(Due to thoughtful and lengthy responses, this facebook post seemed worthy to move into a blog conversation).

"Returning from a book group of girls ranging from their 20's to 80's.  Today's topic began with fasting and moved into food, body-image, eating disorders, the birth of television and internet. .. Absolutely fascinating, and complex, to piece together change in the past decades.  And to consider restoration in the decades to come! Out of curiousity, if you could say one thing about food or body to the generation below you, what would it be?"

Sometimes I wonder why we live in our neighborhood. 

Like when a drunk neighbor showed-up on our doorstep last night, belligerent for money.  Shouldn’t we protect ourselves from such instability? 

Or observing a prostitute walk into another neighbor’s house across the street.  Shouldn’t I guard my eyes from such injustice?

Or watching neighbors abuse the welfare system, let alone their own children.  Shouldn’t we avoid this—putting our young marriage in a safe, happy setting, surrounded by a white picket fence, with 2.5 safe, happy children and a golden retriever? 

Or when I’m tutoring kids who are twelve and can’t read, or sixteen and pregnant.

In Northampton, Massachusetts, stands the old cemetery where David Brainerd is buried. Brainerd, a pioneer American missionary, died in 1747 at the age of twenty-nine after suffering from tuberculosis. His grave is beside that of Jerusha Edwards, the daughter of Jonathan Edwards, a Puritan theologian of that day. Brainerd loved Jerusha and they were engaged to be married, but he did not live until the wedding.

Imagine what hopes, dreams, and expectations for the cause of Christ were buried in that grave with the witherred body of that young missionary. At that point, nothing remained but memories and several dozen Indian converts! Yet, Jonathan Edwards, that majestic old Puritan saint, who had hoped to call Brainerd his son, began to write the story of that short life in a little book. The book took wings and few across the sea, and landed on the desk of a Cambridge student by the name of Henry Martyn.

Poor Henry Martyn! In spite of his education, brilliance, and great opportunities, he--after reading that little book on the life of Brainerd--threw his own life away! Afterward, what had he accomplished once he set his course toward home from India in 1812? With his health then broken, he dragged himself as far north as the town of Tokat, Turkey, near the Black Sea. There he lay in the shade of a pile of saddles, to cool his burning fever, and died alone at the age of thirty-one.

What was the purpose behind these "wasted lives?"  From the grave of a young David Brainerd, and the lonely grave of Henry Martyn near the shores of the Black Sea, have arisen a mighty army of modern Missionaries. (Leonard Woolsey Bacon)

"Is there some desert, or some boundless sea,
Where You, great God of angels, will send me?
Some oak for me to rend,
Some sod for me to break,

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Why do I look like this?

Like a swollen whale?

She’s gonna think I’m gross.

Maybe the tight one will make it better.

They’re not gonna wanna hang out with me anymore.

How did that grow overnight?

He doesn’t like me because I'm fat.

Why aren’t I like her?

This outfit is lame.

What if he saw me like this?

Maybe I’ll wear the baggy dress.

A new pimple?

Stupid eye-liner just broke. 

What am I thinking?  And why am I thinking about this—again, for the fifteenth time today?  Can I please just learn to like myself?  Or believe God likes me?  GOD likes me.  And designed this frame I’m talking to—in the Image of Himself.

We girls are so hard on ourselves.  So mean to our bodies and menial in our treatment of God imaging us into a shared aspect of His being.  There’s a grand difference between being true to who you really are and gracious toward who you’re not, versus being harsh, cruel and critical to the point of abuse.

Where did you first hear these lines?  And from whom did you hear them?  They are not true and they are not what Your Maker thinks.  The mirror is not you; it is a reflection.  And you are worth so much more than what a mirror, or imagined ideal, could ever communicate.

Ask God to help you see your true self today, and to walk well in that frame. To live as if you’re liked, and loved, in that image.  His image.  And I promise to do the same.

 

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Just unwrapped an advance copy of "Inspired by Tozer," officially releasing by Regal November 1st. I'm honored to be a contributor...so much quality content packed into these pages. For all Tozer fans, or those wanting a creative push toward God, here's my November recommendation.

de·pres·sion  Noun  /diˈpreSHən/  1. Severe despondency and dejection, accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.  2. A condition of mental disturbance, typically with lack of energy and difficulty in maintaining concentration or interest in life. 

 

I’ve attempted writing about it various times.  But rarely does the writing move anywhere.

Depression accompanies me periodically, and has for years.  

The picture that hit me yesterday was that depression is like being in a spacious house.  Lights are on in all the rooms and it’s mindless to meander throughout.  Handling things, cooking, organizing, creating…

And then the lights go out.  In all rooms but the one I’m standing in.  And even that space goes dim.  I lose perspective.  Life shrinks into the measurable space of my midst.  And it takes most of me to even grasp what’s happening there.  

I used to marginalize depression.  I used to think it was only loonies in the looney house who experience it.  But now I know I’m a looney, too.

One can have the most marvelous husband and friends and Maker and still battle depression.  One can partake of a most wonderful job and family and array of life experiences and still fight a periodic fog against clarity and clear-minded thinking. 

