Failure is the careful treading around a good friend after a disagreement. It is the wondering—and not knowing—how I could have handled that situation differently. Could I even do it differently if I had the chance? Some things in us, I’ve discovered—some words said, some actions taken—rise from our deepest hearts, our primal natures, and are almost beyond our control. 

Failure is hearing from my agent that my book child, baby of my heart, will not be published by a certain publisher and seeing that child’s life rainbow out across months, its future uncertain. We love our children when they’re small, but still…we want them to grow. 

Failure is the resigned, grinding feeling in my spirit that tells me I have not attained something I want to attain, that the vague shadow of perfection I held in my mind has not been reached, and I’ve only mucked things up in my jumping and squirming for it. 

I carry with me a small sense of accomplishment, a high sense of shame. Does anyone else experience this? Some authors talk about how elated they feel when they see their published book for the first time—honestly, what I felt when I saw my first published book was acute embarrassment. Who knows what I had written in there and who now would have the power of reading it? I certainly didn’t want to crack open the book to remind myself.  

My huge acceptance of failure—the careful, hovering attention I give it—and my hurried glossing over of accomplishment—this is what I expect!—can make myself a hard person to live with. 

My dad reminded me recently of the time I was six years old in the first grade and bringing homework home every night. My teacher couldn’t figure out why I could never get my schoolwork done until she noticed how much time I spent erasing and rewriting. She had told us strictly that we must write neatly or she would erase our work and make us do it over and, conscientious child that I was, I took her words VERY seriously. She told my parents—out of the hearing of the other children—to tell me to write my words only once. I took this injunction as literally and ponderously as I had taken the other. Not to be allowed to erase? What if I made a terrible mistake, wrote the wrong letter even? But I did not erase and had no trouble getting my work done after that. 

In so many ways, I am still like that little girl so anxious to please and with no clear idea of who she would be without her constant quest to win others’ approval. Ironically, she is one she must please—not the teacher—and she is more merciless than any of the others’ whose approbation she craves. 

I wrote a couple of reminders and hung them on my window. If at first you don’t succeed, do what you want. And, You are already failing. Enjoy the process.

Maybe the reminders will help. Maybe having a husband I love so much I am willing to unclasp my curl on perfection just a little to take his advice—maybe that will help, too. 

And okay, so this post actually has nothing to do with COVID-19, other than that I am living in the wake of it, and it’s the only fashionable thing to talk about nowadays. That and toilet paper. Has anyone noticed the prices on Amazon lately?

***

Photo by Jasmin Sessler on Unsplash

***

My great grandma’s rocker had a cover on it once—blue blocks in several shades, circled by a dark blue ruffle—but I thought it ugly, so I threw it way. The wood of the rocker is worn. On the outer edge of its seat and spindles, and on the lower parts of the armrest, where skin seldom touched, the varnish is almost black, the finish grown rough and bumpy. The seat and top of the armrests, though, where Grandma Sylvia rested the weight of her body, are slippery-smooth and honey golden.

“She probably sat on this rocker to pray,” my dad tells me. The rocker now sits in my living room, in the home my young husband and I have just begun to create, a constant reminder of the unusual power my grandmother carried. 

Early this year, I considered prayer.  One of my resolutions, I wrote—though it will not all happen in a year—is to become a woman of prayer. I was thinking of my grandma when I wrote it, remembering the stories my dad told me only recently of this woman I never knew. 

She grew up in the Old Order Amish, but left with her young lover—the man known as “Coon Jonny” because he loved a good hunt—before they ever married. They may have always attended church—I do not know—but it was the death of their year and a half year old daughter that turned Grandma’s heart to the Lord. 

In later years, Great Grandpa also turned to the Lord, but through the growing-up years of their children, he was never a spiritual leader in their home. He stopped going to church when someone jokingly remarked at a fellowship meal: “John, do you really think you need that?” —and Great Grandpa always was plump. Besides, he said, “Es nempt mi oftum.” (It makes my breath tight.) My dad never heard him pray. 

