Life Saturation Part IV: Shaking Hands With Death

“She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, 

and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued 

while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! 

How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! 

It was as if from some aerial belfry, 

high up above the stir and jar of the earth, 

there was a bell continually tolling, 

‘All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!” 

~Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

The birth of my daughter in 2016 brought with it the unexpected side effect of a more than usually slow, forgetful, and distractible mind. My once supple and active mind had long been unable to devour books as it had in college, and I found all of my thoughts entirely devoted to my child, whether sleeping or awake. However, at the beginning of this year, an experimental foray into my once frequented collection of Jane Austen novels revived my fervor for literature, and I have found myself thrust back into the vivid world of fiction in which I have always thrived. 

This recent rediscovery of my love of reading has unearthed several gems which have both ripped me out of my complacency and brought me face to face with reality in a way that only God could have planned. One of these gems was the book North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. I went into the book knowing the bones of the story thanks to a BBC miniseries, but the book itself was so raw and deep, mercilessly delving into the brokenness and beauty of humanity in a way that firmly placed the story in my top five most beloved books. 

During the story, the heroine is introduced as a kind and faithful woman, but with the great flaw of naivety. Her life has been happy and peaceful with no hint of death or mourning or hardship. Through a series of events she finds herself ripped from her home, and her character develops magnificently as she is forced to come face to face with death time and time again. She is humbled as she sees that some people more faithful than her are given lives of continual hardship, and that no life is free from these inevitable days of darkness. 

In our culture we tend to forget, or choose to ignore, the reality of hardship and the looming certainty of death, whether of those that we love or of ourselves. We are shielded from death, we feel disconcerted and uncomfortable when someone we know grieves a death, and we constantly try to lift the ambience with uselessly cheerful words and gestures. 

In many cases our frenzied schedules are an attempt to escape from the horrific realities of life, or to run from the imminent guarantee of death. Our fear of death causes us to spend precious hours of our lives in attempting to achieve lasting youth, forgetting the value of the life that approaches the darkness of death. 

As I reached the end of North and South, we also approached the end of Ecclesiastes in our weekly study of the scriptures. The last two chapters are heavy with the same truth: 

“So if a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all; but let him remember that the days of darkness will be many. All that comes is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 11:8)

“Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come and the years draw near of which you will say, ‘I have no pleasure in them.’ before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return after the rain, in the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent…” (Ecclesiastes 12:1-3a)

The reality of death causes us to view life in a completely different way. When we are faced with the death of a loved one, or even faced with the failure of our own bodies, the veil is drawn away from our eyes and we realize how much of our lives are “vanity of vanities.” Worrying about where we will live, stressing over our children's success, parties and popularity, careers and politics, the vacations we went on, the concerts we saw…all become meaningless and our lives are stripped down to the relationships that were fostered during our allotted time. 

I go even further than this, for in the last moments we are even stripped from those relationships as our darkened eyes cease to recognized the well-known faces of our spouses, children, and friends, and we sink into unconsciousness. In the last moments we are ultimately left with nothing but the relationship that we had or did not have with our Creator.

It is prudent to remember that we are guaranteed hardship and death. Our culture will say that pondering such things is morbid, but the truth is that it is realistic. More than that, those who are able to face the prospect of death with equanimity are those who learn to live in equal peace and full comfort. In other words, the person who knows how to face death is the person who knows how to face life in all of its complexity and difficulty. Therefore, the younger we are when we learn to shake hands with death, the fuller our lives can be and the less we have to fear.

The ultimate and final cure for a lifestyle of meaningless toil and an existence saturated with thoughtless activities, comes from a focus on that final treasure that we are left with when all of our temporal treasures are stripped from us one by one in death. “The Teacher” in Ecclesiastes, after chapters of text bordering on nihilism and flirting with despair, sums up his final chapter with words that instantly change the tone and meaning of the entire book: “The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil.” (Ecclesiastes 12:13-14)

These words, written years before the birth of Christ, mysteriously foreshadow Christ’s summation of the purpose of man on earth to "love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength." and "love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:29-31)

Our focus is so divided. We are out of our minds with stress trying to achieve all of the goals that we set for ourselves that will eventually be swept away by our deaths. Most of us work at a job that we do not really like for money that is here today and gone tomorrow, and for a legacy that will most likely be forgotten by the time our great-grandchildren are grown. Why are we toiling? 

It should come as a great relief to us that our time and purpose here on earth can be boiled down to four words “Love God, Love Others.”

My labor and the birth of my daughter brought this truth home for me in a way that nothing else had before. Although short, those four hours were filled with the worst physical pain of my life as well as the hardest work. During those moments, there was no thought in my mind aside from the end result of my labor. I no longer cared about whether my house was clean, my bills were paid, or my outfit matched. All of my strength and might, all of my fortitude and presence of mind were focused on one goal: bringing my child into my arms. 

