One minute I put a pizza in the oven, the next I was running toward the stairs. With eyes wild and heart on fire, I felt IT rising. Panic. Out of nowhere. Wait. Maybe this isn’t panic, maybe it’s the virus that Anna had a few days ago. Let’s see, sudden nausea, hot flash, pins and needles every which way. All I could think was bed. I laid down shaking under the covers. Is this different from a panic attack? Is it the same? If it’s the flu, why am I not throwing up? I reached for Google and broke my number one rule.
Hands shaking, I typed out the search words:
“Symptoms of stomach flu.”
This couldn’t be anxiety…or could it?
I slept for 24 hours. When I finally ventured downstairs, I said THE WORDS to my family. “I think I might be having anxiety symptoms.” No way, they said. Right, mom?!? You’re just sick.
Yes, I’m sick, but I also feel like I’m having anxiety again.
Off and on anxiety symptoms and tiredness followed me the next two days. There were times I was sure I was having a setback, and other times I was sure it was simply low blood sugar or high cortisol from being ill.
The truth is that it simply doesn’t matter why I feel the way I do. My body is revved up for one reason or another, so what in the world was I to do?
Be Honest About It
I told my family and a few select people that I was struggling. It helps to have them know.
Be Kind To Yourself
Do the same things you’d do if you had the flu. Drink lots of water. Get lots of rest. Breathe in and out. Let the waves come, don’t try to fight them.
Be Brave
Put on the armor that God gives you. Claim the peace of Jesus. It’s yours. There’s nothing you have to do to get it. Don’t let it sit unused. Claim it. Claim it. Claim it.
This journey of Seeking the Still is just that: a journey. I haven’t arrived. And while I have tangibly seen the victory of Jesus, I’m still in process. So are you. It’s not called “I Found The Still.” I’m still seeking that which is fully available in Jesus.
Having had acute anxiety, I may always be more prone to it. In times of stress and sickness, it leaks out. It’s good for me to know this and be prepared. But I will not allow it to be used against me.
No weapon formed against me, or you, shall prosper. That verse doesn’t mean no weapon will be formed against us, it just means it won’t win. We claim the peace of Christ. It is ours, and we will wield it in His almighty name.
Sadness washes over me as the home video abruptly switches from my cute little girls to me with my game face on, all dolled up in a white denim jacket.
It was 9 years ago in 2007, when video cameras still recorded on tiny tapes. Apparently, I intended to record over this audition, but a remnant remained.
I watch myself deliver carefully rehearsed lines. Eyes directly into the camera, voice projected, body poised. I was auditioning for a non-profit organization that sends motivational speakers to high schools around the country. And the deadline for audition tapes was that day.
Right in the middle of a line, adorable 3-old-year-old Audrey runs to the room, interrupting my soliloquy. The video shows me stop and glare at her, an angry mom look casting dark shadows everywhere.
“Anna’s getting fussy, mom,” her sweet voice rings out.
“What are you doing out here?” I yell at her. “I told you stay in the room. Get back in there and watch your sister. NOW!”
In the space of 5 seconds I watch myself turn from an enthusiastic, classy woman into an ugly witch yelling at her 3-year-old to go back and take care of the baby crying in the exersaucer.
Of course, that wasn’t the first time I yelled, threw a fit, or relied on my toddler to keep an eye on the baby. But it was the first (and last) time I saw myself do it outside the walls of my own head. I wanted to erase the evidence. Pretend it never happened. But for some reason, I didn’t. That clip still exists somewhere in the vast storage device where our electronic family memories reside. I know I’ll stumble upon it one day. Or perhaps one of my girls will find it. What will I say? How will I explain…
I could brush it off.
“Oh, gosh. That must have been a really bad day. Let’s delete that one!”
I could defend myself.
You know…I had recently stopped working to be home full-time. I didn’t know it then, but I likely had postpartum depression, too. We sold our car to make the budget work, and Justin only carpooled a few days per week. Many times, I had no vehicle to leave the house. Money was so tight. I was isolated and desperately trying to find an outlet to make cash and feel like myself again. The deadline for the audition tape was that day, remember? And I DID get the job…
I could give insight.