Great Grandpa smoked, chewed, and drank. He kept his tobacco above the coal stove and his beer in the extra refrigerator out in the garage. Once, when my dad was ten or so, he and a cousin dumped the beer and scattered the tobacco in the lane. Full of proud accomplishment, they went to Grandma Sylvia to tell her how they had gotten rid of Grandpa’s “bad stuff.” 

“Well, was it yours to take?” she asked. Dad never forgot that.

Grandma Sylvia’s method was not to coerce, but to pray. Her greatest desire was to see her children follow the Lord, and when my grandpa was a boy, she read the Bible and prayed with him. When he ran wild with the Limpytown gang in his teenage years, she stayed up long nights, praying for him while he was out. He, as well as many of his friends, attribute their conversion to her prayers. One of those converted young men spent 25 years in the Australian outback under Wycliffe Bible Translators. Another became a bishop in a New Order Amish church. Another gave years of his life to the Philippines and Nepal.

My grandpa became a minister and then a bishop in a Mennonite church and also became known for his prayers. He kept a prayer list pages long and prayed every day for each of his grandchildren and great grandchildren by name. When he was old and unable to get around, he sat in his armchair and prayed, considering it a work he could still do for God. If there’s a legacy she left, he wrote many years after Grandma Sylvia was gone, it’s intercessory prayer and that faith changes lives.

I want to pray like that. 

Sometime late last year, I created a prayer list on my phone. Using an idea I read in a devotional book called Mothers’ Studies, from Northern Youth Ministries, I listed the numbers 1 to 31 for each day of the month, and beside each number, listed several requests. On the first day of the month, I pray for List 1, on the second day List 2, and so on until the month is done and it’s time to start over. At the top of my prayer list, I keep a category called “Special Requests,” for needs that are more pressing or urgent. I like this method. It doesn’t overwhelm me, but at the same time, keeps me from forgetting. So many times, without a list, I promise prayer and then forget. 

I find, though, that while a list helps to keep me faithful, it is easy for my prayers to become mechanical. In the busyness of days—if I remember to check the list at all—I often brush across the names hurriedly, anxious to rush back to things I need to do. Prayers, on days like these, seem an unnecessary bother, something I do for form’s sake with no purpose in mind other than to be done. 

How does one find a remedy for a mind that runs from God? How can I compel myself to flee the side of Martha and sit with Mary at the feet of Jesus? 

Purposing to become a woman of prayer and stumbling against my own inadequacy, I asked God to show me how. On a recent morning, my husband and I listened to Galatians together, and a phrase caught my attention: “Walk in the Spirit.” It seemed to be God’s answer.

Prayer, I remembered that morning, is a partnership. “We know not what we should pray for as we ought,” the apostle Paul wrote to the Romans, “but the Spirit itself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.” In the partnership model, I do not merely bring my requests to God, but God and I pray together. When I approach prayertime in that way, it changes the way I pray. 

Jesus talked about this model as well. “Abide in me,” he said. The words, uttered so near his death, hang crimson and luscious as grapes from a vine. “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, you shall ask what you will, and it shall be done unto you.” 

Our needs and our hurts, as my Grandma Sylvia found, are often the impetus that bring us to God. As we mature in prayer, we stretch from our own needs to care about the needs of others. And as the Spirit is born within us, we come to that place of grace and acceptance my Grandma Sylvia found—a place where our prayers and our Father’s are one. My grandma’s prayer chair, I call that place. Some call it holy ground.

***

This article was first published at The Mennonite.

***

Lavina Martin is my sister from another mister. She’s funny and smart; she likes to read and write; and if you’re lucky enough to have her for a friend, she’s the most loyal friend you ever will know. She shared this poem on her Facebook status and gave me permission to share it with you.