The same should be true of our lives. All of our toil, and every last bit of strength both physically and mentally should be focused on the goal that Christ summarized as “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your mind and with all your strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. “

In so doing, the drudgery of our every day toil, and that job that we do not really like, suddenly become an exciting adventure as we are plunged headlong into God’s ultimate plan. Even the smallest moments suddenly have eternal significance, and the phrase “vanity of vanities, all is vanity” loses its power and its meaning. When you are focused on the ultimate goal, there is a reason for living. 

In doing this we lose our fear of death because the purpose that we strive for here on earth is the same that we will strive for after death, yet without pain or sorrow. Let us not be like the dying woman in the sequel to Anne of Green Gables who “laid up her treasures on earth only… lived solely for the little things of life -- the things that pass -- forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a mere passing from one dwelling to the other -- from twilight to unclouded day.” Let us rather say, like Anne that when we “ [come] to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something wholly different -- something for which accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted [us]. The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth.” 1

It is time for us to stop spreading our energies in so many different directions for things that will simply perish, but to begin our life of heaven here on earth, to place our hand into that of Christ while we yet have our breath, and to walk with Him boldly through the difficult and belabored, but not frenzied, life of one whose soul is safe and whose salvation is sure. 

“Wearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five hours' time. But with the morning came hope, and a brighter view of things.”

~Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

1. Anne of The Island, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Chapter 14- The Summons

Life Saturation Part III: The Teacher’s Experiment

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher,
    vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
 What does man gain by all the toil
    at which he toils under the sun?

~Ecclesiastes 1:2-3

Jane Eyre has been my favorite book for many years. Besides perfectly blending the genres of romance and mystery, it is a beautiful portrait of virtue in the face of temptation and it has beauty, wisdom, and wit filling every page. 

Charlotte Bronte constructs two very interesting characters in the course of her narrative. The first is Edward Rochester who, when faced with disappointment as a youth, turns to a life of wild pleasure-seeking in order to redeem some semblance of a happy life. This conspicuously flawed hero, though acknowledging his depravity freely, remains unwilling and unable to believe that integrity is possible after so many wrongs and resigns himself to directionless living by pursuing what pleasures he can. 

The second character is much more complex because, from all outward appearances, he is an upright man with well-ordered principles. St. John Rivers is a man of the church, full of zeal and passion with a heart set on missionary work in India. He is ascetic in nature, denying himself marriage to the woman he admires in favor of the glorious work to which he feels called. But when faced with delays and the duties of home and family, he languishes. The ordinary frightens him and he is overrun with discontent until he is finally able to become a martyr on the mission field. 

Our busyness often takes the form of either Edward Rochester or St. John Rivers. The Rochesters among us forget the sufficiency of eternity and expend all of our energy striving after the ephemeral and physical world around us by saturating our days with adventures, experiences, and pleasures. All the while, the St. Johns among us forget the sufficiency of grace and strive hour after hour to please God with great and meaningful work.

The conflict and exhaustion that these two mindsets bring is prevalent in the book of Ecclesiastes. This book has always intrigued me for its brutal honesty and accuracy in describing the deep sensations of futility and worthlessness that plague both the play and work of man. This cycle of waking, working, sleeping, and watching our efforts continually undone before our very eyes can give even the most devout optimist a pause to consider what the purpose is of our daily striving. 

In a desperate attempt to find meaning, we continually fill our lives with things that we think will bring significance. We are each hoping to leave a legacy that has eternal worth. For God “has put eternity into man’s heart.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

We often feel prevented from following these ambitions by lack of resources, time, health, or power. However, Ecclesiastes is fascinating because we are presented with a character, simply called “The Teacher,” who, in fact, has all of these things in abundance. Recognizing his unique position, he sets out on a mission to follow every conceivable attempt of man to find worth and meaning in the short time appointed to humanity. His question: with what can I fill my life that is worthwhile and lasting? His findings shame both the Rochesters and the St. John Rivers within our hearts. 

The St. John Rivers

During my brief study of religions in my Worldviews class at school, I was struck by a similarity that showed up like a red thread throughout all of the religions that I encountered, tying them bizarrely together. This thread was none other than mankind’s insatiable urge to achieve his salvation through effort and action. In almost every religion, man stands before a cavernous gulf, his salvation perched on the other side, and only he can build the bridge to his destination.

In Theravada Buddhism, his cravings and desires stand between him and enlightenment and he must follow the steps of the “Eightfold Path”. Leaning neither to the right nor to the left he must, in the words of the Buddha, “work out [his] own liberation.”1 In Hinduism, the cycle of rebirth stands between a man and liberation. To escape the cycle, man must embark on a journey along the paths of knowledge, action, or devotion and in so doing will work their way to Moksha.2 In Judaism, the large gulf between man and God must be crossed by following the Torah or the law, and by living a life of complete obedience to God.3 In Islam, Paradise lies on the other side of the gulf, and believers must practice a life of submission to Allah by means of the five pillars.4 

Christianity is the only religion I know of that sets its hopes and faith on a person rather than a path. Jesus Christ is the self-professed Way, and no action or inaction can take away from the salvation of the person clinging to Him. 

