Team Rx.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm a super crawler.

When I was a wee tot, before walking days, nothing could stop me from motoring around on hands and knees. Carpet? Piece of cake. Concrete? Next. Patio? But of course. Scorching summer deck? Why not. But, according to my mom, the driveway was my favorite. The roughest of terrain for toddlers.

How I didn't scrape up my kneecaps, we have no idea. I was a hardcore baby, man. Nothing could stand in my way. I had things to do and no rigid concrete was going to stop me. Off to the races. ándele. Heavy metal slowly building in the background.

On one such excursion across our driveway, the boys were chasing me with their red pedal car. It had racing stripes on it, which every child knows makes the vehicle at least 100x faster.  We might have been towing Michael precariously in back, affixed with a yellow rope we found and careening atop a red tricycle. My memory fails me. Either way, I was winning (or maybe they were letting me win), while also trying to avoid getting trampled. Mom kept an ear out for shenanigans while perched on a lawn chair, iced tea poised and book in hand. Dad was rummaging through the old yellow garage fridge for a soda. Grabbing two, he took a seat on the steps next to Grandpa Stephens and handed one over. They observed us through the open garage doors. We continued to wildly race around the driveway, occasionally stopping to ask Mom for referee assistance. It was here that Grandpa put a hand on my Dad’s knee and said, “Son, you make a good dad.”

We were all so young, we didn't really understand the magnitude of a simple sentence, or subtle weight of it. But words like these were something my dad waited a lifetime to hear.

Most people acquainted with my family know us as warm and friendly individuals. We recently lost the patriarch of my mother’s side, Poppaw, and he had a deep compassion for people that he passed on to his children and grandchildren. I might be a little biased, but I like to think that we’re good people. Mom and Dad’s love language is to force people to eat and sleep against their will, and my siblings are always finding ways to volunteer their time to serve people. That's just what we do. I need to stress here, reader, that Grandpa Stephens was a good man. I don't say that simply to honor his memory or spray some metaphorical Febreze over the family’s dirty laundry. He was a good man--it just looked different. He was generous. An extremely hard worker. A successful businessman and very skilled in his craft. A grandfather who was around and involved.

He also spent a lot of time in his own head. His world was a little less colorful and it was difficult for him to just be a person. Reader, I need you to walk with me and understand what a life with untreated, severe depression looks like. It’s going to be hard.

Are you ready?

Grandpa Stephens didn't have an easy life. The light went out of him when he lost his beloved, Vesta, to cancer when she was only in her 40s. He married two more women in succession who cleaned him out financially. Later in life he met grandma Dorothy--who he later lost to a brain tumor.

The causes of depression are still not well understood. We know that a chemical imbalance of serotonin and occasionally dopamine is involved, and that nerve receptors in the brain have a harder time doing their job. We know that it runs in families. We know that sometimes it's chronic, and sometimes it isn't. We don't know whether the root is from inflammation in the brain or intestines, or if it's from a genetic deficiency. So I couldn't tell you if trauma caused Grandpa to be sick, or heredity, or a freak accident. But I can tell you that they knew next to nothing about it in the 50’s, and living with someone with such an illness that can't be explained is absolute hell.

People who know my dad usually love him, and for good reason. He works extremely hard and doesn't ask for anything in return. He keeps an extra car on hand so he can lend it out when friends or family get in a bind (in fact, he sold one to a friend of mine very cheap when she had no other way to get to work). He has quietly helped strangers in need by sending them money anonymously so that they can have water and electricity for the month. He fixes things for people who can't afford repairs, and makes absolutely sure that there is more than enough for everyone to eat at every family meal. What people don’t know is that no one ever taught my dad how to be this way. He had to learn on his own.

Grandpa lived inside a head that did not know how to cope. He couldn't stand being alone, but being around him was also a constant game of walking on eggshells. It was an exhausting way to live. He was extremely defensive, and paranoid. He didn’t really believe in good people often.

Trust issues were a given. Some of the women he brought into his home treated him and Dad terribly--to the point where, for a time, Dad lived with his grandmother, and even in the family metal shop. Many people have millions of fond memories with their fathers--playing catch, getting ice cream, learning to drive. My dad only had a few of those, and he had to hang on to them tight. When someone has depression (or any mental illness for that matter), it messes with a person's perceptions and motivation. The world becomes dim, and it’s impossible to get tasks finished. When you can't understand what's going on--just that you feel massive amounts of unexplained guilt and behavior that disappoints the people around you, you start running out of reasons. People accuse you of making excuses and can’t understand why you spend most of your life tired. Eventually, the only logical conclusion a person can come to is that they suck. “I can't get out of bed. I can't enjoy anything anymore. I must be the piece of crap people think I am.” When a person hates themselves, in time they start treating the people around them like trash too.

I don't know if it's reachable, to try and imagine living under this particular cloak of darkness. I've tried to only explain things that I feel my dad would freely talk about, and keep the rest private. But needless to say, mental illness robbed my grandfather and my father. Of life. Of childhood. Years, decades of their lives.

Do you know how beautiful it was when medication came into the picture?

Listen. I don't like anecdotal evidence when it comes to medicine. I don't. We have too many misguided fitness blogs based on bad science, the mommy wars are getting ridiculous, and the last thing we need is another documentary that makes money off of scaring people. However, it appears that anecdotal evidence is the only thing that anyone will listen to. So here's mine. Medication--the kind people like to villainize, overpriced, manufactured by big pharma and containing ingredients made in a lab--saved my family. Without it, we could not have survived. And to me, it's as much of a testament to the restorative and exceptional power of Jesus Christ as any supernatural event. I know. I get it. It's weird. The strangeness of it is not lost on me.

People do NOT like to hear that. I'm about to piss off a bunch of Young Living salespeople, so buckle up.