He wouldn’t say so—tractors, not words, are his forte—but he thinks in pictures and uses concrete examples to explain himself. I know of no better description of a poet. 

I cried one day—one day in a progression of many—and he cupped his hands under my teardrops, whispered the most beautiful words anyone had ever said to me. “Here,” he said, “let me hold your tears.” After that, when I was crying or sad and he cupped his hands beneath my eyes, no words were needed. I knew my tears were kept, treasured, and safe. 

God also holds our tears. “You have taken account of my wanderings,” David cries in Psalm 56:8 (AMP). He wrote the words during a time when he had fled for his life from King Saul, only to be captured by the King of Gath. Fearful for his life, he feigned insanity—scratching at the gate and letting saliva run down his beard—so the king would perceive him as harmless and let him go. “Put my tears in your bottle,” David pleads with God in the next breath. “Are they not recorded in your book?” 

I have no doubt that the God who sees every sparrow fall and knows the exact number of hairs on each of 7.8 billion heads did exactly that.

Remember that next time you cry. 

Your tears are kept, treasured, safe. 

Remember it, too, when you try to comfort your friend or child or spouse. Maybe you can’t give them a solution…and that’s okay…the world spits out nearly 7.8 billion of those a day. Maybe all they need, really, is a person to hold their tears.

***

Photo by Aliyah Jamous on Unsplash

***

Modern medicine didn’t cure me.  Treatment followed a few years after I was diagnosed, but instead of turning me back into a healthy, energetic person, it left me (not to mention my family) traumatized and disappointed.  Since then I’ve lived each day cast in the starring role of Sick Mom.

Spontaneous races to and from the car were quick to hit the missing list after the Treatment-That-Didn’t-Fix-Me; sickness stole many things from me, the first being rambunctious fun.  I felt intense guilt, watching as illness changed the tone of moments spent with my little girl.

Self-sufficiency was next to disappear.  One day I was Supermom, doing anything and everything; a few months later groceries were too heavy and housecleaning was impossible.  The fish tank grew murky and after being dropped off at the mall entrance I needed someone to push me around in a courtesy wheelchair if I wanted to buy my daughter a new outfit.

Perhaps the most odious listing on my Stolen by Sickness list was my little girl’s peace of mind.  Although her toddler days were long gone, this precious child cried when I left the house or got off work a few minutes late.  She worried that mommy would die in the night.

It’s ugly, this sick mom stuff.

Pain depressed me, threatening to dim my smile forever.  God didn’t answer my prayers, although I sought Him desperately.  Friends interceded for me and church elders anointed me.  God’s silence – His refusal to fix me – stole my faith and led me down a dark path of doubt.  I wrestled with why a good, good Father allows bad things to happen.

Until, by some miracle of music, the words of a song made me weep, silencing my angst-ridden, why-driven tantrums and replacing all that mental noise with one simple question:  Will you still be His, even if you lose it all?

Now, when I lie awake at night with hours of pain behind and before me, I give my answer again and again:  “I’m still Yours, God.”

With this affirmation comes the certainty that sickness doesn’t just steal from me; it also soaks me in a downpour of unsought blessings.

Sickness motivates me to savor each moment.  I’ve learned how fragile life is and how precious this makes each hour of each day.

Sickness thrusts me into intimacy with God.  He is the only one who suffers with me through every moment of pain.  He is the only one who sees when anguish sweeps through my mind as I fear leaving my loved ones behind.  Knowing that He shares my life in a way no one else can comforts me.

Being unwell means some days I sit on the sofa and rest, allowing others to be the heroes and heroines in my family’s story.  I’ve learned a bit about surrendering control and allowing others to help.  I’ve realized that we aren’t meant to be self-sufficient; we are created for connection, not independence.

Sickness gives me the chance to be a role model (for better or for worse) as I handle adversity.  No one’s future holds uninterrupted joy – modeling the practice of gratitude on hard days and noticing and encouraging others who struggle instead of dwelling on my own issues teaches my daughter to cope constructively with life’s difficult times.

