A year of radical tests of faith. A year filled with moments of hopelessness. Like, real hopelessness. Like, fall on your kitchen floor and cry while you bang your head against the wall hopelessness. The kind where you throw your hands up in surrender at the feet of a God who’s just been trying to tell you to ask for help.

At least, I think that’s what He’s been trying to tell me.

It’s been a year since I asked for this. A whole year since I made the decision to surrender my control of my life. Twelve months of fighting against that decision. Four seasons have passed while I’ve taken every opportunity, every blind step forward into faith, every hand that’s pulled me up when I’ve fallen down. 2019, you’ve been hard on me.

This was something I’ve needed, though.

And Jesus has been so good to me.

I haven’t spent this whole time seeing it that way. Actually, I think I’ve spent more time thinking the opposite. There have been a lot of big fights with Jesus. I’ve probably told Him to square up at least a dozen times. The refining fire has burned me, but man am I surprised to see what it’s revealing underneath. He isn’t scared of my mess. He isn’t afraid of my anger. He’s teaching me that anger is rooted in fear, and that my fear was of my own success. It’s a fight I’ve gone down swinging to lose. I wanted to lose. I think I have finally lost. Thank you, Jesus, I think I’ve lost.

Two moves in five months. Two promotions and four stores in seven months. New environments, faces, responsibilities, expectations – and this is real life? Like this is what to expect when you’re not expecting anything? Who would ask for this???

I did, apparently. We’re a few days short of a new year, but where did the time go? I can tell you that I’m pretty sure it was August just last week, and yet somehow, we’re at the end of a decade.

You probably aren’t asking what I’ve learned this year, but I’d love to tell you anyways.

I’ve learned the meaning of community. I’ve learned that it doesn’t operate through fabricated groups determined by age, status, or gender, but rather through moments of true human connection. A shared feeling or space free of judgement. It isn’t half-hearted advice but sitting in the suck with someone who doesn’t want to sit there alone. It’s healing laughter and life-giving, joyous moments.

I’ve learned a lot about joy this year. I’ve learned that with allowing yourself to feel sorrow opens you up to allowing yourself to actually feel joy. We’ll come back to this.

I’ve learned that a big cry is cathartic. I’ve learned that grieving is a process. I’ve learned that my voice is loud enough to be heard. I’ve learned that people like to hear it, and you know I love to talk.

I’ve learned that Jesus exists far beyond the four walls of the Church.

I’ve learned that Jesus will find you in the breeze or in a song that you’ve heard 99 times but hear differently the 100^th. I’ve learned that Jesus spends time in the conversations you’re scared to have and in the weird hotel bar in Chicago you duck into to escape the cold. I’ve learned that Jesus grants grace. I’ve learned that Jesus didn’t want me to work myself into the ground, but to ask Him for help when I was spinning too many plates at once. I’ve learned that He honors and blesses that cry for help, and I’ve learned that He provides.

I’ve learned that His love knows no bounds. I’ve learned the meaning of the true ministry of our God. He’s our Wonderful Counselor. He’s the Prince of Peace and He’s the light of the world. The light of the world. He isn’t the white American Church, He is Jesus Christ. Emmanuel, the God who is with us. He lives within the margins and blesses those among Him.

Joy. This year has brought me so much joy. Refer back to new experiences, new environments, new faces, etc. Some of the relationships that I cherish the most were formed this year. In the fracturing and dismantling of my old life, the pockets of joy that I receive are putting together the pieces of my new life.

This year I learned to believe in a promise-keeping God who holds up his end of the bargain. I’ve learned that what you ask for doesn’t always show up the way you expect. I’ve learned that church doesn’t have to be a place I go on Sundays, but instead can be worshipping in my living room on a Tuesday night with my best friend. I’ve learned that hard work is exactly that: hard fucking work. I’ve learned that a lot can happen in a year and that Jesus does a better job worrying about tomorrow than I do.

2019 has been a tough year. We haven’t talked in a while, I know that. I hope now you might understand why. It’s not that I’ve forgotten about you, it’s that I haven’t known what to say. How do I tell you that Instagram isn’t always right and I’m not living my best life? One sporadic blog post at a time, I guess. If you’ve made it this far, know that I’m grateful to share these pieces of myself with you. I hope that in the new year, we find what we’re looking for, and if not? He is still good.

I wonder how you found yourself here. I wonder why you’re back, and I wonder if you’ll stay.