They want to hear that you cut out gluten for a year, and it made a monumental difference. They want to hear that you started eating Paleo and using lavender essential oil and that it cured all your ailments. They want to hear that you did a detox and your energy is off the charts, because toxins are a thing apparently. They want to hear you blame it on vaccines and be able to take ginger supplements to clear up any leftover symptoms. I’m overgeneralizing, but you get the point. If you're going to a doctor as often as I do, then you're doing it wrong. God made our bodies to do way more than we expect them to do. We need to just let them be.

They aren't wrong. We need alternative medicine. Grandpa actually broke a bone in his neck as a young boy--only one doctor in town agreed to treat him and saved his life by stabilizing him with sand bags and flour sacks. People are rightly afraid of big pharma and the medical community because of an absolute epidemic of opioid addiction, along with a pattern of professionals who are so burned out that they stop listening to their patients. Many of you have used natural remedies with great success. But--and I say this gently--this post isn't about you. It's not always about you. This time, it's about people who tried all of it and it still didn’t work.

I feel like we do our Maker a great disservice if we ignore medical science. A doctor wrote one of the gospels for goodness sake. Science is the Great Scavenger Hunt. Anytime I learn something new about the human body, I feel like a Craftsman is opening the back of a clock and (with delight in His voice) showing me another facet of how it works. Anytime someone finds a treatment that works for them, I feel like He’s stuck another gear into place. I don't believe that Jesus wants us to live a life of sickness and suffering because it builds character...but I do believe in His sovereignty. I've understood His closeness in the quiet of waiting rooms as much as I have in the booming supernatural occurrences. He can do what He wants. He's in both, because He is everywhere. He knows everything. When you’re stuck waiting for answers an frustrated when the don’t come, He is still there holding your hand and whispering comfort into your soul. People would rather have the natural and supernatural remedies because that's what they understand. I'm sorry. I don't have that for you here. All I have is me.

When 14 year old Melinda was diagnosed with the same disease as her grandfather, she was already on a restrictive diet. She had lost all of her childhood weight and was exercising daily. She begged God to heal her and was certain that the doctors offices were only temporary. She grudgingly tried some medication and it failed (which is common, by the way). I don't know why He kept saying no. I don't have that answer. Instead--in His mercy that is the same yesterday, and today, and forever--He simply guided her to parents who could recognize her symptoms and doctors who genuinely cared about her well being. It took about two years to find a dosage that worked, and after many years of remaining on it her doctors, together, came to the conclusion that the condition would be chronic due to her pattern of treatment and family history. She would have it for the rest of her life. She was one of so many more like this in our world today.

I understand that it's with pure intentions that people share posts like this . Or this. Or this. I want to find a better solution too. But there's already so much shame surrounding the idea of medication for mental illness and I don't know have the words to communicate how tragic that is. People in the anti-pharma camp tell me that the medicine I'm taking is going to damage my internal organs (false, by the way). That I’m not really, truly happy. That I could take this much safer alternative. That I'm going to be a bad mom if I keep taking it because of complications with pregnancy and breastfeeding. That I’m taking a pill to control my personality (which, yes was said to my face, and yes, it hurt my feelings).

You guys. I need it to stop. Please. Please. I need it to stop for the same reason I need people to stop telling diabetics to try apple cider vinegar instead of insulin. It does work, but it's complicated. It doesn't properly represent the information available, does not fully grasp the problem, and at the end of the day someone is going to end up in a coma.

Jesus and I have been on this journey for a long time now. I've collected a repertoire of skills in research. I've witnessed first hand what happens when mental illness goes untreated. And if I haven't convinced you in my family history--something very personal and dear to me--then we can sit down and have a long conversation about the pain that accompanies untreated OCD and unacknowledged anxiety disorders. When I was young my best friend with untreated ADHD nearly drowned me in a pool while playing. People have been in extreme danger while trying to control their loved ones with undiagnosed paranoid schizophrenia or psychosis (I once knew someone who’s mom liked to stalk the house at night with a butcher knife). Our world is so, so broken. And our God is so, so good. Those two things alone are reason enough to be kind to each other when someone is sick. This isn’t a detached internet argument. These are people’s lives. In this instance, don't call unclean what God has made clean. It’s so important. Please.

Tick.

Jamie was a patient soul.

I would walk in and sit on the piano bench. She'd straighten my posture and have me start scales. She'd tap on my tense shoulders when I started to concentrate too hard. She'd remind me to turn the page at a particular measure. And inevitably, she'd rifle through her things until she found it. My most hated click box. 

The metronome. 

My eyes would plead, “Do we have to use it?” She’d respond, “We were at 78 bpm, correct?” And then I'd sigh. And we proceed.

How I hated that thing. 

Little known fact, childhood Melinda was actually a really good pianist. I'm certain my mother will never forgive me for quitting, and I don't blame her (it's a long story. Life got in the way). The keys spoke my language. Words failed, but they did not. Music had a way of making me step into the brains of Beethoven, and Bach, and Joplin, and understand what they were trying to tell the world. They couldn't speak anymore, but I could. This was the place where my heart poured out most. It was a passionate thing to put hand to ivory, and there is a reason instrumentalists regard it as a transcendent experience.

It is really difficult to feel all of that when there is a very insistent “tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick” in the background. The little black demon square has an exceptionally distasteful way of forcing a dreamer back into reality. Pure evil, I tell you. Who needs tempo when you have the song?

A few years ago, I wrote this post about Jesus stripping me bare and asking me to give Him my nothing. And in some ways, I have to learn that lesson over and over again. I am a person who struggles immensely when I feel that I have nothing to offer. It's a rough lesson for me when I can only approach Him empty-handed.

When I say empty-handed, I don't mean that I haven't given Him enough time, or service, or tithe. My heart and my head know fully that I cannot earn His love or approval. That's not how grace works. That's not what He paid for. I understand the full terms of His incredible ransom. What I mean, is burnout.

