Monday, December 21, 2015

Christmas Spirit

 Ginger Sad Man
Original image via Flickr Creative Commons via Doctor Popular
Some rights reserved.

Every year, I struggle to catch what they call "the Christmas spirit." I haven't had an easy time of it. Food restriction, isolation, and an utter lack of energy seem out of place in the season. As we understand it, anyway.

This year, it's easier. I'm savoring every victory, every step forward, the last melted drippings at the bottom of my ice cream bowl. And I do it without apology.

In a world in which darkness seems to win far too often, we should celebrate every ray of light, wherever it shines.

And yet, I sense how out of step I am with so many in my circle.

You don't live in a war zone four years and go blind to the devastation around you the moment a cease fire is declared in your corner of the world.

My prayers go to my new friend Talena, who spends her first holiday season without her youngest son.

To my mentor, Dixie Perry, and her family who relive the trauma of two years ago. They spent that Christmas in a sterile hospital far away from home waiting for healing that didn't come.

To my Jenny's family, who celebrate birthdays and holidays with a gaping hole in their midst.

To friends of my parents who lost their son to suicide last Christmas.

To my youth minister's family who'll spend their first Christmas without their dad/husband/son/brother/cousin.

To the grandmother raising her two young grandkids because living became too great a burden for their mom to bear.

To my cousin who still hasn't recovered from the dangerous infection inside her skull nor from the never-ending stack of brain surgery bills.

To sick parents of new friends hoping for another Christmas with their families.

To my sick friends still waiting for healing.

To those reeling from the massacres in Paris and San Bernadino.

It's hard to sing about peace on earth with all this blood on the ground.

Where do we fit in a world singing about jingle bells, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and being home for Christmas when the Home we long for seems so far away?

Maybe with the shepherds--humble, lonely, marginalized. Or maybe with the women in Jesus's lineage--Gentiles, sexual deviants, misfits.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

The promise is yours when you throw yourself into the arms of Jesus. 

For some of us, it's worse than simply not relating to the culture of holiday commercials. We can't breathe for the grief pounding over us in wave after wave after wave.

Our Christmas dramas and sermons skip Herod's slaughter of the young children in Matthew 2. Who wants to think of dead babies at Christmas? But it's there, reminding us that Christ's coming isn't only for singing angels but for heartbroken mothers, too. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Maybe tragedy lies on the outskirts of your experience. You aren't weeping. You aren't dancing. You're tired. You want to stop all the stuff and rest a while.

Well, there's Mary.

 The Manger

All this activity bustles around her. A parade of dirty shepherds. Rumors of scandal. Majestic yet ominous prophecies at the temple. That mysterious star, lighting up the night sky above Bethlehem. The exhausting work of motherhood. Displacement from home and family. Loneliness. Responsibility. That new mama tangle of ecstasy and trepidation.

Instead of giving herself to the whirlwind, she silences her soul before the Creator in her arms--"But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart" (Luke 2:19).

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.

Year after year, I elbow my way through the huddle of excited shepherds and wealthy magi to gaze at my Lord Jesus by Mary's side. Whether I'm pondering the sword piercing my soul or the glory of God wrapped in human flesh, I feel welcome to kneel with her at the manger. To ruminate on things too weighty to say out loud.

But as my mentor points out, the real hope is that the manger is empty. As is the tomb.

Jesus grew up. He lived the life we should've lived, died the death we should've died, and rose from the grave so we can hum tidings of comfort and joy in this war-torn world.

The Christmas spirit isn't about presents and lights and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. It's about God and sinners reconciled.

It's about a King who didst leave His throne and kingly crown when He came to earth for me. A King, who for my sake became poor that through His poverty I might be rich (2 Cor. 8:9). A King willing to sit with me in the ash heap and lift me out in His good time (Psalm 113:7).

Ponder that.

It's okay to mourn this holiday season, but be brave enough to sing "joy to the world" in the middle of a sleepless night.

It's good to shout "glory to God in the highest," but don't be afraid to weep with those who weep.

In our dark streets shineth the Everlasting Light. He is our Living Hope, who secured for us an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled that does not fade.

Live the Christian paradox this Christmas.
Without apology.
Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.
Until Christ comes again, that's the Christmas spirit. 

Ann Voskamp released this "Advent Lament" last year. It blessed me then; it blesses me now:



How can I pray for you this Christmas? Leave your request in the comments below. Or if you're celebrating an extra bowl of ice cream and need a dancing partner, I'm there. It will be my joy to pray and weep and celebrate with you as I cook and clean and ponder in the days ahead.



Wednesday, December 16, 2015

The Extra Bowl of Ice Cream

 20130208_FebruaryFood_058.jpg
Original image via Flickr Creative Commons via Nathan Cooke
Some rights reserved.


Last spring, I wrote this scene in which Declan (a healer) entices Mara (an ex-prostitute and recovering alcoholic) to eat by making ice cream, a rare treat in my medieval-esque world. The ice cream is shared six ways among the three women and the three men of the household, so everyone gets just enough. But when Mara finishes her portion, Declan quietly takes her empty bowl and replaces it with his full one.

After I wrote this, I asked the Lord, bold as brass, "Will you give me an extra bowl of ice cream?"

It wasn't that I didn't have enough. I had Him. But in the midst of sickness, injustice, grief, and loneliness, I wanted assurance that God was kind.

Now, I know "kind" doesn't always mean "nice." God isn't nice. Or safe.



But as Mr. Beaver will tell you, He is good, and that's sort of the same thing.



Rather than immediately serve up my request, God opened my eyes to the ice cream I already had--
a healthy marriage
two sweet ginger kids
toys on the floor
enough to eat
a warm house
hot detox baths
joy in writing
daily grappling matches with an almighty Sovereign
long naps and angel's food in the shade of a broom tree

But just because God didn't immediately answer my prayer the way I wanted Him to doesn't mean He said, "No."

Fast forward seven months...

He places lonely little me in a family of believers, the kind of Christian fellowship I've craved all my life. This family accepts me. God burdens their hearts for my sake, and they, in turn, plead my case before Him. I learn about their personal prayer ministry. I apply. I become their first recipient, and God uses that experience to free me from spiritual bondage I thought I'd never be rid of, to heal me of the emotional damage of the past, and to unravel this crazy illness one symptom at a time. 

I've written about how God healed my hands. Only two weeks later, there's more to report!