Yet the instinct of the St. John within us is so ingrained that we need a constant reminder that we cannot earn grace through labor, volunteer efforts, prayer, study, or sacrifice. St. John for all  his love and devotion to Christ, forgets the sufficiency of grace to save him, and he forgets the sufficiency of God’s sovereignty to achieve His purpose with or without the efforts of His people. He forgets, in short, that it is “not the strength of [his] faith but the object of [his] faith that actually saves [him].”5

The tragedy of St. John is that he does not realize that the work of staying at home and ministering to a wife and family, of caring for humble parishioners, and even of enjoying the quiet comforts of a chair by the fire can hold just as much dignity and eternal worth as the work of a mighty man who sacrifices health and home abroad. Certainly both are needful, but neither is greater than the other, and neither can garner favor with God. 

A friend of mine once said that the Catholic church that he grew up in “mourned their religion.” I cannot think of a better way to describe the St. John in us. We try to fill our lives with great and meaningful tasks, never stop working, and deny ourselves pleasures. We despair of life and mourn our religion because it holds no joy. We measure the strength of our faith by the number of hours prayed, the hungry mouths fed, and the temptations overcome instead of relying on Christ, the object of our faith. 

The Teacher in Ecclesiastes attempts a life of toil and of wisdom. His words are coated in mournful exhaustion as he says “I hated all my toil in which I toil under sun, seeing that I must leave it to the man who will come after me…so I turned about and gave my heart up to despair over all the toil of my labors under the sun…What has a man from all the toil and striving of heart with which he toils beneath the sun? For all his days are full of sorrow, and his work is a vexation. Even in the night his heart does not rest. This also is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 2:18-23) As the sun rises and sets, he finds his work but a meaningless sorrow, and nothing but a striving after the wind. 

The Edward Rochester

The Teacher attempts another experiment, guided by wisdom, in the pages of Ecclesiastes. He says to himself “Come now, I will test you with pleasure, enjoy yourself.” (Ecclesiastes 2:1)It is an experiment that most of us would gladly try, and one that the Rochesters among us strive for as a rule. The teacher builds palaces and plants gardens. He is waited on night and day, and lacks no good food or drink. He surrounds himself with riches, entertainment, wine, and beautiful women. But at the end of his indulgence, he throws up his hands for again “all was vanity and striving after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 2:1-11)

The Rochesters in us are restless souls. We feel the end of our short lives looming over us like a dark cloud and we strive for all of the excitement and beauty that we can attain. While the St. Johns cannot stop working, the Rochesters cannot settle to a job. With one hand they fitfully earn money while with the other they write bucket lists. Instead of despairing of life, they are submerged in life. Their joy is completely shackled to the excitement of the weekend, and they live for the next road trip, the next vacation, and even the next movie night. The necessary work in between is simply mundane and irritating. 

The great tragedy of Rochester is that he could not see beyond the transient. When robbed of conjugal felicity, he sought wrongful pleasure desperately, believing that he owed it to himself and forgetting that 80 years of suffering is short when compared with eternity. But we are not owed pleasure or comfort in this world, and both Rochester and The Teacher prove that excitement, adventure, and beauty will never fully satisfy.

The answer to this conundrum, it seems, does not lie in trying to find a happy medium between cluttering our lives with meaningless work and saturating it with pleasure. Instead, we should be fleeing from both mindsets. There is nothing wrong with work or pleasure, but we place burdens on ourselves that we were never meant to bear. The St. Johns among us bear the burden of the responsibility of our own standing before God while the Mr. Rochesters bear the burden of the terror of death without experiencing life. Instead, we should be fleeing to the One whose burden is light (Matthew 11:30), and fixing our eyes “not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:18)

This higher aim that we flee to is Christ, who relieves us with blissful finality of the impossible task of crossing the gulf between humanity and God, and at whose right hand are “pleasures forevermore.” (Psalm 16:11)

1. The World's Religions by William Young, Ch. 4, Theravada Buddhism-The Middle Way.

2. The World's Religions by William Young, Ch. 3, Hinduism-Many Paths to the Summit.

3. The World's Religions by William Young, Ch. 10, Judaism-The Way of the Torah.

4. The World's Religions by William Young, Ch. 12, Islam-The Way of Submission to Allah.

5. Timothy J. Keller, The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism

Seven Reasons that I Love Having a Clean Home

A Clean Home is Safe

Having a clean home means that I no longer have objects strewn around the floor that are dangerous for my baby to get into. And having a clean home means that there are less objects for my poor husband to trip over as he gets ready for work at 4:00 in the morning in the dark. 