Sometimes we get to a point in our lives where we can only really get from day to day. We are so very buried in details. They serve as the “tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick” in the background noise of life. We are in survival mode. We worked an 80 hour week, AGAIN. Our jobs are not bringing us the joy that they once did. We love our kids, but we are running on 4 hours of sleep and it's only Tuesday. We thought we took care of this one health problem, but it's shown up again. We just fixed the roof, but now the garage door is broken. We finished one class, but now we have to write a 15 page paper for another one. We just paid off the credit card bill, but there's still student loans to work on--and now the car has a flat tire. Self help books and therapists tell us to get some rest, or take a break for our own sanity--but there's just no way to do that right now. We just have to keep going somehow. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It's true that in these moments what we need most is worship. Thankfulness. Diving deep in the Word. Praying feverishly until we get answers. But good heavens...who has the energy? 

Please don't stop here and listen for the things that I'm not saying. Fruit is a thing that happens when we abide in Him. The presence of Jesus is an intimate matter to be taken seriously. But it's also the place to be honest. I’m not saying we give Him nothing. I'm saying we give Him our nothing. The part of our heart that doesn't have anywhere else to go. I remember standing in the middle of a Swiss mountainside, exhausted and sick, and admitting all the things that I should have been doing but just couldn’t. I should’ve had a better attitude. I should've been more for my students. I should've been trusting what God was doing. But I couldn't. I didn't have anything left, not even polite behavior. And it was there--not in the numerous worship services or bible studies--but there that Jesus met with me. I told Him that I had nothing left to give. He said He wanted that. 

Just because we’ve hit burnout doesn't mean that we've lost the Song. Jesus is is in that. Rest assured, beloved one--He has not left. Sometimes we are somewhere in between, but it doesn't mean that He’s given up on us. Remember--the metronome serves a purpose.

You may be like me and learn to love the metronome (truth be told, I don't think I could get through a Sunday without a click track anymore.) On the flip side, you may want to find the highest cliff in the highest mountainside and chuck it over the side (childhood Melinda wouldn't blame you one bit). But if I can offer any encouragement, it's this: one day, your teacher will reach over to the little black box and turn it off. She'll stow it away in her bag of sheet music and turn to you. As you await the next task, she'll open your music back up and say,

“Ok. How about we just play?”

Sanctuary.

"With thanksgiving

I'll be a living

Sanctuary 

For You."

Once upon a time, in the far away land of New York City, the fledgling band Ghosts of Pasha had a gig. After driving all night, somewhat hungover and quite sleepy, they trudged to the Mercury Lounge with their gear. Set up. Tuned. Laid out Merch. Nursed some Advil (probably?). And stepped up to the mic. What they didn't expect, however, was the massive amount of crazy fans awaiting their performance.

They were a new group of musicians, struggling to make their way in the music industry and accrue bigger and bigger audiences. The sudden amount of wriggling bodies anticipating the start of the show was certainly a surprise. But, they continued. On with the show.

Once upon a time, in the far away land of New York City, a group of agents from an organization called Improv Everywhere got together and attempted to do something kind. "Pick a struggling rock band and turn their small gig into the best show of their lives," Agent Lee suggested. After much research, they landed on Ghosts of Pasha. Bought the tickets. Swarmed the club. Awaited the band's arrival. And then. Went. Nuts.

"Fans" rushed the stage. They screamed musicians' names. A brave soul jumped up beside a guitarist. The more thorough agents sang along with lyrics they had diligently researched the week before. Girls stretched their hands out and begged for high fives. It was a whirl-wind of concert hysteria that so many of us know well. They demanded encores, and purchase SO MANY CD's. After the last song ended, the remaining agents of Improv Everywhere promptly left, confident they had given Ghosts of Pasha a fantastic story to tell. 

Except they didn't. Ghosts of Pasha found out weeks later, and they were crushed. After hours of rehearsal, swollen fingers and sleepless travel they found out that their hard work amounted to nothing but charity. They felt easily mocked. Harrassed in quite a unique fashion. Who wouldn't? It's as if Improv Everywhere was so busy getting caught up in the hype that they completely forgot about the object of their affection--the very goal of the entire evening. 

Sometimes during a service--only every once in a while--I'll look up from my bass neck and observe a sea of tired, blank faces. The songs all sort of end up deflated and the room is slightly...dead. Nobody is enthused. The atmosphere is flat. It happens to every worship leader, and it's the kind of set that can be the most discouraging.

These are my favorite services.

My favorite, namely because of the dark balcony corners. I'll find them, one, two, maybe three faces. Hands clasped, or raised slightly. Swaying, or still. Eyes closed, or raised, or staring somewhere the rest of us can't see. Spotty shadows of individuals who are very aware of their surroundings and in their own unique manner have chosen an attitude of worship anyway. They get it. And they are beautiful to me. 

It's difficult to explain, but when we attend worship services, it's as though we are expecting something very...specific. We seek a sanctuary where we feel comfortable raising our hands, shedding tears of awe, getting on our knees, or any other position of expressive worship that becomes more and more familiar. There is nothing exactly wrong with this--many of us are expressive individuals, and to find a body where we can worship passionately on a weekly basis is a gift. But please, please be forewarned--beware the hand-raising ratio.

I hesitate to call myself a "worship leader," simply because I don't have to put in as many hours and hard work as others do. I am the stereotypical bass player. My job is not very difficult (I'm only playing one note at a time. It isn't rocket science) and occasionally I get placed behind a backdrop or stage device on accident (hey--staging is hard!). But I do take my position very seriously. Worship leaders, worship bands, worship organizers--we all serve as facilitators. We usher congregations into the presence of Jesus to speak with Him about who He is. It is a simultaneously weighty...and yet, insignificant job. Hear me out. 

It's very tempting to judge a service's success by the hand-raising ratio. Look. Most of them are raising their hands. We've done it. People are actually worshipping. This is what we've longed for. They've entered the sanctuary, and they like it here. Right?