On December 3, it was 37 degrees. I experimented with my tolerance to outdoor temps. Here's a summary of how that went:


The video I took this morning...mainly for the entertainment of Madonna Gil and Torey Pop Morgan. You're welcome. ;)
Posted by Melissa Chapman Keaster on Thursday, December 3, 2015
(Hope you enjoyed the up close shot of my nostrils...*face palm*)

Now, 37 degrees is a far cry from 20 degrees, which was the temp the day I first reacted to the cold, but I fully expect to be fine when it gets that cold again. It seems to be what God is doing.

Last week, I woke up at 6am (or earlier) four days in a row and saw Micah off to school each day. Last year, that wouldn't have been physically possible. Even with naps. 

I also ate half a cookie *gasp* from a package. Granted, it was gluten-free and processed in a peanut-free facility, but I'm still calling it a win because my tongue didn't swell, I didn't cough, and my mouth didn't immediately fill with tiny sores. That being said, my original chocolate chip cookie recipe tastes better for anyone who wants to know.

Even with all this momentum, I didn't expect what happened this past Saturday. God's faithfulness was on full display. 

Some of you may know Stan and Stacey Thomason. Brandon and I met them not long after we began going to Crossroads in January 2008. Stacey and I bonded over our love for Jesus and real food, and though circumstances have kept us apart for the past several years, we've stayed in touch. One of the reasons for this is that back in 2009 the Lord gave me a word for her at a Beth Moore conference. 

During worship, God impressed upon my heart that Stacey would one day be a mother and that I needed to tell her. I did not want to do this. For several reasons. 

A) It was the first time God had ever given me a word to tell someone. New territory=lots of doubt and fear.
B) I was unworthy. Back then, I was in the early stages of recovery from a 5 year rebellion against God. Who was I to deliver any kind of message from Him?
C) I knew Stacey's deep desire for a child. I also knew her difficulties in having one. God in heaven, what if I was wrong? 

But somehow, I knew I must speak, as terrified as I was. I turned to her, touched her shoulder, and swallowed. "Stacey, I don't know how or when, but you will be a mother. God wanted me to tell you that."

(For the record: If I'd known then what I know now, I probably would've stated that differently. But there's grace for the young and stupid.)

We waited almost six years. Each time hope glimmered, I rejoiced. With each hope deferred, I grieved. I prayed. And, of course, I wondered if I'd spoken out of turn. What if my words had been for harm?

And then last year about this time, Stacey texted me a photo of an ultrasound. There she was--Miss Rinnah Nalon--growing in her brave birth mother's belly, awaiting the arms of a woman who would love her more than life.

Saturday was the celebration of Rinnah's official adoption.

And as if that wasn't good enough...

We arrived at the start of things. On the way inside, I noticed it was just us and one other family. I looked at the mask in my hand, then up at Brandon. "Mind if I try to go without it?"

He agreed after I promised to put it on the moment I felt myself getting sick. 

That moment never came.

I don't understand. There were candles burning. The scent of perfume wafted to my nose now and again. Two weeks ago, candles and perfume still bothered me. Even when the place began to fill up, I was fine

Before we left, I stole Stacey away into a corner where she and I marveled over God's incredible faithfulness. Brandon captured the moment for me.


How's that for an extra bowl of ice cream?

On the way home from the celebration, I asked Brandon, "Can I try church tomorrow?"

His hand went straight for his heart. 

"Please?"

He agreed. 

The next day, I enjoyed an entire church service MASK-FREE. Nearly three years have passed since the last time that happened. I alternated between tears of joy and ecstatic squeals in Brandon's ear--"I'm doing greeeaat!"

At the end of the service, we took a selfie to commemorate the extra extra bowl of ice cream: 

Superman,
You are so brave and awesome to put up with my experiments after the horrors you've lived. Thank you, thank you for believing with me. Most men would've left long ago, but you've stayed. Enjoy God's reward, my love, as He restores to us the years the locusts have eaten.

Brandon and I agree. I won't experiment with triggers that have caused shock reactions. That means no pesticides, no peanuts, and no latex. If I'm accidentally exposed to one of these triggers and I'm fine, PRAISE THE LORD, but I won't go looking for trouble.

I'm not completely mask-free yet. I dropped off Sara at dance yesterday without my mask and regretted it. Something (Lysol maybe?) had been recently sprayed in the area. Not fun, but I didn't react as I once would have. Also, freshly mowed grass and gasoline are apparently still problematic. 

But dude! I can go to church without wearing a mask!!!! And I'm going to try Christmas gatherings this year!
"Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness." (Psalm 37:3)
I hope you'll feast with me this Christmas. There's plenty of "ice cream" to go around, even in the darkness of this world. Turn off the news for half a second. Leave the fate of humanity in the hands of our able and almighty God.

Here's a spoon. Dig in!




Wednesday, December 9, 2015

The Power of Worship

Worship changes things.

The posture of a soul. The climate of a household. The complaints of the body. There's all kinds of healing to be found in turning from ourselves and the concerns of the moment to behold the beauty of God.

I used to have episodes. Spells, I called them. In the evenings, when I was tired, drained, and weary of discomfort, I'd still have to cook. Cooking seemed a monumental task in those moments. Impossible. Living felt impossible.

Arthritis made it difficult to peel vegetables. Phantom stakes drove into the fibromyalgia points in my neck and shoulders. Heat radiated from my skin, tender to the touch. A tension headache would form, unable to be helped by medication or essential oils. I was too sensitive. Still am. And the worst part was the dark cloud which hung over my head, weighing me down.

Either the pain isn't as bad now or I'm used to it. Maybe both. The cloud still visits me sometimes. 

But God (a lovely pair of words, don't you think?) is faithful. He speaks into the cloud. Through the storm of pain and discouragement, I feel Him. Nudging me, reminding me. I'm here. Reach for me.

I always begin with prayer. I ask for help with plain words, sometimes gasped, depending on the level of discomfort. But help doesn't always immediately come.

I move on to gratitude. I reflect on God's kindnesses. They're always there, even in the midst of the ashes. Eventually, with eyes to see and practice, you don't have to look very hard.

A couple of years ago, I thanked God for the strength to stand at the kitchen counter. Back then, I didn't take that strength for granted. Then, maybe I thanked Him for the squash in my hands, which would bring nourishment to me and my family. The infant clinging to my ankles. The little boy bouncing off the furniture. The husband on his way home from work. The messy house.

Gratitude penetrates the cloud, but it doesn't always chase it away.

So then I preach to my soul. Words hidden in my heart find their way to my tongue, sounding from my pulpit at the kitchen sink.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? Why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance." (Psalm 42:5)
"...If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Romans 8:31-32)
 Be bold. Be strong. The Lord your God is with you.
The cloud begins to lift.