A Clean Home is Healthy

Having a clean home means that there are no longer festering dishes in the sink, bacteria growing on the counters, and mold in old containers of food next to our fresh food in the fridge. It means that I feel confident putting my baby in the tub or sink for her bath without having to scrub it for an hour beforehand. 

A Clean Home is Happy

Since I struggle with depression, a dark home filled with clutter and dust can sink my spirits and make me even less likely to be able to clean. A clean home, however, can make me dance alone in the kitchen when I wake up in the morning. And my daily routines give me a jump start on the mornings that depression attacks me because I know that completing these easy tasks will help me feel better and get me out of bed. 

A Clean Home is Maintainable

Since I’ve put in the hard work for a year to toss things I don’t need, declutter the closets and cabinets, and establish daily routines, it only takes a few tasks per day to keep the house looking beautiful. 

A Clean Home is Beautiful to Wake To

I am excited to wake up on the mornings that I know my kitchen sink is sparkling. I have a fresh set of clothes waiting for me to put on, a clear pathway to the baby’s room, and a predictable plan. Taking care of my home is now a joy because it is doable, and no longer takes all day.

A Clean Home is Hospitable

I am no longer afraid of having people over because I know that my toilet is always sparkling. I no longer have to spend hours before a guest comes over. 30 minutes max, and it’s guest ready.

A Clean Home is Time-Saving

I spend less time looking for lost items, and more time dancing with my family in the living room. I spend less time cleaning, and more time baking. I spend less time laying in bed feeling overwhelmed, and more time relaxing on the couch with a clear conscience and a restful spirit. 

Our home may be just a one-bedroom apartment, but it’s where my child learned to take her first steps, and where I learned to take my first steps as a homemaker and a mommy. I am thankful for my home because it is comfortable, cozy, and clean!

Life Saturation Part II: The Beauty of a Thankful Life

I remember singing one of my favorite songs from my four years of participation in the University Choir at school. The piece, called “Prayer” was a text by Mother Teresa put to music by Rene Clausen. The intoxicating choral arrangement began with a single line sung by the altos; a unison descending fifth pierced the silence, embellishing the first words of the text, “Help me.” On the second, third, and fourth reiterations of the the same words, new voices joined the first, weaving around each other and adding layer upon layer which finally burst into the rest of the text:

Help me spread your fragrance wherever I go

Flood my soul with your Spirit and life

Penetrate and possess my whole being so utterly

That my life may be only a radiance of yours

Shine through me and be so in me

That every soul I know will feel your presence in my soul

Let them look up and see no longer me

But only you. Amen.

As the music journeyed through the phrases, the voices became dissonant at times and sweet at others. The beauty and truth of the text entered into a perfect marriage with the expertly formed harmonies and melodies. Singing the song always put a lump in my throat, rendering my voice mute when I was supposed to be bringing forth sound.

Contrast this experience with that of my first encounter with the piece “In C” by Terry Riley. The first time I heard this 40 minute composition, I also developed a lump in my throat, but more out of the simultaneous desire to laugh and urge to vomit. From the moment the piano began pinging a high C with unforgivable sharpness and endless repetition, my senses were offended from ears to aching tooth fillings. The “song” is absolute noise from beginning to merciful end.

In one of my most influential classes at CCU, Dr. Allen Schantz taught his students the incredibly controversial lesson that aesthetic excellence in art is found in the structure and form of the art rather than in the eye of the beholder. In a world that idealizes, romanticizes, and even worships the subjective, this view was highly irregular, and likely not shared by many reading this blog. Dr. Schantz broke down what made a work of art beautiful, even if it is not to the taste of the consumer. Tension, climax, and release—all are needed to create aesthetic excellence. This, along with the portrayal of truth, creates artistic excellence.

The details of this view would take a book to defend, but under this scrutiny, Riley's "In C" would probably not have passed the test. It may have been mathematically interesting, a modern curiosity, fascinating to watch live, and theoretically perfect, but I am not sure it could be called artistically excellent. Many other pieces (even pieces that I personally dislike such as Für Elise, Canon in D, or anything in the genres of jazz or classic rock) must be acknowledged, despite personal leanings, to be crafted beautifully.

The class was a throw-away credit for many of my classmates, but I realized several years later that the things that Dr. Schantz taught in that class were not only crucial to understanding my art, they were revolutionary when applied to life. In order to be a life well-lived, it has to be a life crafted purposefully by a master, full of beauty and truth. All of the elements of life come together-- moments of rising tension and climax followed by moments of quietness and peace. In life, textures thicken whiles rests become active silences that propel the story to the next phrase. Then the tension breaks, the dynamics of the tragedies and triumphs soften, and rests become silences pregnant with the beauty of the moment.

It would be naive and foolish of me to say that there is no place for “busyness” in the Christian life. A life that is too quiet can be just as lacking in artistic quality. Like John Cage's “piece” 4'33, (during which the pianist does nothing but sit silently at his instrument for four minutes and 33 seconds), a life that lacks melody, harmony, timbre, and form will fall flat with little purpose or meaning. But in our culture today, the word “busyness” has become a tired, overused, and poorly understood word that could potentially be used to describe two completely opposite states of being, which I hope to unravel with clarity.

