had so much left to do. Why take her home?

The next few days were a confusion of normal life and those shocked moments of remembering. Of praying for her family and friends as they went about funeral arrangements. Trying to make sense of the fact that the world has lost someone who should still be here. Above the noise, one sentiment was repeated over and over again, with the clear expectation that it would comfort me:

“God does everything for a reason.”

The more I heard it, the worse it sounded and the less sense it made. With the statement seemed to come the terrifying idea that God does all these tragic things to us on purpose, as if He thinks being harmed is the only way to grow. I scoured Bible study websites in search of a verse that promised an express purpose for every terrible thing that happens to us. And I found none. I found promises of comfort. I found reassurance that God is working through tragedy. But I found nothing pointing at God as the cause for our suffering because it’s “for a reason.”

My friend didn’t die because God thought the world would be a better place without her. People don’t go hungry because they’ll have a better life that way. Natural disasters don’t destroy homes because people don’t need them. Terrible things happen not because God causes them, but because we live in a broken world that doesn’t work like it was made to. Sometimes, it’s not for a reason at all; it’s just because that’s the way our world is.

So where is the comfort? Why do Christians have any hope to share?

Because we serve a God who makes good come out of bad things (Romans 8:28). Because, while God doesn’t plan terrible things for our lives, He can use them for His perfect plan (Jeremiah 29:11). We have hope because suffering won’t last forever (Revelation 21:4). Because our God has promised that He is active in our world (Psalm 37:50).

To lose someone you care about, especially someone who is still young, is devastating. There is no argument against this. However, we have hope beyond the devastation. God didn’t cause my friend to die, just like He doesn’t do terrible things to anyone. The world is terrible and broken all on its own. Our comfort is in a God who can use the terrible to make something good happen – even when we don’t understand it.

~Becca

My deepest, deepest condolences to the Kimminau family during these dark days. You are all loved, by your friends and by your God.

8 Ways to Help Someone With a Mental Illness

You wouldn’t tell someone with cancer to get over it.

You wouldn’t tell your friend that their broken leg doesn’t need a cast.

Why not? The answer is so obvious the question doesn’t even need to be asked: physical ailments are serious and need to be treated before they will heal. They won’t go away by themselves, and ignoring them will just make them worse.

So why is the subject of mental sicknesses so seldom discussed? Why is treatment for it something that people are not commonly educated about? Everyone knows how to treat a minor illness or injury of the body, and when it’s too serious to handle by yourself, it’s second nature to call for help and seek out a doctor. So why is the sick mind treated as if it will simply heal itself?

Mental illness can be a hard thing to understand. But the reality of it can be even more difficult to deal with; it can make day-to-day life challenging both for people who struggle with mental illness, and for those around them. Panic attacks are terrifying, constantly-changing needs are confusing, and anxiety is exhausting.

It’s easy to feel helpless when someone you care about is in the middle of a panic attack or unable to cope with seemingly simple things. What do you do in the face of something so strange and intangible? How do you help someone deal with something you’ve never experienced? Talking to a friend can never replace seeking professional help, but it can help with rough nights and days when reality just seems like too much to handle. But how do you help someone during times like that?

1) Educate yourself. 

Learn as much as you can about mental illness, specifically what the person you’re trying to help is struggling with. A good starting point is looking online, and asking them to explain to you what they deal with. Know the basics; learn the difference between anxiety attacks and panic attacks. Know the signs of whichever disorder(s) they’re dealing with. Learn their warning signs and triggers, and how to respond to them. If it’s something serious or potentially threatening, get help.

2) Don’t try to solve it. 

Don’t tell them that it could be worse, or remind them they have a lot to be thankful for. They know that, but it doesn’t make anxiety lessen its grip or a panic attack stop short. Don’t try to force solutions on them or explain what they’re feeling away. Mental illness isn’t cured with logic, it can’t be explained or rationalized. Support and care are what someone needs when they’re struggling with mental illness, not facts.

3) Don’t get frustrated. 

This isn’t to say mental illness is never frustrating, because it is. It makes life more difficult than it should be, but getting upset at someone for their mental illness won’t make it go away, it’ll only make it worse. Create an atmosphere of security and comfort with your actions and attitude. What your loved one is dealing with won’t always look good, or be something you can understand. Just meet them where they are.

4) Be reassuring. 

Mental illness is a difficult thing to live with, both for people who have it and for their family and friends. Chances are there are times when they feel like a burden, and need to be reassured that they’re not. Even if it seems blindingly obvious, remind them as often as they need it that you care about them and you don’t mind helping them when they’re struggling. The reminder will bring them peace of mind and make them feel more free to accept any help you offer.

5) Ask what they need. 

Needs can change drastically with different people and even with different illnesses. Sometimes physical touch is too much to handle, other times a hug or a hand to hold can tie someone down to reality. They might need to talk, or they might need silence. Sometimes they might want to be alone entirely. They most likely know what they need; they’ve probably dealt with this many times before. Find out how to help them, and then do it. And keep asking–their needs may change throughout the day. A good morning doesn’t mean a good night, and vice versa.

6) Be aware of how hard they’re working. 

Realize that their mental illness probably affects them more than they let on. Most of the time, they’re trying to not let other people see how hard they have to fight this thing in their head. If they get tired often and easily, that’s why. Don’t push them beyond their limits. When they say they can’t handle any more, listen.

7) Let them be real. 

Don’t act like you think they’re being overly-dramatic or looking for attention. Treat their problems as legitimate, and let them know they can trust you for help when they need it. Take them as they are, and accept the parts of their mental illness that they hate. Be a safe place for them. People who struggle with a mental disorder are aware that it’s challenging, and sometimes we feel like it’s more than is fair to ask someone to go through it with us. The biggest blessing is someone who doesn’t mind us being a mess.

8) Set boundaries. 

There’s a difference between helping a friend and draining yourself more than is healthy. Figure out where the line is; know how much you can handle. Then gently and lovingly let them know where that limit is. It won’t help either of you if you push yourself too far and end up losing your patience with them. If they need more support than you can provide, help them find a counseling service where they can speak to a professional.

Mental illness is not something that will go away if it’s ignored. It’s a difficult thing to live with, but not impossible. It’s a challenge, but not cause for despair. With the right support and treatment, there is hope. Having someone to call on a lonely day can make the difference between quick recovery and hours of torment. Be there, be calm, and be patient, and you can be the positive change someone may desperately need.

~Becca

Thanks to everyone who shared their experiences and contributed to this post. Keep fighting. 

A Radical Forgiveness

Author’s Note: This is a story about God’s grace and forgiveness, and how it can change anyone’s life. It is also a story that involves rape and sexual assault, and the brokenness that it causes. These are difficult topics, and I would ask anyone that might be triggered by them to please skip reading this post, and maybe check out this one or this one instead. This was posted with the express consent of the person in question, and personal information like names and pronouns are withheld to protect their privacy. Any survivors of assault can find help here. Stay happy and safe. 

Some days, you wake up with the world looking completely different than it will when you go to sleep again that night. You think everything makes sense and you know what you believe, only for God to throw you a curveball that hits you hard in the stomach and makes it all look different.

Sometimes, when a friend says they need to tell you something, you know something scary is coming. The way they build up to it, the twisting in your gut, the sweat that breaks out on your palms. Something tips you off that the conversation just got deep, and you’re getting pulled down with it, for better or for worse.