But worship is the ace in the hole. It not only dissipates the cloud; it often relieves my physical discomfort. Or at least makes it less important.

Saturday night, I had a bad case of the ickies. You know what I'm talking about. I was all out of sorts, self-conscious about stupid things, and grumpy about having to figure out what to do with the pound of bison I'd thawed. My family was in a funk, too, and not the fun kind.

I remembered my ace, and decided to make it my first play.

Everyone was watching TV, so I grabbed my iPod, stuffed in my earbuds, and turned up a favorite worship album. I sang softly as I cooked and folded laundry, and you know what? I wasn't the only one helped. The atmosphere of our home shifted.

I've learned to expect that. Which is why worship has become my go to remedy for maladies of all kinds.

One night last week, Sara threw a major hissy fit right before bedtime. Girl's got a temper.

  I know you wouldn't believe it looking at this precious face.
But yeah...

I'm a firm believer in not going to bed angry, so I asked God how to help her. Silent prayers in the rocking chair weren't doing the trick, and she was too hysterical to pray herself. I sang a few of her favorite hymns. It helped, but she continued to thrash and cry, inconsolable.

I asked her to sing with me. We sang her current favorite, "At the Name of Jesus." Then she calmed enough to look up at me and say, "I wanna sing 'Jesus on da Cross.'"

I combed my fingers through her downy curls. "I don't know that one, Love. Will you teach it to me?"

Sara sang the following words to a simple melody which made the former music teacher in me proud. She made me repeat the phrases, which helped me to remember the lyrics long enough to copy them down in my journal:

Jesus on da cross...
His name is glorious...
He won da victory for us...
He died on da cross...
So He could save us...

Not a bad little song. And in the process of singing it, her anger evaporated. I tucked her into bed peaceful and content.

Now I wonder how many of my own passions I can reprocess into worship. Fan of experiments that I am, I'll be trying it out in the weeks to come.

In the meantime, what about you? Have you experienced the healing power of worship? Post your story in the comments below so we can all marvel at the healing weapon God has given us.

"Make a joyful shout to God, all the earth!
Sing out the honor of His name;
Make His praise glorious.
Say to God,
'How awesome are Your works!..."
(Psalm 66:1-3)
 






Monday, December 7, 2015

A Control Freak Learns to Dance

Greg's patience waned. Despite his commendable efforts, his choreography looked more like a fight than a dance. 

It was my fault. Troy, my partner, tried his best, but couldn't do anything with me. He laughed in frustration...probably to keep from crying. "I'm trying, Greg, but she's stronger than she looks."

It wasn't only that I wasn't a great dancer. It was who I was.

You see, dancing with a partner has the same effect as baking with small children--it exposes you for the control freak you are. 

"Relax. Let go," Greg said. 

I'd heard the equivalent of this admonition many times before. I've heard it many times since. 
"Let go and let God."
"Let it go, let it go...can't hold it back anymore..."
"Control is an illusion."

You'd think I would've learned by now. I mean, look. at. my. hair.


Not to mention that everything I once held dear crumbled to dust in my hands. But no, I content myself to build doomed castles with the rubble and sand.

I'm too easily content. 

And I'm too easily tricked into work that God has already done. I try to earn the love that's already mine. I try to manipulate God into doing what I want Him to do by good behavior. I seize the reins of my life, and instead of a dance, my walk with God looks like a fight, and I'm left tired and filthy and no better off for my efforts. 

I may be more aware of my lack of control today than I was five years ago, but that doesn't mean the control-freakiness is gone. It's still there. It's just sneakier than it was before.

It's like pride--every time I think I've beaten the habit, it pops back up somewhere else...like a relentless game of Whack-A-Mole. 

One of my new friends sniffed me out during my prayer ministry session. "Melissa, who's responsible for your salvation?"
Well, this one's easy. "God."
"Who's responsible for keeping your salvation?"
 "God."
"And who's responsible for your sanctification?"
"The Holy Spirit...God."
"What are you responsible for?"
I blinked. "Umm...to cooperate?"

An interesting thing for the Lord to bring up. Earlier that day, I had read the story of the crippled woman Jesus healed in Luke 13. Verse 11 describes her as "a woman who had a spirit of infirmity eighteen years, and was bent over and could in no way raise herself up."

Jesus saw her. He called her to Him, and told her, "Woman, you are loosed from your infirmity."

Even after reading this, I asked God what I could do to prepare for my prayer ministry session. "Should I fast, God? If so, what should I fast from?"

Insert cosmic eye roll.

The crippled woman did nothing to secure her salvation. She was just there, hanging out in the synagogue, making space for Jesus.

For my healing, spiritual and physical, there is nothing to do. There's nothing I can do. I can't raise myself up. Every time I try, I mess up the dance.

As my friend told me, the only thing I'm responsible for is crucifying the flesh (Gal. 5:24). Though, to be truthful, I'd prefer a bazooka. A bazooka seems faster and less painful somehow.

But there is a way to forget the pain. To forget you're dying because you're so alive.

"Look into his eyes," Greg said. "Let him lead you."

I took a deep breath, locked eyes with Troy, and stepped into his arms.





And just like that, I was dancing.









Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Undragoned

All last week, I struggled to describe what my personal prayer ministry session was like and what it meant to me. Within me lives a powerful drive to define things. But how does one do that when the thing lies on the outer edge of comprehension?

I should probably let things well alone and allow mystery to be mysterious, but that's not my way. My six year old's incessant need to understand? He gets it from his mama.

God often speaks to me through images and metaphor. Sometimes these come to me in dreams and visions, but more often than not, they come by way of the everyday. In conversation, a situation with the kids (this is a big one), something I read.

God is a master of giving moments meaning.

I had such a moment Sunday afternoon while reading C.S. Lewis's Voyage of the Dawn Treader to the kids.

 
The book begins with this brilliant opening line:

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it."

Generally, I see myself in Edmund and Lucy more than Eustace. I've been both traitor and the lonely one who sees things no one else believes. But something happens to Eustace I very much relate to.

About halfway through the book, the adventurers make land on an island to repair the ship after a massive storm. A series of selfish actions brings Eustace to a cave belonging to a dragon. The dragon dies before Eustace's eyes, and so to escape the rain, Eustace takes shelter in the cave and discovers the dragon's horde. Now, as Lewis points out, Eustace hadn't read the right sort of books, so he didn't know as we do that dragon hordes are cursed.