Life Saturation

The first state of being has a negative connotation tinged with bitterness. Those who are “busy” in this sense find themselves in a constant state of life saturation in which the constant repetition of the words “sure, I can do that,” leads to a schedule tightly packed with well-meaning, but meaningless activities.

This life looks more like the original meaning of the word “busyness,” derived from the Old English word bisig meaning “careful or anxious.” If I were to define this type of busyness, I would say “a state of continual activity that results in, and is fueled by, anxiety. An obsession with saturating the silences with meaningless noise.” We lead ourselves into this state by making decisions based upon the demands of other people, by what we think our lives should look like, or even by what we think God requires of us.

This type of life is reminiscent of Terry Riley's “In C.” Rhythms and textures overlap and are added one on top of another without any rests to break up the noise until a cacophony of meaningless sound falls upon everyone in the vicinity. A person viewing such a life would not be able to find the focus or direction of all of the activities because the activities exist only to fill the void.

Rather than being a season, texture, or movement, it is a never-ending lifestyle. It stems from a place of self-trust and sufficiency, pride of personal accomplishment, and a fear of dying before potential is reached. It is a very great terror of encountering a moment of silence because somehow we know, deep down, that when the silence comes it will reveal how empty our lives really are. In my observation, our response to this self-orchestrated life saturation is threefold: Depression. Anxiety. Complaint.

I have noticed that my generation, myself included, always answers the question “How was your week?” with “It was busy.” It is always spoken with a note of bitterness and a spirit of complaint. Yet oftentimes, the activities which make us busy are entirely voluntary. We may choose busyness from a desire to be a martyr for the sake of selfish boastings and petty “my life is busier” competitions with others around us. Or we are simply trapped in an endless cycle of “yes” without the courage to say “no.” We saturate the silences because we are afraid of missed experiences or we do not trust God to grant us enough meaningful work with which to glorify him. Instead, we trust in our own ability to conquer everything, and then complain loudly to gain recognition and sympathy which is never forthcoming because everyone else thinks they have it harder.

Nothing can be more draining on the human soul than pointless work, meaningless exertion, and constant complaint. As Solomon puts in in Ecclesiastes 2:11, “Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had expended in doing it, and behold, all was vanity and a striving after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.”

Purposeful God-led Labor

The other (starkly different) type of busyness is a God-led season of high activity that adds texture to a life lived purposefully. In this definition, a person places their life in a posture of full trust towards God with an attitude of “Here I am, send me!” It is a life that recognizes God as the creator of beauty, art, and story, and that gives God full liberty at last to be the master craftsman. Such a life would be a thing of great intrinsic beauty, with trials, temptations, excitements, and illustrious calms crafted to make it a tale worth telling.

God-led activity springs from a soul bowed before God in humility. It stems from a place of His sufficiency, and our weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9) Although these seasons may produce exhaustion in the body, the soul becomes full of life. They, like other trials, are “granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake.” (Philippines 1:29) Lest we become masochistic, these seasons are granted, not sought, and they produce a contrasting threefold response: Joy. Peace. Thankfulness.

Thankfulness. Christ's life was certainly not one of leisure and comfort, but thankfulness and trust marked his times of suffering. Thankfulness is the gem which Philippians 4:6-7 says dispels anxiety. It is no accident that we are commanded to rid ourselves of anxiety by lifting up our hearts in “prayer and supplication with thanksgiving.” In doing so, we do not gain the recognition of the world, be we do gain the gift of “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding.” In this, we are no longer afraid of the silences because they are filled, not with earthly things, but with joy, contentment, and a deep and abiding sense of purpose.

Over the past five years, God has provided me with drastic life changes which have led me to a quieter schedule with occasional bursts of high activity, a new ability to carefully choose the activities that I say “yes” to, a daughter who reminds me to indulge in quiet moments, and a new passion for obediently giving thanks when I am worried and afraid. I am careful to not let myself shy away from activities that frighten me, but neither do I go into them mindlessly or foolishly. I try, every day, to replace complaint with thanksgiving because even in my times of suffering, I am blessed beyond all reason.

For me, anxiety is a special blessing that not everyone has the privilege to possess. Because He has given me the thorn of anxiety, it is impossible for me to even go on stage, teach a lesson, or go on vacation without leaning entirely on His sufficiency. I lift my heart up in thankfulness because “for the sake of Christ, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:10) It is funny, though not altogether surprising, that since I have started thanking God for my anxiety, it has had less and less of a grip on my life.

Busy seasons will happen. When they do, we must take the time to ask ourselves whether they have come through our foolishness, or God's providence. If the first, we must stop our lips from complaining and either withstand the consequences, or de-clutter our schedules. If the second, we have only, in the wise words of Gandalf, “to decide...what to do with the time that is given us”1 and to entrust our lives in thanksgiving to the one who gave us breath.