Although I want to protect my child and do everything for her, illness makes me ask her to help out in whatever ways she can.  As a result, sickness has given her something too:  she’s developed the maturity and sensitivity often seen in children who have family members with special needs.

Illness forces me to release my secret mission of fixing the world.  Instead, I embrace the more manageable goal of doing what I can when I can and I take pleasure in bringing small bits sunshine to those whose lives overlap with mine.

The role of sick mom isn’t something I would ever want for myself; it doesn’t stop being hard and I regret the pain it’s caused everyone I love.  I choose, though, to look past the darkness, into life’s sunny places.  I grip God with an intensity that parallels my suffering, anticipating perfect health when this life ends and, until then, savoring every moment.

***

HDR said I could share a photo. This one was taken 10 years ago, early in her journey of chronic illness.

HDR’s article first appeared on the MOPS blog, a place where mothers of preschoolers can connect.

Feature photo by Daan Stevens on Unsplash

Thank you, EAN, for the poem.

***

Just like a tapestry

Carefully woven

A marriage is born

Where love is being sown.

The delicate, careful,

Purposeful choices

Blend with a harmony

Like dozens of voices.

Tying the knot Is just the beginning,

Keeping it tied

Means losing

AND winning.

Losing; you say?

With a frown on your face

Yes, losing self will…

Is winning the race.

***

Photo by Jean Vella on Unsplash

Not demon.

Just flesh.

I thought I would come to know 

someone different: a hero perhaps.

In my mad moments,

someone inferior:

dumber,

meaner,

more annoyed.

Turns out he’s made of the same substance I am.

Wrong sometimes.

Right sometimes.

Always best when he’s not aware of it.

In the dark he breathes, sleeping,

hip pressed against mine.

I think of every person I have known:

the Pinterest ones, 

the Pollyanna ones, 

those who said mean things behind my back, 

her. She was like me all along.

Not angel.

Not demon.

Just flesh. 

***

Photo by amoon ra on Unsplash.

Today is the one year anniversary of the day Ivan first sent me an email asking me to consider a dating relationship. I read that letter again today. It still moves me, touches my heartstrings, as it did the first time. But my perception of the words have changed, because I understand the man behind them so much better now and can picture him thinking and expressing exactly that. The words have a context now.

Marriage also has gained context for me. It is no longer just a word on a page. Here are a few of the things I’ve learned—not lessons exactly, but my experience of it. 

1. I’ve learned I have to take myself into marriage. Not so much because of some noble idea of self giving, but because it’s impossible not to. I honestly thought I could do this whole marriage thing like I’ve done almost every other relationship: act with sweetness, kindness, and forbearance for the sake of the other person and then go to my room and be myself. In almost every relationship, what I think in private might be very different than what I say when I am with that person. NOT that I lie or am dishonest…I try very hard to be genuine…but I show different parts of myself to different people, and I seldom say everything I think. As a people pleaser, I have a deeply ingrained habit of deferring to others.

Marriage hasn’t allowed me to do that. For one thing, it annoys Ivan when he asks my opinion and I say, “What do you think?” For another thing, it is impossible to constantly defer to someone else when you are married to them and don’t even have your own bedroom, for crying out loud. If you did, you’d become a non-person, which would be pretty miserable and make you really mad and resentful in a hot minute. I’ve had to learn to share more of what I am thinking and more of my likes and dislikes. 

2. I’ve learned that some types of things in a marriage are really, really hard to say. Like when you feel bad about something he said or the way he said it, and you know if you don’t say something, a tiny wall will spring up between you. Or like when you spill ink on the new carpet. Or when you lose the bluetooth he bought you…and he never loses things. Or when you know you should compliment him for a strength he has…but know that doing so will show up your own weakness in that very area. Those types of things. 