Eustace slips his arm into a golden bracelet inlaid with diamonds, with the hope he'll be able to escape his comrades--whom he still believes to be insane--and use it to barter his way into a nearby country. Then he falls asleep. But when he wakes, Eustace makes a terrible discovery.

 Eustace is now a dragon. 

When he sees his reflection in the pool outside the cave, the sight breaks him. The bracelet, which he'd intended as a means of escape, is now a chain cutting into his flesh. It hurts. He can't get it off. A great, black hole of loneliness swallows him up because he realizes that as a dragon in a human company, unable to communicate or share life, he's isolated. And for the first time in the story, Eustace weeps.

It's a terrible thing to really see yourself.

Eustace manages to return to the others and communicate to them who he is, but no one possesses the power to help him. Save one.



In some kind of dream or vision, Eustace sees a huge lion approaching. Though he's afraid, he follows the lion to a garden he'd never been to or had even seen during his days as a dragon, though he'd explored the entire island in the air. At the heart of the garden is a well large enough to bathe in.

Eustace somehow knows if he could just get in that well, his arm, which throbs from the grip of the golden bracelet, would be healed. But the lion tells him he must undress first.

The lion isn't speaking in terms of clothing.

So Eustace starts scratching. At first, a few scales fall off. He scratches deeper until his whole skin peels away.

But it isn't enough. Underneath the skin is another just as hard, just as scaly as the first. So Eustace undresses again to no avail. And again. Still no good.

"You will have to let me undress you," the lion tells him.

And though Eustace is afraid of the lion's claws, he lies on his back and lets the lion do his work.

"The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off...Then he caught hold of me...and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."
The bracelet falls off, and after a time, the lion takes Eustace out of the water and dresses him in new clothes. The lion, of course, is Aslan.

This is what my prayer session was like.

Suffering has a way of helping you see the dragon within. And let me tell you, it's a ghastly sight. For the past few years, I've been scratching at the scales, sometimes cutting into the knobby dragon skin beneath and wrestling my way out, but I could never get to the heart of the issues. I could never reach the layer of fresh, tender skin and come clean.

What the prayer team did for me was facilitate a meeting with Aslan. They showed me the way to the well.

Sometimes we need that. No matter how long we've walked with the Lord. No matter how sheltered we were as children. Regardless of our heritage, how strong people think we are, or how strong we think we should be. We need our brothers and sisters in Christ to come alongside us and show us the way to the well. Or at least remind us how to get there.

It's the way things work. God uses people. The Church is the visible invisible.

I didn't like exposing my dragon skin. The sight's pretty traumatic to me; exposing it to others wasn't fun. But I wanted that blasted bracelet off. I'd been in a fight with it for years, and I just couldn't win. I was desperate.

I needed Aslan's claws.

Once the Lord undressed me, He gave me something new to wear. (He never leaves us naked, you know.) And then he reminded me of the song of Eustace Scrubb.

Jennifer Simmans, a dear friend of mine and fellow music connoisseur, recommended Into the Lantern Waste, an album by Sarah Sparks. The songs are all inspired by C. S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. Each song boasts its own merits, but my favorite is "Eustace Scrubb." Of course.

I've copied the lyrics below, but you can listen to the song for free here. I recommend purchasing the entire album, particularly if you're a Lewis fan.


 For the first in my life
I’m not living a lie
And I hate who I am
I’ve become what I feared
And I cried dragon tears
Just to prove I’m a man

I tried to change my appearance but I am not changed
I’m just tired
I tried to heal myself long before I met your gaze
At the water
I’m at your feet
Would you tear into the deep of my heart
To heal me?

I’ve seen my own reflection
I know the pain I’m in
I’ve been a lonely wretch and
I can’t get out of it

As he looked through my eyes
At the things I despised
I felt pierced by his gaze
But he pealed off my skin
And he then threw me into
The water to save me

I wore this bracelet, bright and golden
That overnight became a chain
I was a lonely, wretched soul that
Lost in the dark cried out your Name
You cut me deep, I know I felt it
But it’s the sweetest kind of pain
Oh, sweet relief, You took my burdens
Oh, I believe! Oh, I believe!



So yeah...that's what it was like.

And you know, I didn't shock anyone. I didn't lose my new friends. They still love me, hot mess that I am, and don't think any less of me.

As for me, I'll love them forever, but none so much as the One who undragoned me and healed my arm. 

I'll sing His song till the day I die. And beyond.

Monday, November 30, 2015

On NaNoWriMo and Answered Prayers




 
Now that I've crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line, I thought I'd give you all a long overdue update. A lot has happened in the past few weeks.

But first, let's talk about NaNo. 

 

I finished the morning of the 25th. That's 50k words in 25 days (aka my fastest writing pace ever). I managed a few hundred words on Thanksgiving, but between the holiday, recovering from the holiday, and the gloomy weather, I just haven't had it in me to write any more. I'm all...


Even though it's totally not. I need to complete the draft before Christmas if I want to release 2-3 books next year. And call me crazy, but I do.


NaNo isn't my only news. God has been on a prayer answering roll.


1) Ministry Opportunities:

 

One of the things I've missed during this illness is ministry. God has given me plenty of one on one ministry opportunities over the years, and I've relished those, but I longed for something...more.

Back in January, I researched human trafficking and sexual slavery for my novel, Eleora.

Here's the thing--all information comes with a burden. When you learn something, you have to do something with what you learn, whether you act on it, discard it, or choose to ignore it. Once I knew what was happening in the world--what was happening in my home town--I couldn't do nothing.


I met with Lindsey Nadler of Project 41 in October to go over her beta reader notes for Eleora. Prior to the meeting, I had prayed God would provide a way for me to become involved with the ministry. I told Lindsey of my interest and how I was waiting for God to heal me, to which she said, "If you're serious about wanting to get involved, I need someone to organize a prayer team. We need people who will take prayer seriously."

Why am I always surprised when God answers my prayers? I mean, we have a pretty good rapport going, and yet I was so stunned I barely got the words out--"I'm your girl."

Our team meets via conference call at 5am on Wednesday mornings. I'm no morning person, but I love denying myself that bit of sleep to meet with others to pray. I can't think of a better way to start my day.

Lindsey also invited me to teach a writing and journaling class as soon as I'm well enough to do so.


2) Community:

 

Back in the summer, the Lord began speaking to me about pursuing community again. He brought the subject to me through Scripture, prayer, blog posts, conversations, an expert consult on the book of Job. The message was everywhere: Pursue Community.