It was hard for me to be a mom of little ones. I’m highly driven, ultra sensitive, and I need lots of down time to feel my best. I was in over my head, and I had not yet learned the importance of asking for help. It’s not that I didn’t love my babies. Oh, how I have loved them every moment since I learned of their life within me! It was a rough season that I did my best to hide. As a result, the ugly parts spewed out all over the ones I loved the most.
I could be honest.
I’m a messy miracle, darling. I don’t know why I do the things that I do. I make mistakes. I act out of fear. I screw up…badly. But those mess-ups have taught me so much about love and forgiveness and grace. I never would have known how much I value those gifts, how much freedom they give, if I hadn’t needed them desperately. And I do need them desperately.
What if we’re all simply doing the best we can?
I know you can relate to my story. There are things you’ve done that you wish you could take back. Maybe they weren’t played on a computer in front of you, but perhaps they keep playing on the screen of your mind. Your first instinct is probably to defend yourself and place the blame elsewhere. Or do you dismiss and avoid?
What about when other people mess up? Do you revel in it? Does it secretly make you feel better to know you’re not alone? Is your first instinct to judge and assume?
It’s a crazy world we live in, and we’re all part of the crazy. It’s not the way it was designed to be, but it’s the way it is. Until Jesus takes us home or returns, you and I will continue to be part of the mess. But we’re also part of the miracle.
What if the next time you mess up, you choose to confess and ask forgiveness?
What if the next time your unmet expectations cause you frustration, you talk about it openly and honestly, without blame?
What if the next time a friend tells you she doesn’t want to get out of bed, you don’t try to fix her. You simply say, “I understand. What can I do?”
What if the next time you see a mom frustrated with her child, you offer an encouraging word instead of judging and walking by.
Because you understand, after all.
You’re the mess. And you’re the miracle. God works through you in both ways. So let him. Be you and offer grace to others to be themselves, too.
On the back of my senior t-shirt, I added these words in white vinyl letters.
Harmful or Harmless? What do YOU think?
My maiden name is Harm, thus the creative play on words. But a darker meaning also lurked there.
I swallowed my first taste of alcohol at age 16 sitting on a car in the high school parking lot. The next morning, I sat in the choir loft for church. I was a notorious good girl who thought way too much about doing, saying, feeling the right thing, so I quickly learned that alcohol was an “easy” way to release the nagging voice in my head. Under the influence of elixir, layers of weight shed from my skin. Words flowed freely. Spontaneity was achievable. My reserved nature fell away and an alter-ego took her place with sweet release.
For the first decade of my drinking years, there was no such thing as simply enjoying a glass of wine or a can of beer.
I drank to become someone else.
“You know, alcohol is more dangerous for you than for others,” my father said one night, a reminder of our shared family history.
The angel on my right and the demon on my left. A conflict of character. A battle of identify. I was both of them, but thankfully they weren’t all of me.
Can you relate, Messy Miracle? Do you sometimes wish you could change the things you dislike about yourself? Do you wish there was a pill to erase the fear? Do you long for a magic mirror in which to see the future yet to come?
We all do. It’s universal, this desire to control. And sometimes it actually works…for a little while.
The dark side.
I’ve experienced two drinking-induced blackouts. Entire evenings missing from the cavern of my mind. On my 19th birthday, the last memory I have is throwing back shots at a bar during a fraternity social. I woke in my sorority bedroom soaked in layers of vomit with no recollection of laying face down, comatose on a parking lot the night before. Nor do I remember the (thankfully kind) designated driver who carried me home. He left a note. His name was Troy.
In my twenties, I attended the marriage of friends and drank the glasses of wine that continuously appeared before me. I vaguely recall dinner, then dancing and then nothing. Except the echoes of embarrassing stories the next day.
Blackout. No memory. No picture in my head.
Life moved ever forward with career, marriage, and kids. The escape of drink turned to shopping, moving up the corporate ladder, decorating a home, and dozens of smaller distractions to numb the ever-blooming chase for contentment.
Who am I? Why am I here? I had everything I ever wanted, but nothing was enough.
First the heartache. Then the healing.