I think one of the most frustrating things I've observed is after any sort of organizational changes are made to a set pattern. People have this look about them like "Yes! Finally! Finally I can have an authentic worship experience!"

Finally. Finally? Finally....what? What exactly changed here? We used less lighting? We went back to simplicity? We changed the song choices? The guy or girl who is singing is more expressive, so you are more comfortable being expressive? It's more like IHOP? It's very trendy for one generation to explore glitzier opportunities and another to desire simplicity..,but what "finally" was it exactly that you were waiting for? And why, why dear one, were you waiting?

Listen, I get it. Worship atmospheres are something that have to be created, and a congregation can tell when something isn't right. Spiritual warfare is indeed at hand at all times. But conditions are exactly what they say they are--conditional. If it's a perfect sanctuary we are waiting for, then we are doing it wrong. We seek nothing more than an emotional experience. At the very core of it, we must admit a very painful fact: we didn't come to worship. We came to feel something. And Jesus--beautiful, lovely, precious Jesus--deserves more than what amounts to a spiritual dog and pony show. He's not a fledgling rock band. He's much bigger than that. 

One of my greatest mentors had some cool things to say about worship. My favorite was this: "If you don't actually mean the lyrics to this song, then don't sing them. Don't. No ones going to judge you if you aren't singing. You aren't going to look stupid. But don't be the person who honors Him with your lips when your heart is far from Him." It's something that has stuck with me to this day. He desires worshippers that worship in spirit and in truth. That means saying words that we are also going to mean later, when the music is done and we have to go back to real life.

My fear is that readers are going to assume my point runs along the lines of "You can worship, just don't overdo it. Like an IDIOT." And this couldn't be further from the truth. By all means, if the Spirit compels, then speak in tongues. Dance. Shout. Clap. Cry. Laugh. Do it all. Do it because that's how you tell Jesus you love Him. Do it to show your passion. Do it.

The difference lies in the depths of our individual hearts. Yes, worship is carthartic. It is a release. It feeds us. But it's easy to look for a sanctuary that provides all of these things for us. We have forgotten the object of our affection. We worship, because it's cathartic. We worship, because it's a release. We worship, because it feeds us. But we don't worship because He is good--it's something that becomes secondary, and that is a terrible thing indeed. 

Louie Giglio put it this way:

"Worship is … 

our response, 

both personal and corporate, 

to God—

for who He is!

 and what He has done! 

expressed in and by the things we say 

and the way we live."

Don't you see, friends? He dwells within the praises of His people. We don't enter the Sanctuary. We are the sanctuary. When souls genuinely respond to a God who is good--That. Is. Worship. While Sunday mornings have their own traditional importance, we don't need a Sunday morning to do that. Some of the greatest worship services have occurred at quiet breakfast tables. In blaring car stereos. In still nights where hymns are murmured to children fighting sleep. We find them when we see something beautiful and think of Him. When an unexpected check comes through and we wonder at His provision. When we eat an excellent apple pie and consider how great it is that He thought to make applie pie a thing. When the Spirit descended in tongues of fire, a sanctuary ceased to be somewhere we go. A sanctuary is now a state of being. If we are lacking in our worship experience and our answer is to look at the guy in charge with contempt, we have utterly missed the point. It's a problem when we are looking for how many hands are raised instead of looking at the conditions of our own hearts. We neglect our inner sanctuaries. We forgot why we were there.

Worship leaders, be encouraged. Worshippers, be genuine. This is the best of all places to open up. 

Let us not seek Sanctuaries. Let us become them

The Case for Ted.

"The same God who directs the earth in its orbit, who feeds the burning furnace of the sun, and trims the lamps of heaven—has promised to supply you with daily strength! While He is able to uphold the universe—do not dream that He will prove unable to fulfill His own promises." --Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening

How do I dislike Ted Mosby? Let me count the ways...

How I met Your Mother is one of my very favorite shows. Given all of its flaws, that's saying something. It was a basic reboot of the show Friends, written for the next generation, dragged on for too many seasons, and ended in one of the most awful ways imaginable. But I still love it. It's hilarious. The characters are imperfect, and therefore the audience can tangibly learn from them. The jokes are off kilter and animated. Everyone should slightly strive to be the relationship that is Marshall and Lily. Each character evolves in their own way. Every episode has some sort of stoic message that is usable by the twenty and thirty somethings out there. The ones who need to be aware of how ok it is not to have it all together. How I love this show. I could watch reruns for decades.

But oh, the distaste I have for Ted. 

He is probably fine in his own right. But the character's idiosyncrasies violently rub me the wrong way. If  I was allowed one opportunity to reach through a television set and punch someone in the face, I would choose any episode in which Ted has taken all his character development and just...thrown it out the window. Ted represents every bad mistake we've all made in relationships. He idealizes one person, putting her on a perfectionistic pedestal that she could never reach. He pursues women he has no business being with. He acts on impulse and emotion, when all of his problems could be solved by like...using his head for three seconds. He's broken up two marriages because of his selfishness and idealism, and he doesn't know how to use Teddy Roosevelt trivia properly. Above all of that, beyond the annoyances, there's one aggravating trait he exudes that's just awful. He hopes to an absurd degree. Dude does not know when to give up. The mother of his children dies tragically and he's still hooked on this one lady.

The crap, Ted?!

Ridiculous hope like that is the kind that defies all odds. It literally cannot be extinguished because, logically speaking, a person will eventually meet their end goal if they refuse to quit. They've hit several ends to the story, but they just pick up the pen and keep on writing until they get what they want. In my opinion, Ted lost out by not simply learning to let go. But there's something to ridiculous hope that proves to be worthwhile, somehow. I think of Joseph.

In the beginning, when the Word became flesh, Joseph is assigned a tiny blurb in the book of Matthew. His divine visit is almost a side note, hidden in the first chapter. There's much I don't know about Joseph. Was his faith strong? Did he have high hopes for love? Was he afraid of the future? How well did he know Mary and her family? Aside from obedience, how did he feel about this immaculate conception situation?