I was confused. Again and again, I asked, "What do you mean, God?"

Well, things have become clearer.

Writing Community:

For months, I've prayed for writer friends. Women in particular. (Not that I'm not super thankful for Len Woods and Leo Honeycutt.)

After taking a couple of Kristen Lamb's writing classes and surviving her Death Star editing treatment, I joined WANATribe, a social network for writers. Most of the members are women! Kristen and I are now pals, an unexpected gift. A handful of us meet in the chat room for "writing sprints," in which we write as many words as we can in 30 minutes and compare counts. (It's writing as a competitive sport. It's awesome.) And I met kindred spirit Talena Winters on Thanksgiving Day.

In addition to a writing community, God has given me the gift of...

Christian Community:

 

"God places the lonely in families..." Psalm 68:6

When I think of the community the Lord brought my lonely little soul into, I think of the word "family."

The connection was instant.

When I walked into the Siegmund's home on Friday night, October 16, the love of the Lord was so thick in that place I smelled it on the air. I tasted it. I waded through it on the way to my seat. I breathed it in, and basked in it all evening long.

I remember looking around the room that night. No one knew because I wore my mask, but I was grinning for most of worship and Bible study, thinking to the Lord, Thank you. Thank you. I've found my people!

Guys, this weirdo has found a home. Even as I write that, I tear up.

The story of how God led me to this group and what I've experienced since deserves its own post, but honestly...it's a gift so personal and precious I'm not sure I want to share it. Not here. I tremble at the thought. I don't think you could understand if I did. For now, I'll just hold it in my heart and savor the kindness of God. But if you ever want to hear the story, don't hesitate to ask. I'll do my best to describe the indescribable.

And consider this--when God prompts you to do something that confuses you or seems a little crazy at the time, trust Him. Act. He not only provides the means to obey, but the reward is breathtaking.

And sometimes miraculous

3) Physical Healing:

 

Yes, you read that right. I'm experiencing legitimate physical healing.

It's been going on for a while, but it can take time to notice. You can't miss a new symptom when it shows up, but when symptoms begin to disappear? It's hard to keep track. You go about your life as it is and then one day you look for the old symptom, and it's not there.

Either late this summer or early this autumn, I noticed my fevers were gone. I used to spike a temp with every reaction and every time my monthly visitor came to call. Not anymore.

October 12 was my last bad bout of histamine-induced insomnia. Since then, I've fallen asleep with (relative) ease, and I (usually) sleep through the night. And get this--more often than not, I wake up feeling rested. If you have an autoimmune disease, you know what a miracle that is.

At my most recent check up with Dr. Yakaboski, my adrenal health tested nearly perfect. My last episode of anaphylaxsis was in the spring. Since June, I've enjoyed regular church attendance. And not once have I left community/prayer group sick. Not once!

While all of this is a very big deal, I'm pretty excited about my latest healed symptom, which followed the heels of a very special experience.

My community group has recently trained in a program called Christian Healing Ministries. CHM is an intercessory ministry for people in need of spiritual, emotional, and physical healing.

I was the first client to apply.

The week before my session, which was the Sunday night before Thanksgiving, I prayed. A lot. I knew God was going to heal a few specific spiritual battles and emotional issues, but I also sensed I would experience physical healing that night.

So I shared my thoughts with Brandon, Mom, Nona, the kids, and a few of my friends, and asked them to pray.

All week I prayed, "Lord, I come to you with open hands, ready to receive anything you want to give me."

The night before and throughout the day of the session, Sara would burst into spontaneous prayer--"Dear Jesus, please help Mama be able to handle da cold so we can teach her how to play in da snow."

I know she's four, but it felt prophetic, y'all.

I approached the session with a little bit of fear and lots of expectation. It was very different from anything I've ever experienced, but extremely powerful, personal, and healing on all fronts.

Once again, the experience was far too precious and personal to share in detail, but I would like to share this one very special thing:


(Note: Yes, I know the word is "welts." 
No clue why I mispronounced it a bajillion times, 
 but Micah refused to record another take for me.)


To give you a point of reference, I took this photo one night a while back after peeling refrigerated sweet potatoes with nitrile gloves on. The photo quality doesn't do it justice, but you get the idea.


What I love about this:


1) The Lord healed something my kids could see. They'd been praying for me to be healed. God answered with something visible, boosting that childlike faith. I don't have a ton of visible symptoms, so that's kind of special.

2) God's thoughtfulness and kindness. For over a year, I've accepted discomfort as part of the cooking process. It is what it is and all that. And then, God heals this symptom the week of Thanksgiving before the biggest cooking day and season of the year. Amazing.

3) It's funny. Better yet, it's witty. Look at the specific prayers again. I prayed, "Lord, I come to you with open hands." Sara said again and again, "...please help Mama be able to handle da cold."

I love a good pun. So when the Lord showed me the connection, I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I cried.

God speaks my language. He shares my sense of humor. I love it.

The winds are changing.

 

Do you feel it? I do. This season brings healing, growth, and adventure. And before the end of it, maybe even that party Jenny and I talked about throwing.

Mercy, I miss that girl. How many times have I wanted to call her this week? When I close my eyes, I see her smile. I hear her laughter and hallelujahs. I suppose it's comforting to know she knows and she's celebrating in heaven.

Damn cancer to hell.

God isn't finished. 

 

I believe healing continues from here. The next time the temperature dips below 40 degrees, I fully expect to walk outside without a coat, breathe deeply, feel a bit chilled, and be fine.

Lindsey, if you're reading this, my answer is, "Yes. I'd love to teach that writing class." Somehow, God will work out the details.

My new family is stretching me, challenging me. I'm looking harder at my Bible, realizing that maybe I only believe half the paradox--that another half exists--and that I just haven't seen it because I tend to limit God to my experience and what I've been told rather than what the Bible says at face value. Grappling--it's good exercise.

And mixing with people again...wow. That's growth in itself.

With ministry opportunities, new friends, new thoughts, and book releases on the horizon, I'd say there's plenty of adventure ahead.

Onward and upward.

Friday, November 20, 2015

A Call to Arms, A Call to Peace: Thoughts on the Syrian Refugee Crisis


 Syrian Refugees

When I first read about the Syrian refugee crisis on Ann Voskamp's blog back in early September, I prayed, "Oh, God. Send them here. Let us take care of them."

Now He has. Praise the Lord!

But His timing tests us. 


His timing tests us because the refugees chase the heels of state elections and a terrorist attack. We are reminded--it can happen to us. We are vulnerable.