I wonder what you think of me. Actually, I’m scared of what you think of me. Vulnerability means a lot of things, but to me it means showing you my heart – whoever you may be.

It’s been a while since I’ve found myself here, with my heart in my trembling hands. I’ve been avoiding you, you know. I like that you’re here, that you’re listening, and that you care. It makes me uncomfortable to share that with you, but I’m learning that Jesus does some pretty powerful and restorative work in the midst of discomfort.

Here are some things that I know to be true today that I didn’t know a year ago:

• I didn’t know I could say his name and that it wouldn’t hurt
• I didn’t know that excitement and fear speak the same language
• I didn’t know that I’d lose my cat
• I didn’t know You’d show me grace this good
• I didn’t know You were this good
  • You are so good to me
• I didn’t know that You would really show up when I stopped pretending that You didn’t know what I didn’t want to share with You
• I didn’t know that it was so hard to trust You
  • It’s really fucking hard to trust You
  • The shame in saying that weighs heavy
• I didn’t know that life would look like this
• I didn’t know that I’d be seen or heard
  • I didn’t know that I spent a lot of time not wanting to be seen or heard
• I definitely didn’t know what to say when I realized people wanted to listen
• I didn’t know I would have friends like this
  • I thank God every single day for giving me the friends I have
• I didn’t know there was this much work to do
• I didn’t know how much hurt there is to sift through
• I didn’t know I’d find the perfect house and that I’d move out of mine
• I didn’t know I’d choose to invest in myself because You invested in me

I’ve learned that real fear is found within the calm before the storm. I’ve learned that the storm will come again right as the last one ends. I’ve learned that vulnerability, I mean real vulnerability, is fucking hard.

I’ve learned a lot about myself.

I didn’t know I was so guarded. Guarded from the people who love me. Guarded from the people who share their most intimate suffering with me. Guarded from You.

You used the people who love me to show me where I need to heal. You gave me the gift of community. True community. What an immense blessing to receive, right? I’m so undeserving, but so unbelievably blessed. You chipped away at that wall until You knocked it down.

I’ve learned that “best friend” isn’t a person, rather a tier of friendship.

I’ve learned that a few drinks can facilitate life-giving conversation, and create deeper and more intentional relationships. You chipped away at another wall. You eventually knocked it down.

I’ve learned that my body is a gift. I’ve learned that where shame used to live, grace has taken its place. I no longer blame myself for what he chose to do because choice wasn’t an option for me. I cursed the scars I spent summers trying to hide, and He kissed them. He tore that fucking wall down and told me I am blessed.

I spent time with Jesus reflecting on moments in my life when I didn’t know Him. I asked Him to show me where He was, and He did. I bowed my head in shame, and He blessed me.

I fall to my knees in front of a Savior who chooses me every day. I weep at the feet of a King who loves me with reckless abandon. I ask for forgiveness, and He grants it without hesitation. He reminds me every single day that I am forgiven, not forsaken and that His mercies are new every morning.

I told You that I wanted to surrender fully, that sin and shame no longer had control over my life. What I didn’t realize was that walls that took years to build do not fall in a single breath. This is where the real work began. This is a fight I didn’t want to put up, but it’s instinctual. Self-sabotage is innate, and is manipulative and masks itself as self-care. Fighting yourself is so fucking hard, because I thought we both wanted the same thing?

He’s extended me more grace in six months then I think I should be given in an entire lifetime. I say I’m unworthy, and He sings truth over me. I retreat and try to hide, but He’s already there waiting to forgive me. I try to run, but He always beats me there.

I’ve learned that in every moment of suffering in my life, Jesus is already there. He’s in every moment I fear, every moment I can’t wait for, and every moment in between. He’s in the first cup of coffee I drink in the morning, in Kate’s long hugs and in the last sigh I let out before I fall asleep. He’s in the rain pounding down on my cracked windshield, in the words of the songs that reach my heart, and in the eyes of strangers who see me – the ones who really see me.

My life is changing with the seasons, and I’m walking into a season of rejoice.

I’m moving, I’m changing my career path, my school, and I’m absolutely fucking terrified because I have no idea what to expect. Remember what I said though? Fear and excitement speak the same language.

I don’t know a lot but I do know this: Everything that happens to me is from Him, and everything from Him is good. This is true for you too, my friends. If you ask Him to find you, He will every single time. There is purpose in every moment, and every moment spent intentionally to glorify Him makes Him proud. All I want is to make Him proud.