3. I’ve learned that communication is always worth it. 

4. I’ve learned that sex is more complicated than one would think. Also more wonderful. There’s a word Ivan uses to describe it. Fragile. I know of no word more accurate. We have to learn so much about each other and about ourselves—our bodies, our minds, our emotions—in order to make it work right. I never realized, before I got married, how much power the right kind of sexual intimacy has to deepen a relationship.

5. I’ve learned that housework is really fun. And I like cooking. I never thought I did before. The difference is that the space is mine and the husband is mine, and I am not just completing work, but creating a life. For both of us. 

6. I’ve learned that I love having my own checking account. We started it just yesterday. Like all our accounts, it is a joint one, but on this one I’m primary. Ivan laughed at me for being so excited to start it. He doesn’t think he would care at all in my shoes, and that he’d be just as happy keeping track of writing income on a paper as in a separate account. 

I’m not convinced. He’s been making his own living for at least twenty years and is more accustomed to independence than I am. I can’t imagine he would easily lay down every trapping of self sufficiency. YES, we are making all our decisions together, but there’s no denying that psychologically speaking—in my mind if not in his—the person making the money has more right to decide where it will go. I fear that sense of dependency. I fear never feeling like I have an equal right in decisions about money, because I’m not making much. A checking account helps to stifle that fear, gives me a feeling of freedom and self worth. 

I think my sense of trust and mutuality will grow the longer we are married. But I also think there is nothing wrong, and very possibly something good, about each person in the partnership taking charge of a certain area of spending. My mom and dad were farmers and made their income together. A certain percentage went to Mom for household expenses, a larger percentage to Dad for farm expenses…and they each had their own checking account. 

I’m not trying to say anything high-falutin’ about how a couple should order their financial affairs…this is just one of the areas of marriage I’m working through in my mind, and I’m sharing that process with you. 

7. I’ve learned the attraction that will make a marriage strong goes a lot deeper than skin. I’ve had some pretty intense crushes in my lifetime, but none of those developed into a long-lasting relationship. When Ivan asked me to date him, I wasn’t attracted by his looks or personality, I was attracted by his honesty, his godly character, and by the way he was one hundred percent supportive of the ventures in life I had already begun. As we got to know each other better, I grew in love and attraction, but I worried at times that because our relationship hadn’t started with physical attraction, our marriage—especially the intimacy part—would be less than. 

It hasn’t been. 

I guess a little of Hollywood—or maybe it’s romance novels—have worked their way into a lot of us. But honestly, when my husband holds me while I’m crying, when he helps clear up after supper or giggles like a little kid over some ridiculous remark—it’s those things that deepen my attraction for him. As our relationship deepens, my physical attraction also does. 

We were talking the other day about women in the Old Testament who had to share husbands between them, wondering how any emotional intimacy between a man and a woman, in those situations, would be possible. I talked about how demeaning it would feel to me as a woman to be just one of many, how in those settings the women had no voice and didn’t matter. “I guess men still treat women like that in Muslim countries,” I said. 

“It makes me want to strangle them,” said Ivan.

I loved him for that. 

Of all my attractions to him, this is one of the chief—he doesn’t strive to dominate. He values me: my personhood and my womanhood. Even his annoyance at me for not saying my opinions—this is a form of respect. He wants to know what I like. Instead of feeling I have to change my personality to make the marriage work, I feel I am becoming, with Ivan’s love and support, more deeply myself. 

A marriage that empowers, I have learned, has little to do with physical attraction and a whole lot to do with valuing the other person for who they are.

***

Feature photo by Kayla Weaver.

***

Proberbs 3:5-6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

This verse is probably my favorite verse from the Bible. My rock to hold on to. It tells me to trust, have faith, submit and surrender. Not easy things to do for a Dutch girl, brought up in an atheist family and struggling deeply with complex post-traumatic stress disorder, anorexia, attachment disorder and chronic depression. 