It's hard to tell. We know he was a man of faith, immersed in the Jewish culture and on the cusp of married life. We know he was a man of integrity, as he showed careful consideration of Mary while trying to do what he thought was the right thing. We know he was obedient, as he followed the Angel's direction without question or hesitation. Perhaps, as he was making so many new beginnings, he hoped.

Betrothal was something different in those days. Marriage as a result of romantic love is a relatively new concept to the human race. This, conversely, would have been a time where it manifested over the course of decades in a more practical sense of the word. Spouses loved each other, but they did so because they were chosen for each other and believed that love would grow with experience. When Joseph looked to the future, he saw an entirely different vision of wife and child than what was in front of him. In the midst of unsavory circumstances, he was told to wed her anyway and that things would work out in ways he couldn't even imagine. He wasn't told how to feel, only what to do. But he was also told what was going to happen -a savior of worlds and eternities--and in it he was given...well...a ridiculous hope. 

You can't make me like Ted Mosby, but you can certainly make the case for Joseph. I'm sure that things were unclear even as the Christ child entered the world and grew in it. He fulfilled the ridiculous hope in ways the were unexpected and humanity had no way of asking for. He did not save the Jews from the Romans, but he healed the sick. He did not stick it to the Samaritans no Gentiles, but He fed the hungry. He didn't leave the world in glamour and blazes of glory, but He took on the most awful death for reasons we couldn't comprehend yet. He fulfilled promises we didn't even know we needed. That's how we know He is so good.

On this Christmas morning, I'm not here to tell the reader that it's all going to work out. There are times when we get a lesson instead of a gift, and it stings something fierce. There are seasons when we are deprived of our longings in the event that He may have something better--but it doesn't make it any less painful. Sometimes Robin doesn't get her happy ending, Barney shows his terrible colors, the mother dies, and the purpose behind it doesn't stop the wound from throbbing. But if there is any comfort in Christ Jesus, it's that He is on our side. When we are trying to understand, His attention is on us. He makes good on His promises, and when the outcome looks bleak then we can persistently rely on His ability to make everything right. We can call on his faithfulness. We can insist that it isn't over. We can hope ridiculously. 

We can't let our desires lead the way, for they are fickle. But we can take them with us, as His promises mold them spectacularly. Fear not, sojourner, for He is trustworthy. Hang on to Joseph. Channel a little (only a little) Ted.

Hope to an absurd degree.

Reach

I've got music in my head and lightning on my mind.

I remember the morning vividly. One of the loveliest I have lived. It started with a heavy dose of raincoats and umbrellas. By a little house in the middle of the great woods, a 22 year old me ventured into the downpour with dog in tow, determined to take care of business before the work day started. It was a rare Midwest storm. The thunder was soundless, the drops heavy. When lightning struck, the entire sky lit up in a brilliant, pure, effervescent sheen. For seconds, no tree could hide behind dark skyline. Past Melinda savored each burst, deliciously. The rain tasted fresh on her tongue. The woods echoed with bass of velvety thunderclaps. The warmth of electric light tickled her upturned chin. After several moments, she turned back to the house. Time to prepare for a soggy Kansas commute.

In storms such as these, I remember the woman who never meant to interrupt Jesus. But I digress.

I hear the phraseology "hurt by the church" and I'm immediately intrigued. It's becoming more common in its usage and the reasons vary from legitimate to ridiculous. I have great judgement for one end of the spectrum--the "I walked in, saw a bunch of hypocrites and walked out" variety. While they are right, I also notice they tend to possess unsavory traits--a need for attention, and unearned sense of self righteousness, a negative attention to detail, and a refusal to look in the mirror. Jesus is teaching me grace, for we have all held these characteristics at one time or another. There's a learning curve in every lifetime. I get it. I've seen it. I know.

The other end I have much empathy for, because I've witnessed the effects firsthand. When a Christian safe haven turns into the hands of abuse. When mentors transform into intolerable bullies. When church families start throwing each other to the wolves before our very eyes. I get it. I've seen it. I know.

Both ends have doors closed to their hearts, things which I cannot pry open by any stretch of the imagination. Something has shut inside, and to presume entry would only end up with splinters in my hands. I have not earned the right to share in their sorrows. I'm naive. I don't get it. I haven't seen. I don't know.

Right? No. False. I'm going to be perfectly blunt-- I have earned the right. And I'm far less naive than people would believe. 

I can't stand internet word vomit, because Past Melinda was so good at it. I've made new goals to avoid that sort of shallow dialogue. But in the interest of vulnerability...in the interest of healing...in the interest of this crazy request I'm going to make of the Reader, I am making an exception. You need to understand why I love the woods, why I remember the woman, why I cherish lightning so much. It's because the years of 2011and 2012 were...just...bad. Just bad.

I started my college years as a hopeful freshman, stupid about the world and ready to change it. I left a wreck. No one leaves carrying the same plan they arrived with, but this was different. I scrapped together the shambles of my graduation. I physically broke ties with a teacher who forgot how to teach. I left east Missouri with 30,000$ of debt, the embers of a student teaching semester that crashed and burned, and no idea what to do.

 I spent the next months of my life with little finances, little sleep, little health, little education, little fellowship, and a great sense of loss. Let me be clear:

When I say I had little finances, I mean I had no health insurance, but 300$/month medication I had to have. I literally lived from paycheck to paycheck, crossing my fingers that the balance wouldn't go below the red line. I obliterated my savings on a class, then books, then tutoring for the class (over $2000)--that my college then told me I would not need...then I absolutely would need...then I wouldn't need. I was fortunate enough to have a job and be able to barely make loan payments and very, very cheap rent. 