I hope I can look at this a year from now and tell you what I didn’t know to be true then.  I hope you find yourself somewhere in my walk with Christ. I hope you found what you were looking for. If you’re just passing through or here for the long haul, I’m just happy you stopped by.

I feel selfish for grieving like this.

I’m crying more than I did when I lost my grandma. I’m crying more than I did when my heart broke for the very first time. My own lungs are trying to suffocate me. My heart is beating out of rhythm and I can feel it throbbing in my fucking ears. I hate it. I miss you. I’ve loved you so much for so long.

I met you when I was nine, and I hated you.

I wanted a kitten, and you were three- and you wanted nothing to do with me. You spent a week behind the microwave before even humoring the idea of introducing yourself. But I learned quickly that you smelled like brown sugar and had caramel colored belly fur. You did summersaults in clean laundry, and ran around the house after you pooped. You brought us real joy.

In fifteen years, you lived in three states. You always found your way to my pillow. You found me when I didn’t want to be seen. You saw what I didn’t want anyone else to see, whether it was tears or shame or the cereal bowls I would push under my bed. You purred in my lap and slept in my arms. You taught me about peace. You were my angel. You are my angel.

Watching you deteriorate has been excruciating.

It hurts to see who you were six months ago. Should I have loved you better? Probably.

Would I spend my time differently, more intentionally, had I known? Yeah, absolutely.

Are those opportunities gone? Yes they are.

And there’s a humbling and excruciating lesson in this truth.

 

Life ends, and we have no say in it.

We live so often in autopilot. We cope, we detach, we distance. Life manages to get in the way of what life is supposed to be about. Loving intentionally, being present in each moment. We get caught up in what we’re told is important, and de-prioritize life’s true priorities.

Thursday was when I saw it, and it knocked the wind out of me.

You were standing on the bathroom sink shouting. As you’ve gone deaf, your meow has changed so much. I picked you up, and you were so light. When did you lose all of this weight? We knew you had cancer, but we were told we had eight months. We knew we’d lose you, but we had time. We thought we had time.

You stood in the doorway of my bedroom, and you looked at me. I knew what you wanted, and I wasn’t having it. I told you I wasn’t having this conversation, but you insisted because you knew. You jumped on my bed, and laid down right in the sunspot. It was your sunspot. I wept into your fur and you purred and I looked at you. I mean like I really looked at you, and realized I hadn’t seen you in a while. Your paws were matted, your cheeks were hollow. I saw you and I knew that you were dying. That was the day we all knew you were dying.

In that moment in the sunspot on my bed, I felt it. I felt what He wanted me to feel.

Acceptance.

God didn’t just show up in that moment, He created that moment.

He put the pieces together perfectly to teach me what I think is the most important lesson I’ve learned in my adult life- that grief is absolutely inevitable, but peace comes with perspective.

There is no fixing this. There’s a point that you realize that you shouldn’t pray for divine intervention, because the inevitable will always be the inevitable.

There’s no curing cancer in an eighteen year old cat who’s lived a beautiful and purposeful life.

How could I ask Jesus to heal him? So I could have another year? Two years? Charlotte, you can’t run from suffering. You can’t run from the inevitable.

God created this tragically beautiful moment for me.

I wept into your fur, and all I could smell was brown sugar. I felt peace piercing through grief.

The truth is that no matter what, the pain will be overwhelming.

The truth is that no matter what, grieving will be a process.

The truth is that no matter what, you just can’t fucking fight it.

So take a deep breath, and be present in this moment, your last moment.

The moment you’ll keep forever. The brown sugar and the sunspot and the kisses goodbye.

He gave this to me. My God gave this to me. This perfect gift, this perfect moment.

Suffering is inevitable. Grief is consuming. It suffocates you and threatens to blow out your eardrums. Losing you is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life, and how dare I try to discredit my suffering by devaluing the love I have for you. By writing you off as “just a cat” and not as the consistent loving anchor I’ve had for a decade and a half.

Thank You, Jesus.

This lesson is the hardest and most humbling.

You gave me a precious gift. You let me say goodbye before it was too late. You know my sentimental heart, and how I attach to moments. You created it, and met us there, and wept with me.

