Author: christie

There’s no way to escape it, folks — as of this upcoming week I will most certainly be in my mid-thirties. At 34 I was technically in my mid-thirties, I suppose, but with the number not being an exact mid-point, I feel like I was able to logic my way out of admitting what was at least vaguely true. There’s no vagueness anymore though, friends. Just the harsh reality of 35.

I’m just joshing a bit though — not about being officially in my mid-thirties but about it being a *harsh* reality. Well, I guess sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t. Depends on the mood you catch me in, and what sort of life options I’m considering. Right now the birthday part of things is more exciting to me, including planning how the week will look and ways to treat m’self. I’m wanting to more intentionally embrace this excitement over the week.

I’ve got a few ideas:

1. Order cookie dough from Doughp. I did this for my birthday last year and I was BLOWN AWAY. How is this so good?? I just eat the stuff out of the carton. Similarly to last year I bought a 4-pack of different flavors this year: chocolate chip cookie, cookies & cream, stroopwafel, and one that is supposed to taste like friggin Dunkeroos. I cannot wait to bust these open!

2. Spend a couple hours at the library. Like everyone else in the country, we moved a new city a couple months ago and I have yet to browse the city library. I did get my library card, but they kept the stacks closed for a while due to COVID. But now they’re open and I’m ready to explore and sit inconveniently in the middle of the bookshelf aisles.

3. Go to the nearby coffee shop. Drip and Culture is my new favorite place and they’ve got so many interesting drinks and other items that are so up my alley: stationery, pins, stickers, records, etc! So I’ll maybe bike over, buy one of the super cute thermoses they sell (and probably a shirt too. And also probably a pin for my backpack. And hell, probably another pack of stickers), get a drink, and straight up chill for a while.

4. Family walk in the forest preserve. This will be me, husband, and doggie, and we’ll go probably someplace wooded. Perhaps someplace where I can do some low-key geocaching…

5. DANCE. EXERCISE. VIDEO. I’m going to sweat it out on my birthday with the help of a YouTube instructor, the sounds of Olivia Rodrigo, and the privacy of my basement.

6. Visit a restaurant in our new city. There’s a brewery I’ve got my eye on…

If I’m being honest, it can be really easy for me to get bogged down by the number itself, the 35-ness of it all. It’s all too simple to let regrets or shame or pressure take the front seat in my mind especially of things not yet started or accomplished (cough having children cough). Life always throws a lot my way, but that includes the good things, the blessings. So this year I’m choosing to celebrate with some of the wonderful things that life has “thrown” my way — my family, books, coffee, exploring, dancing, music, and cookie dough.

Cheers to 35!

Yesterday was a strange Christmas. For one thing, it was 60 degrees and sunny (versus a more typically-Illinois below-freezing temperature). Most of the gifts we bought were not for each other, but for a dog. Also, we have a small wire fence around our tree, due to the aforementioned dog. It’s very…aesthetically interesting.

In case you were curious, Dog’s favorite gift is a toy duck I had been eyeing for him at Petsmart. His least favorite is a new harness that deters pulling during walks.

Throughout this season I’ve been meditating on what it means to wait, and, though it’s ironic, I’ve been thinking about what I should be doing while I wait. As previously mentioned, I hate waiting. I get bored and restless. More than even those things, my brain defaults so easily to anxiety that there’s a certain terror I feel when having to wait and to be still. For this reason alone, being still while waiting seems an exhausting endeavor, an ideal that’s nearly impossible to attain because I either can just have my head filled with new and old anxieties, or stop most of it before it starts by filling the time with a mindless phone game or YouTube video. It becomes a lesser of two evils type of decision when it’s too difficult to keep up the mental fight of anxiety versus being still, staying present.

I long to “be here now”. To have the presence of mind that helps me be present where I am, to be fully aware of my surroundings. I was listening to a podcast through Renovare today that discussed meeting God in the present, and I felt my heart long for that. It longed to meet God where I am, now, and to experience the kind of freedom that comes with letting go, even for a moment, of the worries I have about the past and the future. The podcast also went into how paying attention to the present moment, including all the sensory elements of it, actually helps to breed gratitude.