And now our officials use the tragedy to promote or to attack the 2nd Amendment. In Louisiana, it divides voters and may change the outcome of the runoffs.

I want to live in a world in which a tragedy can be tragedy and not a platform for political agendas. In which the media takes a quiet breath to mourn bloodshed before they try to fix things only God can fix.

We can't heal horror with legislation. Nor can we prevent it.

But we can feed the hungry.
We can clothe the naked.
We can take in the stranger on our doorsteps.



But we don't want to. Because we're afraid. 

Sisters and brothers, may I humbly suggest that if we're too afraid to love, then Satan has rendered the American church useless? Faith without works is dead, Beloved.

This morning I read the words of Jesus in Luke 12:4--"My friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do."

The Holy Spirit takes me to Matthew 25:34-40--"Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a sojourner and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.
"Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? And the King will answer and say to them, 'Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.'"

And Deuteronomy 10:18-19--"For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality...He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger, giving him food and clothing. Therefore love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt."

Yes, it is true that ISIS sleepers may be among the refugees.

What of it?


At the heart of the gospel is the willingness to get hurt for humankind. Jesus was willing to get hurt for you, Beloved. He told us long ago we would be hurt for him.

"Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who persecute you." (Luke 6:27-28)

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us in that while were still [enemies], Christ died for us." (Romans 5:8)

"A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master. It is enough for a disciple that he be like his teacher, and a servant like his master." (Matthew 10:24-25)

"For to [suffering] you were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that you should follow His steps..." (1 Peter 2:21)

This is a fearful thing, yes. But it isn't new. And being American doesn't exempt us. Furthermore, we pledge allegiance to God and the gospel before the flag or our personal comfort.

"Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ's sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy." (1 Peter 4:13)

Suffering for the sake of Christ is also the utmost honor. 


"Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven..." (Matthew 5:11-12)

"Do not fear any of those things which you are about to suffer. Indeed, the devil is about to throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested, and you will have tribulation ten days. Be faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life." (Revelation 2:10)

Remember, it is to death we are called. 


"Whoever desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel's will save it." (Mark 8:34-35)

Welcoming refugees is risky. And the government has a responsibility to protect its people. I neither possess the wisdom nor the desire to make the decisions they must make. So I pray for them that they will listen to the voice of God and obey.

BUT we are not to trust in the government for protection. Nor our flag, nor our guns, nor our economy.


"No king is saved by the multitude of an army;
a mighty man is not delivered by great strength.
A horse is a vain hope for safety;
neither shall it deliver any by its great strength."
(Psalm 33:16-17)
"Some trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God" (Psalm 20:7). Who numbers the very hairs on our heads "and not one of them falls to the ground apart from [His] will" (Matthew 10:29-30). 

I urge you, Beloved--don't give in to blind fear...

See the opportunity.


Many believers lament they cannot GO to the mission field. Rejoice, Christian! The mission field has come to us!

Let us not assume these people are our enemies. The Muslims I met in 2000 grieved with me in September 2001. Most of them are peaceful people who, just like us, are trying to save themselves and just...can't.

Let us look into their eyes and see ourselves.
Let us arise and be the Church!

Loose the bonds of wickedness.
Undo the heavy burdens.
Let the oppressed go free.
Break every yoke.
Share your bread with the hungry.
Bring into your house the poor who are cast out.
Clothe the naked.
Do not hide from your fellow human beings.
THEN
 your light shall break forth like the morning,
your healing shall spring forth speedily,
and your righteousness shall go before you;
The glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
You shall cry, and He will say, "Here I AM!"
(Isaiah 58:6-9)

Brother, if you are afraid, I do not condemn you.
Sister, I do not shame you for your fear.
I only implore you to confess it to our great God as sin and to remember He is with you. He loves you. He is faithful and just to forgive and restore you.

"There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit" (Romans 8:1).
I encourage you to ask to be baptized with the Holy Spirit, who brings the gift of boldness. And honey, you can BANK on God answering that prayer (Luke 11:13).

For those who welcome the refugees with open arms, you do well. But do not condemn our brothers and sisters who have fallen prey to the devil's schemes. Do not imagine yourself holier than they. Repent of your pride and vitriol of which you so vehemently accuse them.

If you cannot love your brothers and sisters in Christ, what hope have you of loving anyone else?

This is not the time for division.
This is the time for unity.
This is not the day of judgment.
This is the day of salvation!

Do not lose heart. 


The Holy Spirit is even now changing minds and convicting hearts of fear and pride and turning them toward our fellow men and women who need God and all He is every bit as much as we do.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon us. He has anointed us to preach good tidings to the poor, to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, to offer sight to the blind, to liberate the oppressed, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord! (Luke 4:18-19)

Let's get hurt for the gospel, Church.
Let's make peace and arm ourselves with the love of God.
Let's join ranks with those of whom the world was not worthy.

Jesus screams it loud and clear on the cross--
People are worth it.


Thursday, October 29, 2015

Why I'm Doing NaNoWriMo When I "Should" Be Editing

 Here we go again...5 years later:


Other appropriate titles for this post could be "How My Literary Aspirations Derailed" or "How Melissa Lost Her Mind" or even "The Cliffs of Insanity." But that last one might be a copyright infringement.



Why would a writer decide to begin a brand new project when she was ready to publish two weeks ago? Minus the cash and a couple more drafts, of course.

Well, you see, it's like this...

Two weeks ago, the only beta readers who'd completed the novel and offered feedback were family members.

Family members are cheerleaders. Newbie writers need cheerleaders so our insecurities don't smear us over toast for second breakfast. But while cheerleaders are necessary and awesome, they're biased. They root for the home team even when the home team sucks. (I'd post a pic of the Dallas Cowboys' cheerleaders here, but they don't wear enough clothes.)

Not that my book sucks. It doesn't. Everyone likes it. Or at least, they say they do.

Here's what bothered me--no one loved it. Call me vain, but it's kind of important to me that some people love it.

I didn't understand the reason until objective feedback began rolling in. Which, of course, isn't nearly as much fun as cheerleader feedback. But it's absolutely vital if you want to produce a good story.

Beta Reader 1: "Enjoyed Eleora very much." Felt it was almost ready for publication, but wanted more context for the villain and the lore. 
Beta Reader 2: Liked it. Said it was "intense."
Beta Reader 3: Liked it. Wanted more history of the characters and lore. Felt the pacing was too fast and a bit choppy in places she wanted to linger. Felt the world needed to be fleshed out more. Thought it was an earlier draft than it actually was.
Beta Reader 4: Thought it was great, but the pacing was rushed. She wanted more background about two main characters' relationship, and felt all the characters could be developed, especially the main characters. Here's the real kicker--it seemed to her I had written two books instead of one.