I know, wow, that is a mouth full. I almost de-humanize myself with describing me with all these labels. I am much more beyond that. I know I am smart, loving, adventurous, a dreamer, reader, learner, and that my biggest wish is to have my own family, abroad doing development work. Sounds so much better than all these stupid labels, right?

Though, exactly these labels is how I got to know Lucinda. One year ago I traveled to America, thanks to the generosity of the church Followers of the Way and other compassionate Christians. I travelled to America to follow a therapy program for my C-PTSD and to meet all the wonderful people in the church. That’s where I met Lucinda who was studying in Boston at that time. But my introduction to the church and Christianity in general was in 2016. Maybe it’s hard to imagine for some readers how life in the Netherlands is. It’s free, liberal. Homeschooling is not really allowed. There are no Mennonites or Amish people and all we know about them is from television. As far as we know they don’t drive cars, live in strict communities and stay far away from the “normal” outside world. In that kind of community, it seems there should be big issues with sexual abuse, and being gay or transgender would be considered the biggest sin in the world which people can lose their entire family over. A cult is the word most people use to describe that way of living.

Though I attended Christian primary school (age 4-12), we learned that freedom is the most important thing you can have: don’t surrender to anything or anyone. I was/am a free spirit, and I felt blessed being born in freedom. Stubborn as I am, I enjoyed my freedom to the fullest. In 2016, I travelled to Uganda to volunteer at a crisis pregnancy center for 8 weeks. That is were I met Wanda Sweazy. To be honest, I thought she was a nun, and I was intrigued learning more about her lifestyle and Christianity. To my surprise she wasn’t a nun, though she was wearing a head covering. She also wasn’t Amish or Mennonite, and she left me confused. Which other people (beside Muslims) were wearing head coverings? And wasn’t it a way to suppress woman? Something from a few centuries ago?

In those 8 weeks I learned to know her family, neighbors, and a small part of the community in Uganda. They were the absolute most loving and caring people I have ever met. All the assumptions I had about “strict” Christians vanished. I lost my heart to Uganda, but above all to the Sweazy’s. From that point I wanted nothing else than be part of their community, though I barely knew anything about Christianity or living in a community. Besides that, I was going to university back home in the Netherlands and I couldn’t just leave. Over the next two years, things changed. I have been in therapy since I was a 9-year-old girl, and after my amazing time in Uganda, I relapsed into my anorexia and couldn’t cope with my trauma issues anymore. Doctors told me, even after an admission from almost a year, that I was not treatable and I would die. They even recommended euthanasia. I wasn’t ready to give up, so I contacted the Sweazys to ask if I could move in with them, work for them, and try to fulfill my dream. I sold everything I had and 8 weeks later I was back in Uganda.

It was a whirlwind. I couldn’t believe how generous these people where, how loving the community was. Though I was sick, very sick mentally. It’s hard to describe how life is with anorexia and complex trauma. The constant fear, sadness and hopelessness. 

On the other side, I was learning and striving to become a Christian and felt happier than I’ve ever been. I belong in Uganda, I belong in the church. I even started to cover my head and did my best to dress modestly. My convictions of modest dressing was basically being covered. A tight-fitted jumpsuit was “modest” in my mind which we could laugh hard about looking back on it. 

However, I struggled with truly surrendering myself and, without my medication being available, I ended up in a psychosis ward, which made things even harder. I had to be flown back to the Netherlands because I wasn’t safe anymore in Uganda, but the Dutch doctors had already given up on me. Generously, which I will be forever grateful for, the church raised money for me to get treatment in America.

In January 2019, I flew to the USA. It was cold and life was completely different again. I felt thankful and wanted to express this by succeeding. Though it was intense. I had just come out of a psychosis, travelled over 3 continents, was jet-lagged, and this was followed by a very, very, very intense week filled with one-on-one therapy about stuff I had never talked about before. Three weeks in Boston followed where I met the most amazing, loving people. Again, I wanted to express my gratitude by succeeding, but I was absolutely drained. When we flew back to Uganda in February I started looking for a job because I needed money to sustain myself. My savings were almost empty and I felt so much pressure. I relapsed again and it feels like the biggest failure in my life.