I intended this essay to be about drinking, but I realize now that it’s actually about so much more. Drinking is just one of many ways I’ve sought to avoid the pain of this chaotic world. And what I’m learning is that You. Can’t. Avoid. The. Pain.
At least not forever. Any attempt to stuff it or hide it or ignore it, just makes it intensify when it can no longer be contained. And trust me. At some point, it will no longer be contained.
So, what’s a lady to do? I wish there was an easy fix, dear one. The truth is that the only way out is through. You have to open the door on the pain to set it free. You have to find trustworthy people to help you. And you have to surrender it all to Jesus.
I know you’re chasing contentment. You are wrestling with warring sides of yourself. So am I…still. We’ll never find the answer in the bottom of a bottle. It’s nowhere in the latest trendy clothes, lower numbers on the scale or newest wrinkle cream. It’s not in your boyfriend or your spouse or even your children. All of that will fail you. You will fail you. But it’s ok. We were never meant to heal ourselves. But we ARE made to be healed.
Can you believe, just for a moment, that you were made to live free? Live free from the pain and emptiness? Imagine what that would feel like…to know that you are perfectly loved and accepted exactly the way you are. And what if you didn’t have to do anything for this to be true? What if you only had to let go of the reigns and believe? Would you do it? Could you do it? Stay with me on this quest to Seek The Still and see…
Fear tells me to hold these memories deep in the cavern of my mind. My weirdness, quirks, and imperfections feel safe hidden from stinging curiosity and judging eyes.
But change is stirring. With each word released, with every story shared, my heart and soul are stretched in new ways. Feelings fly free and shame is undone in a mysterious dance that I’m learning to respect – and even enjoy.
These tales are true, and they are mine. Yet they are also strangely yours. In the sharing, our lives intertwine, and we see one another more purely. Perhaps for the very first time.
Fear tells me to hold these memories deep in the cavern of my mind. My weirdness, quirks, and imperfections feel safe hidden from stinging curiosity and judging eyes.
But change is stirring. With each word released, with every story shared, my heart and soul are stretched in new ways. Feelings fly free and shame is undone in a mysterious dance that I’m learning to respect – and even enjoy.
These tales are true, and they are mine. Yet they are also strangely yours. In the sharing, our lives intertwine, and we see one another more purely. Perhaps for the very first time.
We are messy, you and me. But we are also miracles.
I am 11 years old, lounging on a couch in rays of sun. A Harlequin romance book is propped open as my tween eyes soak in words like oil on thirsty skin. The drama, the love, the exotic settings take me far into worlds momentarily more real than my own.
As my eyes flit back and forth, words and story tumble in, and my hand lifts to the coarse, black lashes on my eyelids. As if by magnetic pull, without thought or intent, I separate them and pull with practiced ease.
A release of pressure comes along with the lash now held between my thumb and forefinger. Satisfaction flows when I admire the perfectly round, white ball at the root no longer attached to my skin.
Eyes back on the book, my hand returns to my eyelashes again and again. Until one day I realize there are no more lashes to strum. Nothing more to pull. I look in the mirror and stare aghast at red, swollen eyes. The lashes are gone. I have pulled them out. Every single one.
I don’t remember how quickly my mother notices, but she does, and I manage to convince her that I’m not sick. The lashes didn’t fall out on their own. “I pulled them, Mom.”
I read the skepticism and disbelief in her eyes. “Let me show you.” I say. I reach up and pull out a lash of her own. “See?”
Call it a nervous habit. Call it an early symptom of anxiety. Call it trichotillomania. I never called it anything. I bluffed my way through the conversation, promised I could stop, and never spoke of it again.
Conceal. Don’t feel. Don’t let them know.
I want to run to that little girl laying on the couch. I want to tell her that the upcoming move far south will be a good one. I want to tell her that she’ll have her first kiss, her first love, and be brave enough to audition for cheer in front of the entire Junior High. She’ll be voted to the squad.
I want to beg her to enjoy every moment in that small, southern town because she’ll have to move again. This time in the middle of 8th grade.