After taking this in, I realized even more how much of a blessing my dog is for me right now, and how he can be a means for teaching being still, being present, being thankful.

Soon after we got Dog, I have inadvertently created a daily morning ritual that lasts maybe all of three minutes. Dog wakes me up around 7 or 7:30. I sleepily get out of bed, sit near his crate and open it, and he comes out drowsy and yawning. Before I (or husband) take him outside, Dog lets me pet his fur and rub his tummy and scrunch his fluffy ears. In that moment, I don’t have to say or do or think about anything, and he’s too tired to make my arms the victims of his teething. And each morning, as I feel his thick brown fur and catch a whiff of his nasty morning breath and hear his sweet puppy yawns, I’m overwhelmed by the fact that he’s my dog and how much I love him. Sure enough, in that moment, I’m thankful for Dog, I’m thankful for the circumstances that led to us adopting Dog, I’m thankful for all dogs and that God chose to create them, I’m thankful that dogs and humans can be companions, etc. It has become a simple way to practice being still, being present that I’ve accidentally stumbled upon. And that’s three minutes of being present. If I could apply that to the course of my day, I feel like I’d have gratefulness seeping out my nose.

I wish I had been able to apply more stillness/present-ness throughout the course of yesterday, Christmas day. I was thankful in the moment about the weather, and that it meant we could play outside with Dog. But it wasn’t until the end of yesterday when I more fully realized how many gifts we had been given throughout the course of the day. It was an abundance. In the morning we got to visit and eat with two friends, in the afternoon we got to open our house to another friend, and in the evening we went to a different friend’s home for dinner with several others. On the car ride home at the end I let my mind go through the events from morning to evening, revisiting the sensory memories: the sugar from the liege waffles melting on my tongue, my heart’s leap of joy as I looked through friends’ baby announcement photos, the compassionate face of a friend as I shared candidly about some emotional pain, champagne bubbles bursting onto my nose, soreness in my belly from laughing, the glow of candles and string lights, compliments received over a dessert I wasn’t sure would turn out right, the handwriting of a thoughtful note in a Christmas card, and finally, all the warm hugs from people I love, and who genuinely love me too. When all this and more sunk in, my heart response was one overcome with gratitude. How could I respond in any other way?

We wait, because Christians are a people who wait. It’s a challenge learning to be still in the midst of it. I’ve experienced though that sometimes God gives us gifts to help with the waiting. If we pay attention to the present and receive these gifts, they have the potential to make us stop in our tracks, be still, and recognize him in the moment. And, ultimately, teach us how to constantly be thankful.

I find myself in this Advent season, today in particular, fighting to keep my head above emotional waters. Depression and rage are weights around my ankles, and my anxious mind is hopelessly fighting against the current with a futile determination to fix situations that are completely outside of my control. I resolved going into the Advent season this year learning how to wait and hope for God. Hell, I even got a book and everything. And already, three days in, I’m losing patience. I’m grasping wildly for a sense of control. I’m having a hard time believing that hope, joy, and peace are things that are available to me. It’s certainly available to others, but not to me. Ugh, I know that last sentence is particularly self-pitying… but I can’t deny these very real feelings.

Have you been in this place before too? I know I can’t be alone in this. I have dear friends who have literally and figuratively sat with me in my emotional and spiritual mess and have acknowledged that they too have felt this, are feeling this. If you’re feeling this way too, just know you’re not alone.

One of the toughest parts of the holiday season for me is the charge to be joyful, merry, bright, jolly, full of wonder. As someone who struggles constantly with anxiety, those emotional dimensions can be difficult for me to access, especially on command. The trees and sparkle and songs taunt me and are a stark contrast to how I feel inside, rather than an inspiration for joy, which makes me further aware of the distance between the “thrill of hope” I so desperately crave and my more-familiar agony of *wanting* to be hopeful.