My initial response to Beta Reader 4: *blink, blink*

I wasn't immediately sure Beta Reader 4 was right, but I took the note. She has a great handle on what makes a good book, and I had prayed for fruitful feedback from this particular reader. I couldn't afford to dismiss anything she said without further thought and prayer. I outlined a prequel novella to Eleora, secretly hoping that would be enough so I wouldn't have to rewrite the thing. AGAIN.


BUT. I'd rather take my time and write a great book than rush to produce a good one.

Or a bad one, which Eleora, as is, may very well be.

Fortunately, God is pretty gentle with me. I was going full speed ahead--HUZZAH!!--then between beta readers 2 and 3, I felt a familiar Spirit signal--Slow down. Relax. Wait.

At first, I thought the message had to do with money. It costs a minimum of $2,000 to self-publish well, and we don't have $2,000 lying around at the moment. But it quickly became apparent the flashing yellow light had to do with the writing, not the cash.

"Wait" is a hard message to receive, especially when the problem lies with me, but it better prepared me to receive Beta Reader 3's perspective that Eleora was still in an early draft. (Though it was the fourth!) Beta Reader 3's perspective helped me better receive Beta Reader 4's. And Beta Reader 4 prepared me to be edited by author/blogger/editor Kristen Lamb.

Back in August, I signed up for Kristen's "First Five Pages" writing class, and bought the platinum package to receive 40 pages of edits. Who better to speak into my work than a writing professional/stranger/give-it-to-you-straight-burn-and-all kind of gal?

Kristen Lamb's editing has been fondly dubbed "The Death Star Treatment" by someone far wittier than me. It's an apt description. My favorite phrases from Kristen's edit are "The uncle is a mustache-twirler. He's so evil, I don't buy it. I'd put the book down," "Ew. Gross imagery," and "This character is too dumb to live."



I'm happy to say I survived "The Death Star Treatment"--without tears!--which is more than I can say for the planet Alderaan. In Alderaan's defense, I've had lots of practice.


Kristen knows what she's talking about. The problems are there. I just didn't see them until she pointed them out. So tactfully. With maple syrup, whipped cream, and a cherry on top.

In all seriousness, Kristen's heart is to help writers produce the best product possible so the trolls don't eat us alive (aaaaaaand to prepare us for when they do anyway.)

And she didn't leave me without encouragement. She said I totally hooked her in some places. There were times she had to put the book down to tend to something and didn't want to. That my prose is (mostly) pretty. That I have real talent. That I can, in fact, write. So she left me in a good place, ready to fix my problems.

To prepare for the following plot consult, I prayed. Odd way to prepare, you may think, but everything I've asked of the Lord concerning this book, He's done. Why stop?

This time, I asked for three things:

1) That Kristen would be God's mouthpiece to me concerning my story.
2) That Kristen and I would connect and like each other. (Writers gotta have writer friends.)
3) That God would use Kristen to let me know whether or not to participate in NaNoWriMo, which I had been considering since meeting with Beta Reader 4.

Within the first 15 minutes of the consult, Kristen diagnosed my problem--I have five or six stories crammed into 400 pages. Just as Beta Reader 4 suggested. So we took the first 40 pages, which was the section she read, and plotted it out into a full-length novel.

Oh, yeah. (Check out my premise here.)


So I said, "I'm guessing, I should shelf the bulk of my book for now and focus on this."

Kristen: "Uh, yeah! This should be your NaNo Novel. It's a great story. If you don't write it, I will."

After this, she took time to get to know me. We have a lot in common--a shared faith in Jesus, health issues, a clean-eating lifestyle, a book crush on Mr. Darcy. At one point she laughed and said, "By the end of this, we'll be telling each other our deepest, darkest secrets and braiding each other's hair."

I love her. Sarcasm, bluntness, and all.

And I love the Lord. He's so incredibly good. So faithful.

And that's why I'm participating in NaNoWriMo when I "should" be editing my novel.

Beta Reader 3 sent this text after I told her my plans:

This process is fascinating to me. Grueling, and maybe even sanctifying, for you, but fascinating as a 3rd party participant.

True, dat. The grueling, sanctifying part, anyway.

I don't love that I need to write another book and do a major rewrite on Eleora before I can, in good conscience, place it in your hands. Waiting, working (and reworking and reworking and reworking)--it's hard. But it's life.

(Which brings me to a small tangent: Writers aren't the only ones who need beta readers. We all need someone to edit our lives. I encourage you to give someone, maybe a handful of people, permission to offer insight into your story because we just don't possess the objectivity to see ourselves as we are.)

All in all, this ripping apart of my soul manuscript isn't such a bad thing. Creating something new is WAY more fun than editing.

Why do this...


when I could do this...


EVEN if I end up like this?


Speaking of not being alone, if you have a novel burning inside of you, why don't you join me and the 300k+ other writers who will be writing themselves into a frenzy next month? Sign up here. If you're 17 or younger, sign up for the Young Writers Program here. Make me your writing buddy, and we'll encourage each other all month long!

Do you have an idea for a novel? Have you ever participated or considered participating in NaNoWriMo? Have you ever won NaNoWriMo? Do you need a few tips to get going or have writing tips to pass along? Share your thoughts, questions, and experience in the comments below!

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Emergency Desensitization Technique


If you've followed my health journey over the past couple of years, you may recall me mentioning a mysterious "treatment" used during my mast cell episodes. It's my secret weapon against those angry little buggers.


Time-lapsed mast cell degranulation. Cool to watch. Not so cool to experience.

The treatment now has a name--Emergency Desensitization Technique (EDT).

 Me at Dr. Carolyne's office receiving a lymphatic treatment in 2013.

My friend, Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski of Natural Wellness Center in West Monroe, Louisiana discovered EDT in an effort to save my life. She called upon the most effective protocols she'd learned throughout her experience in natural medicine, and spliced them together in a specific sequence.

And. It. Is. Amazing.

Family and friends have performed EDT on me countless times with nearly perfect success. Only once did I use Epi in addition to the treatment. My kids, family members, and friends have experienced the wonders of EDT as well.

I've seen EDT relieve symptoms* such as:
  • sneezing
  • coughing
  • wheezing
  • itching
  • headache
  • insomnia
  • anxiety
  • difficulty breathing
  • dizziness
  • fainting
  • brain fog
  • nausea
  • sciatic pain
Over time, it also may decrease sensitivity to particular allergens and triggers. It certainly has for me.