And I’d tell her that move is not going to be easy. The high school years are hard. Really hard. I might warn her that she’ll make some terrible decisions, but she’ll be okay because the hard things will eventually teach her great truths.
I want to tell that little girl that she is her own harshest critic. That she is loved. That she does not have to achieve or prove her worth to anyone. Gosh, I long to tell her there is so much beauty coexisting alongside her brokenness, but she just can’t see it, at least not yet. She sees only through a small frame like an artist using his hands to capture a particular point of view. But I’d also tell her that there is so much outside that small frame, and every bit of the whole picture is there by design. Then I’d tell her she never has to to figure it all out or hide her messiness. She was made to live free. And her Maker, the Great Designer of that full view, is with her and preparing her to appreciate the miracles she can not yet see.
I would take her hands, look into her raw, red eyes, and say…“I love you, Laura.”
“Mommy, will you play pet shops with me?” the little voice pleads. I sigh and look up from the computer, stare at my to-do list a mile long. I begin to utter the familiar words, “Not right now sweetheart. Maybe in a little awhile.” Then I remember. Soon I will be the one begging for time spent together. Soon playing with mom will be the last thing on her list.
I look at my list again. It is filled with the demands that make my days speed by too quickly, as I rush around without taking the time to be still. Work to pay the bills that keep coming. Chores to clean the house that will get dirty once again. New Years resolutions to keep.
My words catch in my throat. “Yes, darling. I will come and play with you.” Her eyes widen with the surprising answer. “You will?!?” She skips merrily down the hall, and I know that for once I got it right. I made the right choice.
The work and the chores will still be there waiting for me. I’ll always have goals about exercising more, eating better, or whatever the New Year has challenged me to do. But for now I am going to sit on the floor with this precious one, stare into her eyes with wonder, and be part of her world. It may not have been in my plans, but sometimes plans are made to be broken.
Friend, do you have plans or resolutions that need to be broken today?
There’s much to say about 2017, but it can wait for now. At this moment I want to share this prayer with you. I have adopted it as the prayer for Seeking The Still. I do hope it will bless you and remind you to ever turn your gaze from yourself to the Author of Life. Happy 2017!
May you know you are never alone and always loved.
Today was picture day at my girls’ school. The hovering cloud of tension was visible from the moment I pulled into the school parking lot. Moms frantically brushed hair with their child hanging halfway out the car door. Parents raced to the office to pick-up the forgotten photo form, then ran back to the car to get the money, and back to the office once more, whining toddler in tow. As I walked through the hallway, I overheard the last minute instructions to “smile big,” and “tuck your hair behind your ear!”
Oh, and let’s not forget the drama of getting out of the house in the first place. Our students wear school uniforms, so the weight of choosing a picture day outfit can put the most even-keel child or parent over the edge. And hair styles, OMG the hair styles. Why does picture day now involve youtube videos and styles never before attempted. Pressure, you guys! Pressure! My daughter literally told me to leave the bathroom this morning, my hovering presence making things worse. Believe me, I was happy to do so!
And all this for an overpriced photo that disappears into an abyss, forever sandwiched between rectangle faces in a school year book.
I’m convinced that the root of picture day pressure is the disappearance of any margin we might be lucky to have in the start of our days. Routines are demolished. Additional decisions are placed upon us. And the threat of a bad photo weighs heavy upon our souls. There is no extra time for anything to go wrong. And something ALWAYS goes wrong. Emotions are heightened and bodies are coursing with adreneline. Nerves are frayed, and we feel like we’re going to snap.
If we’re not careful, every day can turn into picture day.
It happened to me. Slowly, over time, the expectations I had for myself and others rose. I tried to pack too much into my schedule, leaving no room for margin or rest. After a few months, I was completely operating in overdrive mode. Every moment of every day. The violin string of my life tightened until it eventually snapped.
It doesn’t have to be that way. Life is not an emergency. It is meant to be savored and enjoyed. That’s why Seeking The Still has become my passion. I don’t want you to have to experience burnout and breakdown to learn that there is a better way to live. The chaos of picture day DOES NOT belong in every day life. Are you ready to learn through my experience, so you can experience the Divine amidst the chaos of life? If so, follow this 31 day series, smile, and say, “Please!”
