Four years ago yesterday, Fourthborn entered the world.

We (God, Hubby and I) have unleashed a force onto the world. We (Hubby and I) had no idea how much of a powerhouse this child would be. She’s so small, so dainty, so very girly in all the typical ways. But underneath the veneer of sugar and spice and everything nice lies the heart of a fighter.

And when that heart starts to fight God’s battles, when He starts guiding her directly rather than through me and Hubs, I can’t wait to see the dents and dings in the gates of hell.

Her faith is child-like, obviously. But her devotion to Jesus is unreal. She (rightly) lives as if Jesus can do anything: from causing her hair to grow back and her to stop pulling it out (Praise you Lord) to fixing my headaches, to providing “pink cake with pink things on top” for her birthday.

All I ask as her mother is for the grace and energy to do this part correctly. A few more years will show the fruit of the unending will-shaping that is going on in my household. As of now, all we have are moments of Eirene budding here and there. Moments that I admit I squander more often than I should. Moments that will pass me by and I’ll forget in years to come, if I am not careful.

So, my screaming angel, Happy Birthday. I love you so.

Me and Fourthborn (who is up way to early) sit on the couch. Mynda the pup is obnoxiously going after Jake. He’s showing infinite patience. Eternal patience. But he looks at me every so often with a “can I?” expression. Can I put this mongrel in her place? Will you be mad at me if I growl?

I say “Get her Jake, you don’t have to take that.”

And he’s up, on the offensive. Growling and chasing Mynda around the room. Mynda scoots, tail between her legs, not nearly as bold now that Jake (75lbs) is after her. But she’s fast, and Jake doesn’t really want to hurt her, just warn her. As soon as he backs off, she’s back on the attack.

In the meantime, Fourthborn is narrating the scene: You working Mommy? Why Mynda bite Jake? Get her Jake! Why she run like that? She got dirt in her mouth, she got something to chew on! (At least at this hour the “Mynda Peed!” alarm is blessedly silent)

Finally the dogs settle in separate corners. Jake, rewarded for his Alpha stature, on the dog blanket. Mynda not far, munching on her chew stick, ears slicked back (still spirited enough to fight for it if someone wanted to just TRY taking it), pausing now and then to check out the status of one of the cats. Fourthborn’s head rests on my shoulder. I can smell her hair, as she watches me type.

What lessons today, Lord? 

Do I resolve to battle the annoying attacks of the enemy with the same level of dignity Jake displays in dealing with the puppy? I know that the minute I stand and weild the Word of God, the enemy tears across the divide, tail tucked. Yet I, like Jake, still wait for permission to attack. WHY?

Or do I go for the chase…constantly jumping at the throat of blessings just out of reach, like the puppy. She doesn’t know this, but I do: one day we’ll both be grown enough to actually be able to handle what we strive to obtain. We’ll mature to the state where we are good and fearless stewards. We may even get a hold of them prematurely with all of this effort. What a disaster that may turn out to be.

Or do I sit, crazy hair and morning breath on full display, with my head on Your shoulder. Watching You work. Narrating as I go…yet full of constant questions. Why? But Why? But WHY? Not really sure I like or understand the answers.  Fourthborn wiggles trying to find a comfortable spot, but her head never leaves it’s resting place, her eyes firmly fixed on what I am doing. I am sure that my comfort is not a factor in the questions I am asking, but my head and heart stay firmly settled in my Resting Place, my eyes focused in on Your work.

Sometimes the danger to blogging about a personal struggle (take yesterday’s post for example) opens one up to being totally misunderstood. Add to that inherent risk: blogging a brain dump at 5 am with zero caffeine in your system and you are just inviting people to misread.

And because part of “the crazy” I live with includes a compulsion to fix it fix it fix it when I know such a misunderstanding has taken place, well I hereby offer my clarification on yesterday:

I do not think God wants me to stay depressed. I just have not received the answer to my prayer for permament healing. 

I do think that God will heal me, one day. That day is just not today…and I had that fact confirmed to me yet again on Sunday.

Until that day, I will continue to live with this with as much grace and dignity as I can. After all, it was in the dark of night that the daily manna fell. I rise every morning to collect it. 

Yesterday’s post was more a declaration that I am seeing God at work in this darkness than a cry for help (as my husband so thoughtfully put it). Ok no, that’s not exactly right. Now that I reread it for the billionth time, I realize that I was lamenting the fact that I have to keep waiting, waiting, waiting for what I know God can and will do eventually. BUT I recognize that while I am waiting, God is really working out some remarkable things.

I’m not very good at waiting indefinitely. He’s teaching me though. So while I am sad that I didn’t rise from that altar completely cured, I’m not exactly poised to dive off the deep end, either. Sorry if I gave off that impression. There’s more to learn about Him,  more of His Presence to experience, more Eirene that He wants to plant into me…so I’m not giving up or checking out or whatever it is that one might fear for me.