Geez, what a bummer. Sidebar: You wouldn’t know it, but my intent with this blog was to actually feature more fun writing, but it’s turned into spiritual musings (though, to me that’s fun) and has also become a platform to give description/color/understanding about my own battle with anxiety and depression. As I’m sure is the case for many others, the emotional and spiritual parts of me are very tightly intertwined, so I can never write about one thing without mentioning the other. And honestly these things have been taking up a lot of my own brain space so it’s nice to have an outlet. Best case scenario, someone else on the other side of the internet who may struggle with similar mental health issues will read this and feel like they have a buddy who gets what they’re going through.

Anyway, back to this. Since yesterday, I’ve had part of a verse from a church song stuck in my head. Both very conveniently and inconveniently, the line is: “Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord.”

Convenient: Hey, it’s Advent. I’m so ready for Advent this year. I bought a book for it and everything! And now this song about waiting on the Lord is stuck in my head, which is great because Advent is about waiting. How timely! And I’m so ready to welcome this season of waiting this year. It shouldn’t be too hard to wait. Did I mention that I even got a book for it? I’m, clearly, so serious about embracing the process of waiting.

Inconvenient: No, actually, waiting fucking sucks. I hate being passive. I hate the lack of control. I want to skip past this month, this whole MONTH in which I should just apparently be absorbing and secreting joy the whole time and I just can’t. Also, I want this song out of my head. Waiting doesn’t strengthen me. It makes me on-edge, anxious. Being anxious depletes me. My strength doesn’t rise. It falls with a crash and bursts into flames. What’s wrong with me.

As people cooler than myself might say, “the struggle is real”. It’s a very palpable tension for me each year, but this year in particular, the tension has been nothing short of unmerciful. It’s testing that very strength that should be rising while I wait for an agent outside of myself to put things in motion.

Worship pastors out there, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that the song I’m referencing is inspired by Isaiah 40. It’s a chapter to which thoughtful NIV Bible translators assigned the subtitle “Comfort for God’s People”. The chapter is indeed one of comfort, wonder, magnificence, and reconciliation. Verses 28-31 go:

“Do you not know?
    Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
    and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary
    and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint.”

When I wrestle with not feeling joy in the Christmas season and when I encase my heart in cynicism when I perceive superficial merriness, perhaps part of struggle is that I’m missing something, skipping a step. Yes, Christmas is meant to be celebrated as a time of joy and hope; but it’s also meant to be a season of comfort, even renewed strength. Even in the accounts of Jesus’ birth and events surrounding it, there are angels comforting troubled and terrified people with the words, “Do not be afraid”, before they deliver their joy-filled messages. To receive a message of joy, a troubled heart first needs to be comforted. To see the glory of the God who is at work in our time and space, and then to be filled with joy as a result, our weak and scared spirits need to be strengthened. It’s really hard to have the capacity to hear and respond to something appropriately when you’re petrified by fear. At best, fear clouds the message; at worst, fear makes us miss the message entirely.

And I need to remind myself that having “renewed strength” does not imply that I’m going to solve or fix problems as a result (or that doing these thing will bring me comfort/joy). Instead, I can be comforted not by anything that I can do, but instead merely by the very fact that the God of Creation, who does not grow tired or weary, tells me to not be afraid. He’s the one who brought good news, who is the great reconciler, who is the great problem solver, the compassionate healer. I must allow myself to be comforted and not fight back in the way I want to fight back, which is usually a stubborn “No! I *need* to be afraid, and here’s why…” Only after taking in the comfort, only after letting go of the fear, can I see and understand the goodness and power of God this season and respond in joy.

I don’t have this all figured out by any stretch of the imagination. The anger and fear that sit inside me are still there. By the grace of God though, the awareness of my state of being and my need for comfort and my desire for joy are also there, alongside those tougher feelings. Similar to waiting being a process, receiving comfort and being strengthened by it is also a process. It’s a painful letting go. Burdened by anxiety, letting go is the last thing I’d want to do, so much so that even after I have let go of something, oftentimes I grasp it immediately all over again, and hold even more tightly than the last go-around. It’s a process. It’s all a process. And so far, I can at least assure myself that I still have hope in the process and trust that it will indeed strengthen me and eventually be a way to experience true joy. In this way, Advent is a blessing. It teaches us and provides space to wait, to struggle, and to receive comfort and strength.