There is a story burning in my soul. A story about nightmares coming true.
A story about a carefully crafted life that crumbled.
A story about thick masks that ripped away.
A story about a mind, body & spirit suffering darkest fear & pain.
A story about a family asking why…
I know the story well, because it’s my story. And it’s time to send it out into the world to you.
Burnout and breakdown no longer define me. The twisted weeds that strangled me are thinned. The light is shining and joy is spilling over in a way I never knew and never thought was possible.
The journey was messy and scary. It was also very good. I was stripped down, yet I was reborn. I learned so many life changing truths. And I want you to know them, too. I want you to see yourself in the warning signs, in the pit of despair, and in the healing.
By most Thursday nights, I’m emotionally and physically tapped. Thus it is pizza dinner night at the Fleetwood abode. Justin slightly adjusts his well-worn commute to stop by Little Ceaser’s for dinner in a box. Afterward, you’ll find me lounging on the couch, nose in a book, my phone, or pointed toward the TV. Last night I was sitting there when a thought fell down.
I should get my nails done.
I don’t typically get my nails done, but one broke and another was jagged, and I wanted to try out gel polish. So, out the door I went to the nearest neighborhood nail salon. It was 6:15 and there was no wait. I took my seat at station #5 as instructed and settled in to the faux leather chair. Law and Order was on the TV. Bonus.
A young gal sat opposite me and got to work. She was rail thin and looked 13 years old. Prying my eyes away from the drama unfolding on the screen, I noticed it right away. The way she worked on my nails was different. As she snipped and filed, there was a flourish to her technique. An elegant flick of her wrist and the way she eyed my nails as a masterpiece in progress.
She was an artist pouring her craft into my nails.
Curiosity piqued, I started a halting dialogue marked by those with conflicting native tongues.
“How long have you been doing nails?” I asked.
“Nine years,” she replied. “But I also like to draw things,” she added tentatively and shyly.
I sensed a smidgen of shame. As if she felt the need to prove that she didn’t JUST do nails. I’m quite familiar with the shame game. Over the course of our time together, I learned that she enjoyed drawing comic characters and designs. She also doesn’t draw anymore because she has a 17 month baby girl.
At this point, I was tempted to go into fix it mode with this darling. However, I’m slowly learning to listen and respond with MY HEART rather than MY HEAD.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Chloe. My mom doesn’t speak English, so I asked her for an English name. She told me microwave because I eat all the time to try to gain weight. I chose Chloe instead.”
“You are beautiful as you are, Chloe. And I love your name.”
The end of our time together was nearing, so I asked if she had any photos of her art. She didn’t.
“Please don’t give up your art, Chloe. You can find time even with the baby,” I said.
She smiled and nodded. “I will see you in a few weeks?”
“Yes, yes you will,” I answered. And I swear she walked away a bit straighter toward the remainder of her day.
My Darling Seeker of the Still,
Did you know you are an artist like Chloe? You shine your light into the world through your words, your hands, your choices…everything…all of it. Even through the pain, mistakes, and scars. You aren’t JUST anything. You are a masterpiece because God created you, Jesus died for you, and the Holy Spirit wants to live in you. The art of your life can pour all over this messy world. Please let it. Sometimes it begins with a simple question such as, “What’s your name?”
– LF
Prayer is not enough, dear ones. It’s the beginning. It’s the foundation. It’s important, but it’s not enough.
#PrayForOrlando It’s one of the first reactions I saw online after the vile terror attack at the Pulse night club a few short days ago. And the very same response I had myself. So, why do I feel like those are often such empty words? Perhaps because I know sometimes I say it when I don’t know what else to say.There are times I pray for someone because it makes ME feel better. It takes me off the hook.I prayed for them, so I’ve done my job. Sometimes I say I will pray and then I don’t. I forget or fall asleep or simply go on with my day.
I know this isn’t the case every time I see a promise of prayer, for I know many devout prayer warriors. And I know the impact of prayer in my own life of faith. But along with the words I’m praying…I also see and hear words of judgement and harsh lines drawn in the sand. No wonder people are so confused about Christians and our call to love.
