Asking the wrong questions


It’s been almost 2 years since I have blogged in this way. It’s time again. The story in my soul is ready to be processed- most posts will be marked if they are past journal enteries from over the last year or so. I am humbled to share some of my heart during a very dark and difficult year- but find it so freeing to share honestly about depression, trials, and the beauty of the Lord in it all. This is a post from a my journal a few months ago


The room is dark. The coolness of the fan above me keeps my face chilled while the weight of the blankets keep my body warm. I can hear the day outside my window. It seems to be teasing me with all it’s offerings of life and tasks to be completed. But my legs and feet don’t work. The unseen blanket weighing on my soul is too heavy. I can’t seem to lift it off.

Like a soldier after a long battle, a long for home. The feelings of normal life seem so easy yet after months to years of being war side, the civilian life seems anything but easier.

Just breathe it in. Just do “normal.” It sounds so easy. So normal. Kids, breakfast, school, errands, work, laundry, lunch with friends. That’s not scary, after all, all the things I was doing while in the thick of bombs and suffering was far more difficult to walk through than a stroll down the cereal isle at the grocery store. Yet it’s not. The small things are not so small any more. The perspective of normal is shifting.

When the brains in your head say “no.more.” and your body aches from just sleeping, a cry from the weariness begins to form. A help that is only offered through supernatural power.

God for me has become real. A friend that sees that your limited body and mind need an advocate when the war aftermath has set in. A place of real hard choices and soul stretching trust emerges.

He says to me “Enter into my rest. Take my yolk.”

I say, “I can’t even get there. I feel you close yet the rest seems so far. ”

I cry “why is the easy so hard? Why can’t I just do “normal?”

He says, “because you are not normal. I don’t do normal. I do great. And with great suffering comes great joy. And with great battles come great victories. Your weariness isn’t the enemy. It’s your pride”

My heart hurts more. “But I think of myself as the lowest of the low. Pride? Really?”

The dark room sits still. Quiet.

Could this invisible blanket that weighs on my soul be pride? Perhaps pride doesn’t look the way I think it does. Perhaps pride is anything that says that what I feel and think is more powerful that the movement of God. How does God move in me when depression and anxiety cling like shackles to my feet?

Conviction comes like it always does, when a child actually hears  compassion in their parents voice.

Pride isn’t always thinking of yourself higher than you ought but it can also come in thinking of yourself lower than He says you are. And just as pride cometh before the fall, pride can also be the chains that keep you from rising again.

The cross means something to me here. In a place where I can’t move. It says that God wants to be something FOR me. Something I can’t be, do, or create.

The questions start to shift. All the “why” and “whats” are the wrong questions. Afterall, who can be in the middle of great trial and at the same time have the power within their human minds to summon up some super spiritual application of “what great spiritual lesson is God trying to teach me right now?”

My answer is none. That answer, that lesson isn’t for now. If God chooses, by his grace you will see it someday. But for now, when the weight of hurt and life is too heavy, whether it be while lying in bed or standing in front of a giant, the question begs to be CHANGED. No more whats. No more whys.


who god

Who does God want to be for me right now? When you ask that question, the pride in your life shatters and the force within you is not of your own power. It’s HIM.

I’m scared lying here alone in the dark.  Who do you want to be for me right now, God?

I am your protector.

I’m weary from hours upon hours of hard, draining conversations and confrontations. Who, God?

I am your strength.

I am lonely. Misunderstood.

I am your advocate.

I am ashamed. Guilty.

I am your sacrifice. 

In my darkest moments, I have cried,  screamed at times, “WHAT are you doing? Why God?!”

And it’s always quiet. I believed it was me- somehow I was still so spiritually immature that I couldn’t hear or apply the greater meaning for my struggle, bad news, or trial.

It was always later that answer came. Never in the midst.

Then I started asking “Who?”

And He always answers. Always.

I always hear.

After all, He IS the great I AM.