When I say I had little sleep, I mean my entire cycle was backwards. I could not physically sleep at night and was exhausted during the day. I spent most of my semesters beforehand getting--no exaggeration--2-4 hours of sleep a night. There were times when my body would physically shake from the effort of trying to get out of bed.

When I say I had little health, I mean I spent most of those months being sick. I went from bronchitis, to walking pneumonia, to the stomach flu, to throwing my back out, to a sinus infection, to bronchitis again. I had anxiety attacks monthly. Three of these led to a breakout of hives and uncontrollable itching. In the midst of all of this, I had been diagnosed with PCOS, my cholesterol had skyrocketed, and my triglycerides were though the roof.

When I say little education...it gets trickier. I went to a very accomplished, very Christian university. Many professors, including my advisor and the university president himself, showed me great kindness. But it was a subliminally awful place to be female in a way that's hard to articulate. It had turned into a place were judgement was accepted over compassion. Tradition over reason. People did not do life here, they did a polished version of it. It wasn't until I went back one day and saw the new library, the updated arts facility, the rehabbed cafeteria when it clicked. My tuition was far more important than my education. This was a school that saught to make disciples but really--cash was king. I knew this when the only people who went up to bat for me were non-Christian professors. It was confirmed when stories of hundreds of students with the same situation started pouring out. It was solidified when I drove four hours in blinding fog and a dangerous ice storm to finally ask for their help (and also, mind you, take a long distance test for another "required" credit I was stubbornly squeezing in) and be told that my health problems were not an excuse and that I wasn't taking my education seriously enough. 

When I say little church family, I mean I came home to a nasty sex scandal, the second one, initiated by two beloved mentors I had looked up to for almost 20 years. 

And when I say a great sense of loss? I almost lost two very  close family members in the span of two months. There was nothing I could do to help hold my family together anymore. I was tired of watching so many marriages around me fall apart. And I couldn't explain nor absorb the constant happenings of misfortune anymore. 

Hurt by the church? I get it. I've seen it. I know. How tragic it truly is when the bride is represented so poorly. How terrible when bystanders are trampled because of it.

On that rainy morning I considered my situation, and that night I resolved to give my very last cry to a God who was not listening. I happened to be listening to The Afters, Light Up the Sky as I drove through the streets dotted by lingering heat lightening. I said simply, "I don't want anything from You. Or need anything. I just need to know You are here. That's it."

I pulled into the driveway as the song hit verse two. I looked up as it geared up for the chorus. And--exactly in time with the music--as the artist sang "light, light, light up the sky," a massive bolt hit the ground. The trees were a stark black against the purest of white light. Soft electricity ransacked the night. A still small voice said "I Am. Here." And I...might have peed my pants a little.

For what it's worth, the same thing happened the next day. Not with lightning,but with lightning bugs. Same song. Same beat. Lightning bugs lighting in time with the music at exactly dusk. It happened. Scouts honor.

He showed me it was worth it to reach. The woman was rewarded greatly, and so was I. When people reach, it's in His very nature to respond. 

In the midst of Matthew chapter nine, we find her. She had been hemorrhagging for years. There's no telling how she may have been treated by society. I mean, honestly--have you ever seen what happens when a girl has to bring up her period around a group of men? She, too, was probably judged, scandalized, marginalized, and cast out. She, too, was mistreated by representatives of Yaweh who were really, really bad at it. And she was pressed in by the crowds, and she was reaching, and she was straining--all she wanted was to touch but a corner of His garment. 

"For she said to herself, 'if I only touch his garment, I will be made well.'"

He stopped.

She had interrupted a Prince on a rescue mission for Jairus'daughter. Time was short, death was certain. But because He is the commander of time, because He knew her worth, and because He loved her to an immeasurable  degree He stopped, looking for the one who reached out to Him. A surprising pursuit of the human heart, to say the least. He could have done anything. He could have been annoyed. He could have yelled at her, stating that she did not know the gravity of the situation. He could have ignored her and kept on His way. He did none of these. He stopped. He asked for her. And He gave the reassurance that her faith had made her well. One moment she was sick, and the next she was whole. This was all part of His unmistakable heart for her. 

It is the same with us. With you. With me. With the lightning. And that's why, wounded one, I must ask you to be bold, and consider insanity. I must ask you to reach for Him again.

The issues I detailed must now be put to bed. I've gleaned the lessons I can from them and it's time to leave them behind for good. I'll do so with you. I'll reach. 

It is insane. We feel as though we've suffered by the hands of people who aren't who they say they are. Whether in the simple case of fallible beings, or the complicated instances of malicious intent--there is value in leaving behind false prophets and learning how to love again. 

So please. You'll feel silly, but you will not regret it. Grab my hand. Stretch out your palm. Look for his cloak. 

And reach.

Choose Life. Speak Life.

Thanksgiving is a great holiday. Christmas Eve too. They involve preposterous amounts of food and days upon days of leftover pie. These rank as the highest in my favorite celebrations, with birthdays and weddings running a close second. But for the single, fresh faced twenty something, these family get togethers usually present a very real problem when it comes to the conversation portion of the meal. I call it, "The Quiz."

"So, you got a fella yet?"

"When are you getting married, anyway?"

"What are you waiting for? It's not like you have all the time in the world."

"Oh I see, you're going to be one of those 'career-driven individuals.'"

And my personal favorite--"when are you going to start popping out some kids?"

Most of these are from well meaning relatives who have earned the right to tease us. However at one point, a friend of mine was so fed up that we just started coming up with the most offensive answers possible.

"Oh, right. I'm a lesbian now. Surprise!"

"Well, my thought was this--eventually the warlords are going to take over the planet and we will need a virgin to sacrifice. I thought I'd take one for the team."

"I'm becoming a nun. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I'm already married. Wait--didn't mom tell you?!"

And of course, with the creepiest smile a person can muster, "Why? Are you interested??"

No answer is as shocking as mine has been for the biggest portion of my life, though. "When are you having kids?" "...I still don't know if I want kids."