1. Tolkien, J. R. R. (2013). Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past. In The Lord of the Rings (p. 51). Hachette Book Group USA.

Life Saturation Part I: Anxieties Observed

The summer after I graduated from college was marked by a crippling sense of paralysis both spiritually and emotionally. I can remember long nights of wakefulness with every nerve in my body burning and anxious thoughts coursing through my mind like poison, convincing me that this comfortable, quiet bed that I used to love with its moon-touched quilt and a sleeping cat at its foot, was actually my deathbed. The paralysis that started in my mind would creep to my limbs and I would spend hours in trembling stillness feeling the muscles of my legs tighten and my sweat dampen the sheets below me. I felt like a child again, afraid of the headless horseman and unable to move for fear of awakening an unknown terror in the dark. But the fear and danger were now inside my own head, killing me from the inside, and producing an insanity that scared me worse than anything else.

The terror had begun in the late winter of my senior year, just before the air warmed and the trees turned green. It crept up on me like an unknown enemy. It was, at the time, beyond all of my knowledge or power to control. Although I had lived with a naturally anxious disposition all of my life, the fear had mostly stayed inside my head. Never before had it broken through the barriers of my mind into the entirety of my physical body. 

My first panic attack came during a major performance on my Senior choir tour. Looking back, I can see the signs leading up to that moment. Several hours before the performance I can remember experiencing powerful waves of dysphoria, like nostalgia only unpleasant. It was a persistent buzzing like a wasp in my brain, and a feeling of ice in my veins. The feelings intensified as the concert grew closer. I went through the motions of donning my black dress, touching up my hair and make-up, and smiling falsely through waves of discomfiture, while the feelings intensified into dissociation, like I was watching myself from above. The buzzing of one wasp grew to a nest-full at the base of my skull until I thought I would faint.

Concert time grew closer. Five minutes, two minutes, one—my feet brought me mechanically to my place on the risers. A dialogue between my fear and my reason had begun with the first song.

It's just your mind. Breath, relax, enjoy the music, move with the beat. Smile, smile, smile.

But each breath brought a fresh wave of panic and soon my legs were trembling so much that I was astounded that they still supported my weight.

Smile...smile....smile......smile.

But to no avail. That night, and that night alone, I gave up. I allowed myself to slip off the risers, and collapse into a chair beside the choir, amidst the humiliating concern of classmates still singing.

The rest of the semester was continuously punctuated by performances identical to this one that beat out my final months as an undergraduate like some sick clock sounding the hours until graduation. But unlike the first experience, I forced myself to stay on stage for every last moment. Through tears and desperate pleas for prayers from friends and strangers alike, I battled my way through concerts that were torture from the first note until the moment I could step off the stage and rest my weary and shaking legs.

Finally...summer. But summer brought little comfort. All of the places where I had felt safe before—my home, the mountains, my bedroom—all became a threat. The walls of my own home were closing in around me, and I could not even leave the house without having another panic attack. I got a prescription that summer for an anxiety and depression medication, which got me back on my feet and gave me the courage to restart my life and begin searching for a job. But even with the help of medication, I knew I had a fight ahead of me. 

Over the course of the next couple of years, I would battle anxiety and accompanying depression that seemed to pursue me staunchly despite otherwise happy occurrences. My marriage brought with it enough stability to stop the medication, but terror and an ever-present dull ache dogged my steps, making me irritable and irrational at times. As I learned more about myself and my illness, I was brought, through complete divine intervention, to a place of relative healing, and the sharp and violent panic diminished to a prick that only flares up in particularly vulnerable times.

One of the most surprising things that I learned over these years was, despite how utterly alone I felt in my suffering, my struggles were downright commonplace, particularly among my musician friends, and I began to take a serious look at the conditions in which my natural anxiety grew and thrived during my years in the music program at school. Although my breakdown was a result of many things that were happening in my life at the time – the divorce of my parents, rejection from people that I admired and loved, and the natural pressures of my unknown future after college—I strongly believe that part of what contributed to my weakened state of mind was the culture of busy-worship, or the state of valuing quantity of activities over quality of life, in the school I was attending, as well as in the world outside CCU.

The myth that I told myself, and that I was told by others, was that some people can handle more busyness than others. I was simply weak, or perhaps more used to a quiet lifestyle from growing up in the mountains. Although it is true that not everyone I knew at the school of music spiralled into a state of complete mental breakdown like I did, I think in the end everyone that I came into contact with suffered from the culture in some small way, even if it was unconscious. Their relationships suffered, their learning suffered, their spiritual growth suffered, and their health suffered.