My cat was my best friend. He was my baby bear, my first companion, and the only one who never got mad at me. Acceptance and understanding are necessary. I anchor myself to these truths while I walk through this. Because I am being refined by this suffering I am humbled. I can see all of these beautiful and powerful things and know them to be true, but it does not hush the ferocity of grief. The ache is consuming, but necessary. There is no light without the dark, and I am grateful for a God that walks through the dark with me.

Ziggy taught me a lot about love. He was in more of my life than he wasn’t, and he was family. Losing him has shown me what it looks like to grieve as an adult. I’ll spend a lifetime grateful for the time you shared with me, and I’ll thank my God every day for giving you to us, and then taking your suffering away. I love you, baby bear. I hope I get to see you again someday.

I hear what You’re telling me.

I see You showing up for me.

I feel You moving in my heart.

I hear Your voice in hers when she tells me to see myself the way You see me.

I see Your smile when he tells me something looks different – like I look lighter.

I feel Your warmth when I pray honestly and messily to you, and my face flushes and my hands loosen their grip.

It’s been so good, guys.

It’s been hard. It’s been irritable and messy and definitely a little sensitive, but it’s been so good. This week, I hear what You’ve been trying to tell me.

I’ve been saved, I’ve been baptized, and I’ve intentionally pursued You. That’s all I’ve needed to do, right? I mean I’ve thrown my hands in the air and asked You to refine me. I’ve asked you to make me the most useful tool in Your tool belt, and once You started, I asked You to stop. Big surprise, You didn’t.

I’ve been going through the motions of millennial Christianity. Identify unhealthy patterns, acknowledge toxic coping mechanisms, repent, repent, repent, definitely don’t forget to repent. Until this week, I was under the impression that I was fully committed to Christ – and it’s not that I haven’t been, but I didn’t have a good understanding of what “fully committed” meant.

When I reflect on Charlotte of seasons past, I get really sad.

I used to harbor a lot of resentment towards myself, I’d even go as far as calling it hatred.

I hated the chameleon skin I used to try to be palatable to the people I wanted to impress.

I hated the idea I had that my body represented my worth, not my heart or my mind.

I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but hatred shifted to sadness.

It makes me sad that I genuinely thought that the way I was treated was a direct reflection of my value as a human being.

So I unpacked some of the mess, and came to terms with the fact that I am valuable now, which could only mean that I was valuable then. Once I made it here, I patted myself on the back and called it self-love.

Hindsight is 20/20 y’all and that’s not self-love.

I know my worth, right? I know that I am surrounded by people who love me and encourage me and affirm me. So if I know my worth, why am I feeling so messy? If I trust You, why don’t I actually trust You? If You are in control, why am I putting up a fight to take it?

Is it fear? Not entirely

Is it distrust? Only a little bit

Is it self-sabotage? Bingo

Okay, but why?

 

You spoke to me this week.

I was in my café doing homework, and You sat down across from me.

We talked about understanding emotions and not knowing how to let go. This is something I’ve never really had a good grasp of, because I’m not sure if I’ve ever let anything go. We’ve talked about this before, I let years pass while wounds close and pain lessens. I just wait it out.

She struggled to keep her eyes open because the sun was setting and it had just gotten low enough to hit her directly, but You made sure she didn’t budge because You had something to say.

I told her that I can pull out this baggage – my emotions and my memories – and I can acknowledge them and accept them for what they are, and understand why they’re there, but I just get stuck when I tell them it’s time to go.

I can’t put them to death, I can’t just leave them with Jesus, because every time I try, I find them back in my heart tucked away the dark.

Her eyes were so blue and so beautiful and focused directly on me when she said that I’m not expected to put them to death, I’m expected to nurture them and love them.

I knew when she said it that I saw You. You were right in front of me, I saw You in her eyes. You made sure that I saw You, and You made absolutely sure that I heard You.

Last week, my pastor said in his sermon that we should imagine a God who actually knows us – who made us, who sees us, who loves us – and to imagine that He made us intentionally and carefully. And to even go as far as to imagine that there is a God who has a greater purpose for us, that because of all of these things – we have purpose, every single one of us.

Ok cool, so what do I do with this? Rationalize it.

If He is who He says He is, that can only mean that I am exactly who He says I am.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe that You’re God, but I didn’t believe that I am who You say I am.