I receive the strangest stares.

"That's not natural." "You'll change your mind." "Who is going to take care of you when you're old?" "It's your responsibility to carry on the family name. You're being selfish."

Luckily I am fortunate enough to live in a family that isn't rude and doesn't really indulge in this sort of banter. When I confessed to my mother that childbirth is probably beautiful but also extremely terrifying, she nodded her head and responded, "that's understandable." When I was in college and still trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with my life, my dad told me that there is no reason to rush. Don't get me wrong. Children are delightful beings full of joy, potential, and love. They are also screaming, dependent poop machines that don't come with a manual and can sue parents later if they screw up. I'm just a little more worried about that second part. I want to make a positive difference, I just don't know if that will be by raising the Brady Bunch. Perhaps I might try something else. Perhaps I have altruistic goals elsewhere. Or perhaps I won't. Perhaps I'll have ten kids and be ridiculously happy. But in all honesty, it's just encouraging to know that my family is kind enough to look at me and see something other than a walking uterus. 

And that's why, as Christians, we need to add some fresh air to our view on abortion.

Stay with me. This discussion isn't going where it seems. I have no intention of changing my view, or yours. But there are some things in the world of sex, babies, and murder that we need to understand before our horses get higher than they already are. We need to acknowledge that:

1. We argue for adoption. And then we don't support adoption.

Our go-to for mothers considering abortion is that they should give the baby up for adoption. But adoption has a stigma that we, as Christians, are refusing to bring to light. Individuals who adopt are assumed to be either infertile or have no other choice in the matter. It's treated like a charitable second choice. I've watched people express the desire to adopt for no other reason than that's the option that they preferred. They were immediately shot down. It's assumed that people like this are weird, or dysfunctional, or have an insatiable need to be needed and want to pawn that off on some innocent kid. The incredibly out of context "be fruitful and multiply" argument is used. It's disgusting. If we send a child into the flawed foster system with little hope of an adoptive family because none are available, none are encouraged, and none are willing to step up, then we pull the rug out from our own platform. 

2. Not all sex education is created equal.

Most of the abstinence-only educators I find who argue against contraception are people who either have easy access to it or can afford to have a child. Or two. Or six. Personally, I'm not for abstinence-only education. I'm not for contraception-only education either. Neither of those extremes meet the needs of learners or give them the totality of information that should be available. The focus is on sex and its consequences rather than the deeper questions that need to be addressed. They don't teach that it's ok to say no. That an intimacy like that will have emotional allocations--stigma or no stigma. That sex is one of the most powerful drives on earth and that we don't have to deal with it alone (knock it off with the dirty jokes, I'm trying to be serious here). They don't teach that sex deals in irreversible laws of nature that can't be undone. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a youth ministry that was honest about sex and its consequences, but the majority of the message was still directed at young ladies--"it's your job to say no because he probably won't. If he gets and erection or tries to take advantage of you it's probably because you dressed inappropriately." As a result of both extremes, we have an abundance of terrified, desperate, pregnant girls who have a limited amount of information and a raging case of what's called "being sixteen years old." They may have reproductive health issues and no knowledge of how to get them treated correctly. We can't just pretend that it isn't a problem.

3. Not all abortions are...you know...abortions.

The medical term of "abortion" is looser than we would like to admit. It primarily refers to terminating a pregnancy because contraception either failed or was not used. Fair enough. But it also covers other things. They also refer to terminating a pregnancy in which the baby has already passed away. They refer to removing tissue that never actually formed a heart, or conceivable body function, or brain matter. Sometimes it's taken into consideration when there are multiple babies and not all of them can survive. There are women out there who do get an abortion, but don't deserve the societal "tut-tut." When these women have to walk past a bunch of protesters to take care of the above issues, it's just sand paper to the grief they are already experiencing. 

4. We are the masters of our own propaganda, and it's got to stop.

I'll be honest. I don't have an opinion about the recent video released about Planned Parenthood. The concept, if true, is horrifying. But I don't have enough research for an informed idea and frankly, I don't trust any of the sources that are out there. For one thing, no one can agree on the facts. And for another thing...contemporary Christian research is not exactly known for its reliable and ethical sources. Take this photo that often gets passed around for instance (warning, it's graphic in nature):

It's argued that this is how an abortion is performed on a 23 week old baby. What protestors fail to inform people? This is not an abortion. This is a medical procedure explaining how to remove a child that has miscarried. Is this procedure horrifying? Yes. Most invasive procedures are. Are abortions still horrifying? Yes. Abortions are often the death of an innocent child who was brought into existence through no fault of their own. Is it still wrong to use a mother's most heartbreaking moment, lie about it, and use it to fuel your cause? A resounding yes. 

5. We are still a generation of condemnation rather than redemption 

It's at this point in the blog where I'm going to essentially disagree with everything I've just pointed out. At the end of the line, I can't support Planned Parenthood, even if only 3 percent or 1 percent or 0.02 percent of what they do involve abortions. I have intellectual reasons (it's not a part of your body, it's a new collection of chromosomes). I have historical reasons (Nazis also classified Jews as non-people.) I have moral reasons (I'm sorry, sex is a beautiful thing. But when used improperly it's dangerous and now someone has played with played with fire.) Yet the one thing that has halted all rebuttal is this--I have three very worthwhile, irreplaceable, personal stakes in the matter. My family is a family that embraced adoption on all sides. I can't imagine life without my siblings or cousins. If could find and thank the scared, vulnerable young woman who bravely handed my brother to another caregiver, I would in a heartbeat. She is a valiant being to me. Whatever the details of her situation, she chose life anyway. If someone were to say that Andy--my hero, my protector, my secret-keeper, my guide to cool--could be replaced...I would have to rigidly put away my middle finger and settle for a "shut your filthy, lying mouth" instead. He has an amazing amount of value. Always. And so does she. We put the appropriate amount of value on one party, who is innocent. But we neglect the other, who is still beloved and pursued by Jesus in any past, current, and future situation. Just as we were. And that's what I'm getting at.