The culture was subtle but pervasive. Those who involved themselves in the most activities were the ones that were the most revered, honored, and rewarded. Conversations in the hallway between classes centered around who was the busiest as though it were some sort of contest. If someone dropped an ensemble from their schedule, they would be made to feel guilty. If someone tried to confide feelings of being overwhelmed by their class load, they would be besieged by comments such as “at least you don't work 20 hours a week like me.” It became a gruesome competition which no one could ever win.

The result was that everyone filled their schedules to the brim. In fact, I did not even realize until several years after graduation that at least six of the twenty-one credits that overwhelmed me in my last semester were filled by ensembles and classes that I did not even need in order to graduate. Looking back, it is impossible to regret the choices that I made because they led me to my husband (who I met my Senior year in the same choir that still gives me anxious dreams), my best friend, and my job, but I still wonder if perhaps we, as a culture, and most especially as followers of Christ, are doing it all wrong.

  

Thoughts About Jane on Her First Birthday

Before Jane was born, I was told endlessly of the overpowering love that I would experience the instant my daughter was born. But it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. Terror and shock were the predominant feelings as I collapsed on the bed at the birth center with the shivering infant clutched to me. I experienced the first pangs of mother-guilt as my thoughts plunged inward to the turmoil wracking my body and mind rather than turning outward in instant love and concern for our firstborn. 

Our new baby daughter, wrinkled and quiet—not a screamer, nestled sweetly against me but I shook from fear, shock, and exhaustion and could hardly take in her little form. Briefly left by myself while my husband, mom, and midwife were simultaneously out of the room, I was left alone with a terror that blinded me to the beauty of the tiny form now whimpering near my face. 

Four hours later saw me and my little family nestled back at home and I could finally take a deep breath now that we were away from the sterile environment of the birth center. I saw our little one more clearly, though still through eyes of fear and mistrust—a mistrust of myself. She was undeniably precious, but how was it possible for me to love her as I should? How was I even capable of such a love? Suddenly the next 18 years of her bringing up crashed down around me and I found myself thinking “I can’t do this,” over and over again. 

Life before Jane was marked by stoicism for me. This “Keep Calm, Carry On” mentality has been passed through my family for generations. Stoicism is a wall of pride and a facade of strength that erects a fortress around the heart to keep it from feeling as it ought. The result is a deadness to emotions that, rather than making them go away, causes them to seep deeper into the soul to become a dull ache and a profound unhappiness. 

I had slowly grown to believe that I could not feel as others did. My well-kept heart could never be compelled to break the barriers of that wall and it would take months to nurture love and trust as it had when I met my husband. It did take awhile with Jane, I suppose. My unpracticed and timid hands cared for this tiny treasure while my heart stayed barricaded behind stone. 

It all changed a few days later, however, after a couple of sleepless nights, a lot of faked smiles, and a few hundred deer-in-the-headlights moments of panic. It was three in the morning, I had spent the past hour trying to rouse my sleepy baby enough to eat, and was settling her back in her bassinet. This tiny child looked up at me in the deep, dark of the night. She was dressed in fuzzy, oversized pajamas with tiny fists balled up on her chest and darkness swaddling her. Just enough brightness was present in the room to reflect on her wide-open, shining eyes. She was helpless, small, and mine. 

In that moment, a few days after her birth, not only did those walls begin to crack, but my heart actually increased its ability to love, and the capacity of my soul widened to a depthless expanse. This was a new love that had not existed before Jane existed. It grew inside of me as she grew, starting from the moment I learned of her existence and blossoming in a great unfurling on that quiet night when she gazed at me wide-eyed from her bassinet. It was an irresistible love— a helpless love—a spontaneous and unconditional love. 

That is what a child is. Beyond being precious and unbelievably full of purpose and potential, they are living vessels filled with seeds for expanding and creating love. Love that never existed before can burst into being when that child does. Every child has this potential wrapped up inside their tiny but complex little forms from the moment of conception. 

Over Jane’s first year I watched with joy as this love blossomed in other hearts as well as my own. Starting with her daddy and grandparents, and reaching to the most distant of acquaintances and even strangers, hearts melted before her big blue eyes and babbling speech. I marveled over and over again that someone so small could change so many hearts by simply existing. 

And over that first year, I slowly transformed. Eyes that were so often dry before now welled up with tears at the slightest provocation, and I felt a 26-year-old burden of suppressed emotion lighten. The love was not without its moments of exquisite pain and fear, but I realized that such pain and fear are unavoidably intertwined with such a deep love and they are a price well worth paying for a feeling heart. 

Jane’s name means “God’s Gracious Gift”. She came during a trying time of life and did what all children, wanted and unwanted, orphaned and abused, spoilt and ignored, miscarried and stillborn, abandoned and adored, are meant to do: carry seeds of love and grace that are the gift of God to a suffering world, and increase, one heart at a time, the world’s capacity to love. 

Happy Birthday, little girl!