I believe EDT is a significant factor in my improvement over the past two years. Improvement which shouldn't be possible considering that Mast Cell Activation Syndrome is a progressive disease.


What IS EDT?


EDT is based upon modern allergy relief techniques and the ancient principles of acupressure and deep breathing which trigger the body's natural healing response. It's simple to perform and requires no special skill. All you need is a pen, paper, a few cotton swabs, and an accessible way to learn it.

I've longed to share the technique with fellow floxies, masties, and allergy-sufferers for as long as I've used it, but I have friends all over the world who suffer like me. They can't all fly to West Monroe to learn from Master Carolyne in person. (Though I would love that. Party, anyone?)

SO, during my social media hiatus, Dr. Carolyne and I filmed a video tutorial which demonstrates how to perform this simple technique from the safety and convenience of your own home. Dr. Carolyne provides instruction while I serve as her willing prop.

I loved practice sessions for this video. I received two or more treatments a week while we worked on it, and felt great by the time we were done.

This two minute clip features my personal testimonial. (Please forgive my awkward camera presence and southern drawl.)



If you are interested in learning more about EDT, contact Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski at http://dryakaboski.com/ or call her office at 318-387-3000. 


(Note: By promoting this video/technique, I do not gain financially in any way. I simply want to share information that has improved my quality of life in hopes that it will do the same for others.)

*EDT is not intended to diagnose illness or to be used as a substitute for medical advice. Please consult a physician in matters relating to serious illness and medical emergencies.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

Back in January, I deactivated from Facebook. I needed a break. A breather. A social media detox, if you will.

I had become addicted. And let's face it. I'm not the only one.

Have you seen the haunting photographs from Eric Pickersgill's project Removed? Oh my word, what an indictment!

It's a sad deal when we take something good and make it ultimate. Social media is purposed to bring us together, but when we look to it for validation and use it as an emotional numbing agent, it divides us.

That's what happened to me. So to break my habit, God put me in social media rehab for eight months. Here's an overview of how that went:

Facebook Rehabilitation Diary:


Day 1: Good day. Withdrawal set in this evening, manifesting in agitation and a pounding headache. Apparently, Facebook withdrawal is a real thing. Who knew?

Day 2: Devastating news for our family. Glad I'm not on Facebook.

Days 3-10: Undulating between rage and depression with almost no in between. Trying very hard to be a supportive wife and mother. Wrestling with God over the first few chapters of Job again. I was one chapter from the end of the book, but my heart is in chapters 1-3. So thither I return.

Week 1: Rediscovered Pinterest. In my defense, I'm using it to learn how to write a better book. Mostly. Also, I discovered cat memes.
 

Week 2: Lonely. Had things to say and no one to say them to. I texted instead. That helped. Can't go outside or stand near the door because of the cold So depressed all I want to do is eat and sleep. Since I don't have FB, I spend free time doing novel research.


Week 4: Not as angry now. Seeing good come from the bad. Stronger relationships with B and the kids. Spiritual growth in B. Began Draft 2 of my novel.

 

Month 2:  Beginning to crawl out of The Pit of Despair. Family vacation. Hit my writing stride.

 

Month 3: Look how much I can accomplish without FB! Look at all these inflammatory events I'm missing! All the stress I'm avoiding! What is this new, fabulous world?



Month 4: Turns out...to be accepted by an agent and sell actual, real-live books, I must have an author platform, which includes FB, Twitter, and an active blog. Bubble busted.


Month 5: Draft 3 of my novel complete. It's probably time to return to Facebook. Resistance. Anxiety. Avoidance.


Month 6: Suddenly realized I'm lonely. Returning to FB now would be like a recovering alcoholic strolling the liquor aisle after his dog died.



Month 7: Working on face-to-face relationships. Draft 4 in progress. Facebook return imminent.


End of Month 7: Submit manuscript to beta readers. Deep breath.

(Dog memes are also fun.)

Almost month 8: Logged back in.

What I Learned:

 

1) Facebook is legitimate community.

While nothing can replace the people in front of me, there's something truly grand about the ability to connect with human beings all over the globe. My best friends live out of state. I've met some incredible people who live in other countries. I missed them while I was away. 

2) Facebook is its own kind of social assistance.

We don't have time to keep up with every person we care about. In our fast-paced culture, everyone is swamped. During the eight months I was away, I talked to my best friends maybe 2-3 times each and saw almost no one outside of immediate family. Every now and then I would get a text or hear from mom that someone missed me or wanted to know how I was. People didn't stop caring just because I was away. Neither did I! But without Facebook, we no longer had a convenient way to check in.

3) Facebook hiatus was good for my health.

Facebook stresses me out. It's not just the drama over politics, current events, and what Christian women consider acceptable entertainment (read into that what you will), though that's plenty bad for sensitive folk like me.

The main reason Facebook stresses me out is because I walk through life with this strange, genetically-rooted complex which makes me believe every vague or negative status and delayed private message response is my fault and that I somehow offended this person and I must do something to make it right.

Slowly but surely, I'm learning I'm not the center of the universe and not everyone is thinking of me when they type in their various vague/negative statuses and that I should calm the heck down and give people the benefit of the doubt. *breathes into paper bag*


Stress is mast cell trigger. I don't think it's a coincidence that I enjoyed the healthiest few months I've had in a while during my FB absence.

4) Facebook hiatus doesn't automatically strengthen face-to-face relationships.

It's far easier to swap addictions than it is to learn new habits. I struggled with this throughout my hiatus. If it wasn't FB, it was Pinterest. Or music. Or Netflix. Or my novel. I had to work to connect.

Though my health is stable now, life is still hard. Painful, even. It's easier to self-medicate with technology (since I can't do it with food, liquor, or medication) than it is to acknowledge the pain, process it, and relate to others.

5) The world keeps spinning with or without me. 

For eight months I was invisible to nearly everyone except the people under my roof. And the world didn't end. Everyone was fiiiine. (I know. I can't believe it either.) I find this both humbling and comforting.

6) Now that I'm clean, I enjoy Facebook more. I'm free to enjoy the gift without the gift possessing me. Which is way more fun.

All in all, I loved being away and I love being back. The thing that was poison to me in January is a treat to me now. And that's a good place to be.



What do you think? What pros and cons does Facebook hold for you? Is its cultural impact mostly positive or negative? Does it connect us or divide us? I'd love to hear your thoughts!