A friend of mine saw the "show off your abortion" movement and reacted beautifully. Most (like, say, me for example) would get furious and lose their heads. She, instead, expressed her dismay and continued with (paraphrasing)--"If you have doubts, come get coffee with me sometime and I'll tell you about my sweet Jesus who makes all things new." I was on my way to go off on a tangent about how people need to understand that just because they want to have sex by their own rules doesn't mean biologic functions just go away. Which is a valid point. But even more valid, even more righteous--she pointed to the only One who can captivate the soul in every sense of the word. He turned murderers into martyrs. The sick into well. The doubters into followers. Legalists into lovers. Terrified moms who are between a rock and a hard place--into adopted daughters. He values them. And because He values them, who are we to treat them like trash? This isn't about coddling. It isn't about avoiding offense. It isn't about watering down truth. It's about redemption. God is a God of justice and the only thing that could make something like this right was His death. Have we forgotten?

I'm actually quite proud of my church, if we are going to get into soapboxes and causes. One of the current visions is to create a clinic that specializes in affordable pre-natal care, for women who feel as though they have no other options. I love it. Why? Because I'm  really sick of seeing posters and memes and protests and noise. Be a cause--but if anything, let us be part of a solution. Let us be the hands and feet of Jesus, rather than a useless shout into the void. We must speak life to hearts that may appear shut. By His spirit--this is how they bloom. How minds change. How lives--two lives--are saved.

To Inquire is to Progress.

The beginning is a very good place to start. And questions serve as a lovely launch. 

Questions formed the tank. 

World War 1 served as a time for huge development in the means of technology and advanced weaponry. We see the miles upon miles of trenches, failed fronts, horrific and tricky gas warfare and think of it as an archaic battlefront. But the mechanical goings on were just...amazing for the time. Planes were being rebuilt to hold heavy artillery and maintain the ability to fire it in the right direction. If you know anything about aerodynamics, then you know that this was an impressive feat at a time when they were starting from scratch. There was a reason the Red Baron was considered a legend. Vehicles were now being used on the battlefield to transport wounded men to safety even faster than before. And tanks. Tanks were indestructible...once they were perfected.

There were some skeptics of this bumbling machinery. The first models were highly unsafe--dumping out carbon monoxide, exploding on the field, getting stuck in the ice and mud. Skeptics happily observed the disaster and started asking bold questions. "Why did we ditch the Cavalry for this?" "A horse would be far more knowledgable and loyal." "Don't you see all of the problems?" "We need many, many more tweaks to the constructive engineering before this can even be useful." Although while they were trying to figure out the point of this worthless invention, the tank improved. Every flaw that was picked apart thus turned into solutions. It was because of skepticism--along with a paradoxical, stubborn optimism--that made the tank indestructible.

It is an abundance of questions that make the world go 'round. Questions write stories. They discover theories. They solve problems. They construct tanks.

And out of fear or self righteousness (I can't decide which), we have stopped asking them in anticipation of an answer. It is defensiveness and entrapment that we offer on the altars of other gods. Tragic, though perhaps not without reason.

Speaking as a chronic fence sitter, I must admit...I love both sides of the Josh Duggar debate. They are demanding opposite concepts that are equally legitimate. Justice. And mercy.

The cry for justice wants to see the girls avenged. I think that they should be, because I have seen too much. I myself have been fortunate to live in a household and family of trustworthy gentleman who consider my well being incredibly important, and I can't thank Jesus enough for that. But there is a startling amount of young women out there who experienced the rough hands of vicious sexual abuse. I can assure you that you, at this very moment, are surrounded by these girls. The reason you disagree with me is because they have spent years being too afraid to speak up. It isn't fair. It isn't right. Molestation is something that robs a woman of her self worth, her ability to trust, of so many things. Those scars don't go away. They just don't. Unfortunately, within church culture, there is still an element of shame intentionally applied to her. She tells us she was assaulted. We ask what she was wearing.

The girls deserve justice for a wound so deep. Whether they were innocent children when it happened, or whether they were drunk at a party. That is what critics of Josh Duggar are screaming for us to hear and I'm glad that finally, FINALLY rape culture is turning to the side of the victims. They don't need counselors with their nose so deep in a bible that they forget to address the deepest, most primal questions that must be answered before healing can begin. They need to know that it wasn't ok. That it wasn't her fault. That the perpetrator should have consequences. That her moving on was a sign of her strength and beauty, and not an indication of the abuser's conquest. That forgiveness can be moving past an injustice and wishing someone well without returning to a toxic relationship.

But God is a God of both justice and mercy. It's all well and good as spectators to be self righteous about his crimes right now. But when the courts are closed, the cameras are done, and the interviews are over...both Josh and the victims still have many years of life to live. How miserable it is to spend so much time running from the person you once were. A person that no longer exists. A person that can be restored, because the concept of grace is just that powerful. After all, the apostle Paul began his life as a murderer and ended it as a martyr. 

The paradox is real. It is painful. It is not easy. And we must not stop asking the questions that matter. "How should we handle this?" "What is the right thing to do?" "How are the girls going to be provided for?" "What should be done about Josh?" 

The very real and tangible problem in all of this is that we are running about, squawking inquiries at each other. We have forgotten to gaze at the Creator of justice and Executor of mercy, and earnestly ask for His opinion on the matter. If we, I, insist on making something like this our business, then we must understand the beautiful need for desperate intercession. When we neglect to make the Spirit welcome, then we neglect to make our most important relationship a priority. It's important to His heart the we search for Him within the center of our weakness. That it is Him we involve. That it is Him we run to and rely on. 

Perhaps it is time to stop debating ideas and to start asking questions. Perhaps it's time to focus on who we are asking. His answers are perfection. Oh, Holy Spirit, you are welcome here...