If your struggle is similar, my prayer for you is that you grow through the process (the waiting, the comfort, the strengthening) and come out the other side experiencing joy this season as well.

Just a Sunday reminder, if only just for me, that God is present in the darkness.

In all darkness.

Even if the darkness is
physical
emotional
psychological
spiritual
interpersonal
generational
systematic
economic
political
historical
epidemic
pandemic
powerful, overwhelming
so palpable, to the point of being suffocating
Even in this, God is present.

In the midst of the book of Judges, there’s the story of Ruth
In an unjust death, there’s salvation
In the loss of faith and hope and friends, there’s the Resurrection
In the brokenness, there’s restoration
Only because God is present.

Just a Sunday reminder, if only just for me, that God is present in the darkness.

I don’t like talking on the phone. I just don’t.

This hasn’t always been the case. I talked on the phone a lot as a high schooler, when it was still attached to the wall. I’d chat with friends for hours on end, about homework and about boys and about…? What else? In my case, probably Weird Al.

When I entered the workforce, I initially ended up in jobs that required a lot of phone interaction. These conversations were hardly ever pleasant (as they almost always involved moneys owed), leading me to resent the whole mode of communication. Talking on the phone became a “work thing”, not a fun thing. Therefore my general default attitude regarding conversing with me is this: unless you’re calling about work, or unless it’s an emergency, just text me if you want to chat.

Lately I’ve been trying to warm up to the whole phone-thing, especially because, in recent years, I’m realizing more that I need people in my life badly and some of the people I need are also people who live far away from me. I do currently have a standing monthly phone call with a close friend; I, honestly, feel a lot of dread in the days and hours leading up to our scheduled time (because phones, NOT because of the person), but I come out of the conversation feeling encouraged and renewed and heard. Not to mention that this person is hilarious, so the call is always a hell of a lot of fun as well.

Just in the last few weeks I had a phone conversation with a very dear friend with whom I hadn’t spoken in a few years, though we had lately been exchanging emails and texts. I was really afraid that my dislike of phone calls would get in the way of everything, but it didn’t. There were sparks of joy at the very beginning (hearing each others’ voices for the first time in years!) and then a wonderful conversation that followed. I always wrestle with that side of me that hates the time I might “lose” by being on the phone. I instead felt renewed, again, by getting a chance not only to re-connect, but to be a part of her life again, in a way that text messages and emails can’t quite capture–phone calls are not isolated from the life happening around us: for her, that included a joy-filled toddler living their best life; for me, that included getting barked at by 4 silly dogs while their owners tried reining them in, since I like to walk around the neighborhood while I talk on the phone.

Just a few things I have learned or have been reminded of by being on the phone with a friend recently:

1. If you can’t laugh together in person, laughing together on the phone is best.
2. It’s so so so helpful to hear all the nuances of someone’s story, and the emotions felt in each part of it. You can’t hear another person’s shaking voice, smile, tears, determination, or uncertainty in an email (and when you do, it’s because *you’re* injecting it into the writing).
3. Instant responses save a lot of time and build better understanding. There’s so much opportunity in a phone call to ask a question in the moment for clarification. For the other person, it’s helpful to let them know in the moment that you hear them, to encourage them to keep expressing themselves. When asked about my day, I let my friend know that work didn’t go quite how I wanted it to go, and she was able to respond right away by saying “That sucks, I’m sorry. Tell me more.” I was invited to get into the details and trust that someone was actively listening and caring.
4. Phone calls with a friend are a reminder that time is not our possession and is not something we can control. Our time, like anything else that we have, is given to us by God and is to be shared generously. I’m saying this as someone who struggles with this IMMENSELY.

For book club over the summer, we had been reading Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren. She calls Christian friendships “call and response friendships” that involve conversations confirming to each other “the truth of who we are and who God is.” The phone call with my friend very much felt this, consistently affirming each other throughout, and speaking truth to one another when we heard the other one doubting themselves. It doesn’t get much more encouraging than that.