Is it wrong to want to see love and action along with the prayer? To be part of movementwith prayer as the very foundation?
I’m a Christian. I believe in prayer. Prayer is a miracle in itself. The very idea that I can communicate with the God of the universe, the great I AM, is staggering. And He hears my prayers and your prayers. Every single one. The tension of believing in prayer and also wanting more is uncomfortable. But perhaps that’s the point.
Jesus prayed. His very body and spirit were a living prayer. But He did something else. He loved. He acted. He hung out with the people nobody wanted. Those who were too sick, too wrong, too far gone. Prayer is vital, but living as Jesus did also requires action. It means loving people in tangible ways even if it’s uncomfortable.
There’s no point in writing this if I do not first begin with my own life. That’s always the ONLY place to begin. So, I issue a challenge. I will continue to pray and turn my heart and mind to Jesus. But I will also offer my hands. I will learn about the victims and survivors of the terror attack. I will seek to gain perspective by asking questions of people with whom I do not agree. I will perform acts of kindness in the name of those whose lives were cruelly wrenched from this world.
Are you with me?
I recently attended a meeting where a counselor offered advice about dealing with change and conflicting feelings. He said to think in terms of both/and instead of either/or. That wisdom applies to so much of life, and it applies to prayer. We are not called to pray OR act. We are called to do both.
No, prayer is not enough for Orlando. God also works through the physical hands and feet of broken humans like you and me. Pray, my friends. And then serve. Both. And.
The house is so quiet tonight. My daughters and husband are gone, and the animals are curled up tight. I hear the hum of the air conditioner, the lively chirps of the robins, and the cars cruising along. The television is dark. Lights and phone are off. I notice the evening sun spilling through the window onto the corner of the mantle above. I hear my own breath and close my eyes. It’s amazing to hear the world so often invisible to me.
More and more these days, I find myself choosing quiet. The noise from my computer, phone, television, and radio seem louder than before. I am anxious and overwhelmed by the exploding pixels on my screen and chaos in my ears. I sense that I need a break to tune out the noise, so I can tune into the truth. I know it’s there, hiding underneath it all.
A few years ago, it became popular to choose a word for the year. Something you want to focus on or learn about. Well, it’s the end of May, and I’m almost half-way through this year, so I decided to choose a word for my summer. The word is LISTEN. Just as the calendar has turned the season to summer, I feel a season of listening upon me. Not just audible sounds, but also a deeper type of soul listening. Listening to God’s Word. Listening to the whisper of the Holy Spirit. Listening to creation sing it’s glorious summer chorus. LISTEN.
It can be scary to stay still long enough to listen. I spend so much of my life striving and seeking, desperate for answers and approval. Taking action is what’s comfortable to me. But I also want to know Jesus better. I want to open myself to receive His truths. Jeremiah 33:3 says, “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.’
What?! God will tell me great and unsearchable things? I want to know!
So, perhaps I’m ready to stop trying to figure everything out on my own and simply receive whatever God has for me. Can I stop speaking so much and listen more? I suppose it might feel awkward and gangly, like an uncomfortable pause in conversation. I know I’ll be tempted to fill in the void with my own thoughts and words. But for this season, I am praying for God to help me expand my ability to hear Him, to know Him, to love Him.
A few months ago, I had a custom sign designed from pallet boards. It is a paraphrase of the beautiful verse Zephaniah 3:17. “The LORD will delight in you with gladness. With His LOVE He will calm all your fears. He will REJOICE over you with joyful songs.” He is singing over me right now. Oh, that I would hear those joyful songs! I’m ready to LISTEN.
We all have anxiety. But for some of us, it insidiously begins to negatively impact daily life. Author Becky McCoy recently interviewed me on the Unfolding Grace Podcast about my experience with debilitating anxiety. In this podcast, I shared my triggers, how I got help, and a few words of wisdom for others who struggle with anxiety, overachieving, and perfectionism. Whether you have anxiety, or you a have a friend or loved one who struggles, I think you’ll find the podcast informative and hopeful. Put on your headphones, turn up the volume and click the link below to listen in (it’s about 45 minutes long and well worth your time).
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