I’m in this, ALL IN, for the long haul adventure. 

Eirene,

Jen

I knew before I even arrived at church yesterday that it was going to be a powerful day. I knew as we moved through praise and worship and the Spirit started working on me hard that it was going to be an emotional day. And I knew when Pastor directed us to 1 Kings 19, that I was not going to make it out of that sanctuary without once again facing some facts about my depression and how to live with it.

Pastor preached a short but gut punching lesson on depression using Elijah’s example, particularly the mistakes he makes when he falls into this pit. And I agreed, whole heartedly and without reservation on all of his observations. And when it came time to move forward to the altar, I was there. Again. Asking for deliverance for this life-long struggle.

And as has been the case so far, I did not get the answer that I wanted.

For the record, there was a time when God did intervene in my mental illness. Breaking off of me a battle with alcohol that I was losing. Recently He also has done a work in my dependance on caffeine as well. He’s ministered to me to heal the wounds of my past, healing me of abuse, neglect and the ongoing consequences of my own sin. But no matter how many times I ask Him to cure me of depression, He has yet to remove that one.

I take medication for depression and anxiety every day. And there is a prideful part of me that hates that, yet I know that I know I would be unable to live the life God has given me without it. I am not like the man in the story Pastor told yesterday, who in the midst of a flood, praying for deliverance from God, refused every agent of that deliverance: the lifejacket, the boat and the helicopter. Well, my relationship with God *is* my lifejacket, and my medications are my boat and helicopters. AND I REFUSE TO REFUSE THEM.

Paul talks about a thorn in his flesh that he prayed to be removed and God responded “My Grace is sufficient for you.” And it is this same grace that has sufficiently supplied all the strength, all the wisdom, all the anythings and everythings that enable me get up every day and just do the thing. 

But I am still depressed.

It drives me a little (or a lot) nutty, to be such a walking paradox of hope and hopelessness. Wouldn’t it get to you, too? To know that God is in the middle of that pit as much as He is on the mountaintop? To feel that the darkness is not only because of what I am suffering from, but because He has covered me with his hand? To feel the storms, the earthquakes and fires ALL THE WHILE ATTENDING TO THE STILL SMALL VOICE? To question every thought…from my flesh? from the devil? from God? To have to remain constantly on call to take those thoughts captive? Because if I am not, I default to the wrong thoughts, even while on the medications. To hear either silence or “not yet child” over and over again during a prayer for permament and complete healing?

No wonder I am weak and tired.

And even as I type that, I know the answer to that weakness and exhaustion–

“Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.”

“Though He slay me, yet I will hope in Him.” (For the days when I want to cry, Enough! I’ve had enough Lord! Take me outta here!)

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

So yeah, I’m depressed. But look at what God is doing in the middle of that. Have you met my family? Have you seen my work? Have you read my blog or been in one of my classes? IF THERE IS ANYTHING GOOD IN ANY OF THAT, it’s Him, working it out in me. His Power resting on me. Were it not for this particular thorn, I do not know that I would have grown so much spiritually in the past few years. If God healed me completely right this minute, what would force me onto my face before Him tomorrow and the next day and the next?

So, that divided place in me all at once rejoices and mourns. I mourn the fact that as of today, God has not seen fit to remove this particular burden. I’m saddened that I have to carry that load, still, and possibly until the day I see Him face to face. But I rejoice that He sees fit to keep me on a path that seems to be working for Him. That He sends me the bread of life to eat and be strengthened. That His mercies are new every morning. 

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, My God, in whom I trust.”

Dear Mr. President,

Tuesday was the first time I remember watching a man take the oath of office for the Presidency outside of a school setting. I chose to watch, rather than being compelled to by an instructor, because this country has put a great deal of faith (and hype) into the next four years. Yes, you made history. Yes, this is an oath that will go down in the record books. Many of us have gotten so caught up in those facts that we have forgotten that every president makes history, every oath is recorded.

You are very special, though. In the Word of God I read that every man is appointed a generation in which to live. God chose you to live now, to rise to the Presidency in this day, for this time and season, to accomplish work that He assigned to you before you were even born. Pretty heady stuff, especially on the heels of all that pomp and pageantry of the day.

I watched you take office and I’m thrilled that you humbly acknowlege how hard it is going to be, how much work there is to be done. I’m inspired by your ongoing message of meeting in the middle, finding the common ground, and the actions so far that I have seen to demonstrate this as you have transitioned into office. You seem aware of both the task at hand and how accountable you will be, not just to us but to God. 

My prayer for you is that you have a rich spiritual life while you are in office. The demands of that role have to have a negative impact on the amount of time you spend with Him, and with your family…but I pray that you will be first and foremost a man seeking God’s wisdom, then a husband to your wife and father to your little girls, and then our president. 

Eirene,

Jen