I think my default, unfortunately, is to treat calling a friend as a last-resort measure, out of fear of it feeling like work, and also out of fear that I’ll be conversationally steam-rolled (maybe a topic for another time). I wonder what difference it would make, especially going into the call, if I learn to trust God with the time he’s gifted to me and with the interaction I’m having. How will I grow as a result of the conversation? How can I use the call as an opportunity to encourage the person on the other line? What can this interaction teach me about being a better friend, and about trusting God with my resources and my words?

On weekends I make a point to disconnect from the news cycle a bit, and going into this weekend I felt especially overwhelmed by the issues of the world after absorbing roughly 4 total hours of soundbites (noise, rather) from the Democratic primary debates. However, the weekend’s news of more mass shootings in the country couldn’t, nor shouldn’t, be tuned out.

We can’t hide from the fact that there is a permeating disease of hatred and of apathy toward our fellow humans, or from the fact that our “rights” and our politics have become our own accepted brand of idolatry. The devaluing and stealing of lives shouldn’t merely cause shaking heads or finger pointing. As people, and especially as Christians, this should result in mourning, in lament, and in anger. We should be crying out to God, desperately challenging him with all the questions and charges we have: Why God? How long, oh Lord? How can you allow this evil to win? I thought you were bigger than this, I thought you said you loved us!

WHERE ARE YOU???

We try to “make sense” of tragedies… I’m not sure if that’s a human response at its core, or if it’s more of a cultural one. That’s a post for a day I feel like doing some sociological research (hint: today is not one of those days). I, too, feel this need deep within my brain, as if logic could aid me in my journey toward peace and comfort when everything in the world feels wrong. Perhaps if we know why an atrocity occurred, then we can boil down the data and determine patterns that will lead us to stopping the next tragedy. That’s a noble cause. However, I fear that when we come to our own conclusions too quickly, it can be used to build a defense strategy, and an unhelpful one at that. They’re already happening, so insensitively soon after these recent terrorist acts that we skip past the lament and the anger we so badly need to express, especially to God. I unfortunately notice that many Christians also skip this crucial processing step, most likely to be available to go to God’s defense against his “challengers” on Twitter or in the comments sections.

Let me say what I’ve had to learn on the latter end of my 25 years of being a Christian: God does not need our defending. He has NOT called us to be his PR team in the wake of a national emergency, coming up with a clever way to spin his “responsibility” (or lack of action), or correct the nay-sayers who “endanger” his reputation. This is NOT the time to ignore people’s pain and counter with a “Don’t worry, God’s in control.” Moreover, this is NOT the time to cling more tightly to our guns, yelling “MINE!” And this is NOT the time to point fingers at the parts of culture that seem unsavory, like video games. This is all merely a distraction from our pain. We’ve been in so much pain. And right now I’m not even talking about the personal pain, but since I’m bringing it up, the truth is that we’re a people with compounded pain that is societal, personal, historical. Christian or not Christian, this is a universal experience.

We must speak truth into the world, yes. We must be agents of God’s comfort and peace in the midst of the brokenness. And we must take action and fight against the horrific effect sin has on this world. However, we must, must, must respond to this pain and loss by grieving. This is the time to mourn and weep. Unless the hurt and the depth of it is acknowledged, how can we possibly be motivated to do something about it? Calls to action, and especially calls to defense, are hollow unless we acknowledge that we, too, have lost something as a result of a needless act of violence and hatred. Humanity as a whole has (or should have) a massive identity crisis when we take each other’s lives, enslave each other, abuse each other, intentionally and carelessly inflict pain on each other. Humans were made in the image of God–how can we, as God’s image bearers, not wail and weep when we treat each other as anything less than a fellow child of God himself? We must acknowledge the pain in our hearts and the groaning of the earth and everything within it; only out of this can we be effective in comforting and protecting others, and fighting against all forms of evil and destruction.

Awake, Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?
We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
rescue us because of your unfailing love.

Psalm 44:23-26