I can’t hate my insecurities, my missteps or my fragile and vulnerable parts. I need to show them compassion and show them grace, because if You love every piece of me, then I should too. My insecurities cause self-sabotage, and man do I self-sabotage my way through life. Playing it safe means avoiding opportunity, because opportunity means vulnerability. Vulnerability means letting others see who I really am from all angles. It means trying my hardest and hoping it’s enough. I always come back to wanting to be enough, and the consuming fear that I’m not. What do You tell me? That I am enough. But it’s so much easier to miss opportunities than it is to try my hardest and do everything I can just to fall short and fuck up.

So what have we learned this week?

You want me to take the opportunities You give me. You want to celebrate my wins with me, and nurture me when I fall. You want me to know that when I fall, You’ll help me pick up the pieces. You want me to know that even though people leave, You aren’t going anywhere. You want me to see that my worth isn’t determined by the way people treat me, it’s already written. I am Yours.

This isn’t the time to pat myself on the back and call it self-love. This isn’t the bandaid that remedies the root of the problem. This is where I start.

I hate feeling bitter

I hate having a bad attitude.

I hate feeling annoyed, not being able to re-route my train of thought, having to sit in the suck.

Is this really what You want for me? I’m not being sarcastic, I’m actually asking. If I have to do it, I will, but is this what healing looks like? Or better yet, growth? I don’t want to subject the people I love to my bullshit attitude, God. It feels unfair to consistently whine about my feelings – actually, it feels weak.

I have this habit of burying the gross, the bad and the ugly. Nobody wants to deal with that, right? And when it bleeds into my outward attitude from my internal monologue, it can be destructive to the people around me.

It’s not like I’ve felt more bad than good, but it’s definitely been pretty equal.

One good day, one bad day, followed by a good day that’s then followed by a bad day.

And the bad days aren’t full of sorrow either, they’re more like 12 hours of a bad attitude. Everything frustrates me. Text messages, red lights, social media, my messy bun – all tiny annoyances that build up. If I don’t want to be around me when I feel like this, how can I expect anyone else to? Walls go up, and I’m trapped within them.

So I ask God, what do I do with these bad days? He won’t tell me. Figures. It doesn’t feel like growth. It doesn’t feel like healing. It feels exhausting. I press into Him, and He’s silent. At least, it seems like He’s silent. So I begrudgingly persist.

I read a lot. I listen to podcasts a lot. I hear these same few phrases worded differently when talking about healing:

• Pull out those feelings and sit with them

• Ask yourself the tough questions, and in the answers you’ll find healing
• Rumble with vulnerability

How does any of that make sense? No concrete steps to take. I pull out these feelings by the roots and I try to make sense of what I see

Loneliness, insecurity, a sense of longing, anxiety, fragility, sadness-

Gross feelings. All gross feelings.

So I say that I see you for what you are, which is unhealthy and toxic. I understand where you came from, because life has shaped you and placed you in my heart, and I accept that these are parts of me that need to die.

And that’s where I’ll sit, that’s the last step of my process. I don’t feel better, I don’t feel peace, and I definitely don’t feel growth. I feel like shit, so I pack them back into my chest and try to navigate through the lingering residual suck they’ve left behind.

So I ask again, am I missing something? What’s the piece of the process I’ve left out?

My dad always told me that it could be worse.

He says to stiffen your upper lip and get over it. There’s weakness in whining. Is that why I repress the bad? I’ve always thought my feelings were too much, that I’m too sensitive. So is that why I bury the suck? Is it because I hate other people’s suck so I assume they’ll hate mine?

But I don’t really hate other people’s suck, it’s usually valid. If you’re suffering, I will ask you to bring it to me. I encourage it. I want to support you and love you and nurture the tender parts of your heart. However, if you’re whining, if you’re putting more weight on your problems than there needs to be, I roll my eyes.

Wow, that was honest.

I’m sorry, guys. It feels mean, but do you do it too? I wonder if this means that I’m scared that you’re going to think I’m putting more weight on my feelings than there needs to be.

But sometimes, even if just for a few moments, it feels like utter warfare in my head, and that has to be valid, right?

It seems fitting that I find myself at the end of my thoughts, sitting with the residual gloom from talking through what I’m feeling. It doesn’t feel better, but it doesn’t feel worse. What I am sure of is that there’s purpose in the process, and I’m in the thick of the process my friends.