“The demon of acedia—also called the noonday demon—is the one that causes the most serious trouble of all. . . . He makes it seem that the sun barely moves, if at all, and . . . he instills in the heart of the monk a hatred for the place, a hatred for his very life itself.” –Kathleen Norris 

I can’t help when it hits and sometimes can’t do much about it’s hitting.  But for today, at least, I’m seeking solace in being able to speak about depression, in the Light, dim though my surroundings.  

I’m seeking to hold it in my hand.  To look at it as a piece, or piece of something, and to speak to it with peaceful separation from me.   To say, “I am not you, depression, but I do struggle with your holds on me.  My Father allowed—even ordained—darkness into this hour, that I might be made more like Himself through you.  I am a daughter of Christ and the cleft of Christ’s Word will be my refuge.”

The LORD has said that he would dwell in thick darkness. 2 Chronicles 6:1 

He uncovers the deeps out of darkness and brings deep darkness to light. Job 12:22

It is He who lights my lamp; the LORD my God lightens my darkness. Psalm 18:28

Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you. Psalm 139:12

I will give you the treasures of darkness and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the LORD, the God of Israel, who called you by your name… I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the LORD, who does all these things. Isaiah 45:3, 7

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When winds are raging o’er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
‘Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,
And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe’er it flieth,
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the heart that knows Thy love,
O Purest, There is a temple, sacred evermore,
And all the babble of life’s angry voices
Dies in hushed silence at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe’er it flieth,

I’ve never liked that phrase.  It seems shallow and hopeless.  And yet, I’ve struck its realities this morning.  

We’ll call her Lena for the sake of protection.  A neighborhood girl who crossed my path this month.  She’s new to town, separated from family, who live four hours from here.  Lena’s a third-grader who comes off as shy, but has a wild liveliness and imagination just beneath that layer.  She dreams of working for the FBI, “fixin mysteries and makin people feel safe and happier.”

Lena’s reading and math skills are significantly below average, so the plan was that beyond working with her at the Midtown Center after school, she would spend chunks of Saturday with me for extra tutoring.  Having never been to the beach, or the massive park less than a mile from us, I had high hopes.  Which now feel like “shattered dreams,” as Larry Crabb called them. 

Godmothers are a key part of black culture.  And it’s one of Lena’s godmothers that she’s living with.  The handful of interactions we’ve had, she’s either been drunk, high, or drunk and high.  Compliant toward the idea of tutoring, but negligent toward following through. 

It’s been four Saturdays since the plan went into action, this being the fourth.  The first week, Lena’s godmother brought her on time and thanked me for working with her.  “Do know though, Mrs. Abbie, she the stupidest girl you can meet.  She gonna play mind games with you and try to make you tell her answers.  She lazy and don’t know nothin’ about work…” 

I interrupted, my heart throbbing as I looked at Lena, staring numb and shamefully at the pavement.  “I’ve worked with her some at the Center and really enjoy time with her.  I’ll walk her home when we’re finished.”

Every successive Saturday, excuses.  “I sick,” “She sick,” “Damn girl forgot to wake me up…”  I can tell from her texts whether Lena’s godmother is drunk or not. 

Even without extra help on Saturdays, Lena’s grades have slowly been improving.  We still get weekday afternoons to go over spelling words, or learn a new table of multiplication.  But the verbal abuse is evident in every angle of her face.  And “beatins,” she says, come almost daily.

Christians have been driving me crazy lately.  In merciful hours they’ve been making me sad and in weaker ones, angry. 

In short, I wish we Christians would get over ourselves sometimes.  Over our elevated theologies and critical spirits—our egocentrism and exclusivity.  We’re far too good at being derogatory toward those who look, think, pray, or respond differently than us.  And I don’t just mean those who disagree with our beliefs on Christ.  I mean those who share Christ’s table; I mean in the family of God, we are just so cruel to each other sometimes.

I was at the beach recently having an afternoon retreat.  Little things tend to stand out more on such outings, like sound and smell, and in this case, the way I was eating my apple.  The hour or so before was spent praying through all this muck in the Christian family.  When hunger pangs hit and I sought this small, red fruit, the revelation seemed obvious.  There are a lot of ways I could this apple—a lot of different chewing styles, or approaches to savor its contents.  I could peel the skin, or take time to ponder the red hues and tender texture.  I could dress it with peanut butter, or eat it plain.  I could start at the top and work my way down, or I could start at one point and work my way around.  Bottom line, I realized, is there is no right way to eat an apple.  Once you’re in the apple family, which is a varied one, you can let go of whether it’s green or red, tart or sweet, soft or tough.  Though preferences will contribute to apple eating pleasures, we’re allowed to lay aside the petty for the sake of real Pleasure. We’re invited to merely and miraculously taste and see that apples are good.  (Please don’t judge me by taking this analogy too far—all analogies break down.  Only God doesn’t.  And there is only One who is good.)

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Apparently being eye level with ocean waves is scary.

Or being a dog approached by ocean waves is scary.

 

The rush.

The sound.

The texture that swallows your skin in milliseconds. 

 

We took our dog to the ocean this weekend. 

Our big, tough, scary rottweiler. 

Who turned into a soft, frightened, bewildered baby. 

Petrified by the personality of ocean waves.

Biting them, as if an enemy to be destroyed.

 

Maybe it’s not ironic that our dog’s name is Moses.