The Mind-Body Problem

One of the things that fascinates me most about the human body is its flawless ability to encase emotion. The mind-body problem is one which has bemused scientists and philosophers alike, and we constantly argue about whether the human is a consciousness trapped inside a body, or whether it is a unified whole. However, either way, it would be naïve to think that the mind and the emotions do not have an effect on the body.

I’ve recently been discovering what a magnanimous, cavernous place the body is, and how effectively it can be used to store years’ worth of emotion. It’s as if the chest, lungs, and muscles all have the ability to swallow feelings and thoughts and keep them hidden and untouched. It is, of course, at a cost. Shoulders which carry a weight of stress become tense and painful. Lungs which are told to encase sadness will struggle to draw breath. The whole body suffers when it is forced to contain a life’s worth of emotion.

I don’t like to boast, but I have been an absolute expert at emotion containment since a very young age. As a child I would hear something that frightened me and I would stew for weeks, worrying myself sick but always keeping my fear entirely to myself. I would never speak a word of my fears to anyone. The same is to be said for sadness, confusion, even middle school boy drama. I’ve always been one to ruminate on the “what-ifs” instead of discussing them with people who could help me to see that there is really nothing to be afraid of. I am detrimentally self-sufficient. I was saying “self” before I could even put my shoes on the right feet.

This silent suffering and independent child soon reaped the results of a life lived in self-sufficiency. Something shackling happened to me during a seemingly ordinary and inconsequential moment. It was a moment that most children probably experience, but something about me made the experience so much different. It was only a fleeting feeling of nausea in the middle of class, the sudden appearance of the morning’s breakfast on the desk, and the teacher arousing herself into brisk action to clean up the mess, but in my keen sensitivity to the feelings and responses of everyone in the room, I perceived something different: the other children were disgusted, the teacher was inconvenienced—far too concerned about the mess to see the frightened child—and the child knew who was to blame. Shame followed, and fear. As I later sat in the office waiting for my mom to pick me up, the stench of vomit that came from the sleeves of my white blouse was a filthy sign of my shame—it was indeed a stench, and with it I repulsed others. 

Perhaps things would have been different if, in those first couple of weeks after this small incident, I had spoken aloud my feelings of fear and shame. But I kept them locked away, and only gave them away through seemingly childish actions. In an early demonstration of the power of the mind-body connection, I worried until my stomach hurt, and I’d ask every day if I could go to the office because I felt sick. The response I got after a few days was “the day is almost over, can’t you just wait a few more minutes?” The adult in me longs to give my child-self a voice and yell at the adults around me, “Can’t you see I’ve been terrified ever since I was sick in class? Can’t you see that I need compassion, and for someone to explain to me that it’s normal for a child to throw up at school?” But instead, I was treated as an irrational, dramatic, irritating little girl.

The idea that throwing up in public was a shame and a disgrace and something to be utterly terrified of was reinforced and solidified in my mind over and over again in the coming years. Before school music programs, the teachers would lecture us on how important it was for us to leave the risers immediately if we started feeling sick. Kids would scream “Eeeeww!” and scatter every time one of their peers threw up. Adults would say “You are sick? Don’t get near me, I can’t afford to catch that.” And one time I overheard a girl in the bathroom vomiting and sobbing as if it were the worst possible thing in the world to experience. And for me, it was.

I was quick to pick up on which situations were the most dangerous. Everyone always got sick on field trips. I dreaded field trips. Sometimes people got sick when they ran too hard. I never ran too hard. Roller coasters, spinning rides, cars, and buses gave people motion sickness. I avoided the ones that I could and endured with terror the ones I couldn’t. Each time I found myself in a dangerous situation, I would gulp down my fear and hide it in my chest. I did this for fifteen years. I never once spoke about my fears to anyone because I could see it was a silly fear. While other people feared heights, airplane rides, or dying, I was fine with dying by falling from an airplane at a great height provided I didn’t throw up on the way down.  

This reign of silence began to change when I stumbled upon a website dedicated entirely to emetophobics. Somehow the validation of being able to attach a real name to what I struggled with and the realization that there were actually thousands of people in the world with a similar fear made all the difference in the world to me, and it wasn’t long before I was able to come to terms with my fear enough to speak it out loud, and not long after that before I was able to finally begin to live outside of my fear.

Although this was a huge victory for me and I still thank God every day for how far he has brought me, I have since realized that my emetophobia was only the tip of the iceberg—a mere symptom of a much deeper fear. Within my heart, which should be a thriving and flowering garden, there is an intricate web of fear—a seemingly endless network of dizzying passages in which I have stuffed all of my hurts and anxieties from the time that I was a child. Sorting through them is like trying to feel my way through miles of disorienting tunnels with nothing but a candle and a will to survive.

The good news is that the human body, though amazing in its capacity to imprison emotion, does indeed have a maximum capacity. If it didn’t, we would likely never grow from our difficult experiences. But eventually the body, the mind, and the carefully hardened heart, will rebel against its impossible task-master and cease to be strong, courageous, and untouchable. This is where healing begins.