Blindly I’ll continue forward following You. I know Your way is the right way, and that my footsteps sink into Yours. I’m sorry for the mess, the curse words, and the whining. I’m grateful for Your mercy and Your reckless love, especially on days like today when it feels like I just don’t deserve it. And for anyone in the real world who finds me on a day like this, I thank you for the grace you extend me – because even if I feel like I don’t deserve it, you give it to me anyways. Thank you guys and thank you Jesus, for walking through this with me.

If someone asks me how I’m doing, I try not to say that I am a feeling.

I’m not happy, I’m feeling happy. I’m not lonely, I’m feeling lonely. I’m not sad, I’m just feeling sad.

But recently it’s been the consuming type of sad, and I have trouble navigating through it. The kind of sad that demands to be felt. The kind of sad that refuses to conform to social expectations or work schedules or the forward progression of life. The kind of sad that tells me to sit in it and let it consume me. High-energy is a good way to describe who I am most of the time. I’m light and I’m quick and this usually dominates any negativity dwelling in my heart. I can bury anger, I can ignore anxiety, but the heaviness that sadness brings feels like cement blocks tied to my ankles that I desperately try to pull forward with me.

The holidays have made this feeling seem like it’s making a home in my heart, and I simply won’t have that.

Sometimes I wish I could just text Jesus. I’d say, “Hey, can you meet me? I need help and i don’t know where else to go”. Maybe He’d tell me that He’d be over in a few minutes, maybe He’d sense the urgency and just call. But He doesn’t, because I can’t just text Him, I can’t just call Him. I can’t get concrete answers or tangible support. Is it selfish of me to say that it isn’t enough? Probably, but it’s also human.

I asked for this. My prayer was answered, but it just doesn’t look quite the way I had wanted it to. So I panic and I say that I’ve changed my mind, I try to retreat back to Egypt but Egypt isn’t an option anymore. I’m walking into this season of uncertainty, and I can feel my heart trembling in my hands. Suffering isn’t something I’ve ever been capable of coping with in a healthy way. When I think of suffering and what that’s looked like in my life, my mind doesn’t take me back to moments but to feelings. I feel the tightness in my chest, gasping for air because my lungs couldn’t fill quickly enough. I feel my gut in knots and my ears ringing with the sound of the fragility of my heart, pieces breaking off and getting lost in the dark corners of my soul. I’ve never suffered with Jesus, though.

This hasn’t happened in years, and that’s because I’ve made sure of it. I’ve carefully built a sturdy foundation around the most tender parts of my heart, and nobody has access to that.

Oh shit, Jesus does, though.

A real-time realization. Is that what this season is for? I have all of these thoughts, and they typically spiral because I have a terrible habit of assuming the worst so my reality is never as bad. Am I walking into healing? If so, what will that look like? Re-living trauma, getting to the root of the problem? I will tell you, face to face, that I am an open book. I like to believe that my story holds power, that I wouldn’t be exactly who I am right now without the junk and gunk I’ve worked my way through. I’ll tell you the LifeTime movie synopsis of my life, where I emphasize triumphs and let you in on some of the mess. I’ve let go of resentment that I held over my head, and have found peace. Right? Have I found peace? Or have I buried the pain and called it peace?

Jesus is the Prince of Peace, and it feels like He’s here to restore my heart. That’s the big picture, that’s what we ask for when pursuing Him. Restoration, healing, purpose. That’s what I feel when I think about the way my life will play out. I have no doubt that I am walking towards a fulfilling life filled with His purpose, but I’m not sure if I’m willing to walk through the suffering to get there. How selfish am I? To ask for all of the benefits of His love without putting in the work to be granted it? I am unworthy, I know that. I am human, and He knows that. But it feels like the walls I’ve built to keep everyone else out are trying to stand firm to keep Him out. How unfair is that? How selfish am I? Why is my life ruled by fear?

He is who He says he is. I am chosen, not forsaken. I am a child of God. All truths that my heart knows but my head can’t keep up with. But why? Questions that snowball off of more questions, and I find myself more turned around, confused, and vulnerable than when I started. I think this is what He wants, though. I’m supposed to be uncomfortable, I’m relinquishing control, remember? But it’s so much easier said than it is done.

I’ve never suffered with Jesus. I’ve gasped for air, felt the physical pain of suffering in the fibers of my muscles. Jesus might have been there, but I just didn’t know it. I’m scared to ask Him where He was because that means going back and looking for Him. Healing isn’t easy. Healing doesn’t come from a 10-step wiki guide with poorly drawn illustrations. Healing is messy, and scary, and unpredictable. It’s frustrating that I can’t see through the fear of the chaos to the promise of His goodness. My heart knows, Lord. I wish You would text me back. Tell me where to start and how to get back up when it knocks me down. Hold my hand when it’s hard, knock down my walls and protect my heart better than I can. Please, take it easy and don’t let me lose sight of You through the process.

He can’t text me back, and no questions will be answered directly. He speaks to me through perfect moments, though. Music is where I found Him, and my Spotify has over 1200 songs saved. He tells me what He needs me to hear when I listen to a song for the hundredth time, but for the first time, I hear it differently. He tells me what I need to hear with perfectly timed conversations with friends. He speaks to me when I write and my heart flutters as I pour out my insecurities or my baggage or my fears.

I hear you, Jesus. I thank you for seeing me, for hearing me, for loving me. I am filled with fear, but it’s equally matched with hope, Your hope. There is light at the end of the tunnel, even though I can’t see it now just walking in. I trust you, even when I feel like I don’t. I will speak truth until I believe it. I will hold myself accountable, even if it’s through a blog. There is purpose to everything, especially feelings, because I’m certain that these are from Him.

My environment almost always mirrors my headspace.

Chaos.

My living space is chaos. My headspace is chaos.

Everything is out of control, and it’s overwhelming.

And then something happens – I realize this is what I’ve prayed for, it just doesn’t look at all the way I had anticipated. Great.

I believe that as a Christian, it’s my responsibility to continuously ask God to mold me and shape me to His likeness. I made this decision one year and three months ago when I chose to get baptized. I just think it’s part of the deal, you know? He redeems us. He makes us new. He blankets our sin with grace and mercy and love while sacrificing His only Son’s life for us. I figure that it’s the least that I can do to repay what He’s granted me. If all I have to do is ask Him to make me more like Him, and actively pursue an intentional relationship with Him, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

With that being said, navigating life with that mindset over the last year has been turbulent.

Conviction has turned out to be an all-consuming feeling, and not in a great way.

Things I’ve done before, I feel guilty for doing now. Like a ton of things. I’ve spent the better part of the last six months talking to God about baggage and coping-mechanisms, and feelings and mistakes. I came to a place where I realized that I am an Israelite trapped in my own personal Egypt. I could directly relate the toxic patterns in my life to the slavery of Egypt. The hope to escape. The hope for freedom. The promise God gives us is freedom, so long as we relinquish control.

So relinquish control I did. I think.

For weeks I prayed boldly and intentionally for Him to pluck me directly from where I was and to place me on the path He needed me to be on to become exactly who He needs me to be. For Him. For His goodness. Day after day, I would pray. In between praying, I would fuck up. I sin literally all the time. I fib all over the place, without even hesitating. I really figured that He wouldn’t use me when I’m still so messy and new to Him. I run back to Egypt every time I think about not being in control of my life.

Listen to me, we’re never in control.

And here we are now. A month has passed, and God is moving. Loudly. Boldly. Intentionally. In the lives of the people I love. Perspective is shifting, life is changing, and I’m sitting here in awe of it all. I’m excited for the people who are leaving seasons of suffering and walking into seasons of joy, of purpose – but here I am losing control of my life. I feel like I’m drowning, life looks so different so quickly and I’m here with my hands shaking too scared to ask for help.

I find myself here, and then I understand (This didn’t happen right away, just shortly before I decided to write this) that this is my answered prayer. I asked Him to pluck me from where I am and to put me on the path He needs me to be on to become exactly who He needs me to be. He needs me here – in the throes of utter chaos – to relinquish control to Him. How else can He use me if I can’t accept that life isn’t going to be what I demand it to be? It’s like I’m walking through this threshold into a new season of uncertainty blindfolded. I’m letting it consume me, overwhelm me with fear, because it doesn’t look like a gift. Realizing that it is, that it’s Him refining me, I can’t help but to feel hope.

And isn’t that what Jesus is? He’s hope. He’s the promise of a beautiful, perfectly orchestrated future. For the first time in months, I feel peace. Thank you, Jesus. I can’t promise that this won’t be messy, but I can promise that I will try. I just have to open my arms, let Him take the wheel, and play it cool.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. My name is Charlotte. I’m 24, I found Jesus almost a year and a half ago, and I wanted to start a blog to talk through what being a Christian looks like for me. I hope my life might help you understand your life too. I’d love to walk through this together.