I not only failed in “normal” living but also as a Christian “to be”. I was going to be baptized but I suddenly got scared. Was I willing to wear a head covering my whole life? Why was I doing it? Was it because I was convinced of the reason why I should? (and lean not on your own understanding; in all ways submit to him) Or did I do it to fit in and finally feel loved? I needed time. I wanted to be baptized but I couldn’t let go of my anorexia, my fake control. I couldn’t submit, so I couldn’t be part of this amazing community which I truly loved. 

Lucinda asked me to write my testimony, but how could I write about this failure? I had to go back to the Netherlands once again because I wasn’t safe in Uganda. I felt like I let down all the generous people who donated money for my treatment. I lost my new-found connection with God. I ended up in the biggest darkness I’ve experienced in my life. After multiple suicide attempts, coma, and complete dissociation, I ended up in a crisis facility. I’ve been here for 5 months which is mostly a blur. I lost myself completely and couldn’t find myself. I was scared of everything and lost trust in everyone. I was angry at God. 

Four months ago, they found a treatment center that is willing to help me. It’s a center for the most “complex” cases and, as you can imagine, that is not very uplifting or hopeful to hear. Besides that, I am back with my atheistic family who disapproved of my choice to join such an “extreme” Christian community, and I am back in a country where “cult-like” behavior is not accepted at all. Liberal freedom and don’t surrender is the norm. Having faith is something you keep for yourself. And so I tried to wear head covering, keep wearing my modest clothing etc, this time because I AM convinced I want to. I want to surrender, but I am scared. Scared to be not taken seriously, that people will laugh at me, abandon me, and most of all see it as part of my illness. 

I am clearly not a success story. I struggle on a daily basis to connect with God and find my place in this world. This treatment will take one, maybe two years. And after that there will be an outpatient program. I don’t have a house, family, or friends nearby or a church community which I share values with. But I am back: I read, learn, pray and grow everyday. Maybe I am not perfect and I am not even a Christian because I was never baptized. But I love God and Jesus with all my heart. They are my biggest support. My rock when times are hard. And I pray everyday that beside all the qualities that God gave me that make me human instead of a disorder, he will give me a husband when the time is right. A family. And I have faith I’ll be strong enough to share my story in the full version by that time with people who need me. Who need to hear growing faith is not always an easy choice. The logical thing to do. But it makes you stronger and never alone because besides God you gain a family world wide!

***

Inger DeVries refuses to be defined by her scars. She chronicles her battle against depression, anorexia, and ptsd on Instagram at today_with_ing.

What have you done to receive validation? This is a tough question for me.  I am ashamed of who I used to be, and what I used to do to receive validation.

I ran into an old friend recently who asked me what I’ve been up to for the past twenty years. Part of my answer, for some reason, was that I turned my life around.  I have no idea why I said it, but it prompted him to ask me what that meant.

He knew me when I was at my worst.

The conversation led to us discussing validation.  I admitted that, when I was in my early twenties, I used to crave validation.  I remember feeling like I wasn’t worth anything to anyone unless I was giving them what they wanted.  This mentality caused me to be taken for granted in many situations, but I know it was my own fault.  I kept doing the same things over and over in order to feel worthy of the attention.

Some of the things I’ve done still haunt me today.

I remember, vividly, being in certain situations thinking, “Why am I doing this? This is not me! I hate this! I hate that I keep doing this!”

I knew who I wasn’t, but I did not know who I was.  

I wanted to stop.

Stop being the girl with no identity.

I remember the first time I met someone who liked me for who I was. I wanted to know the person they saw. I wanted to meet her.

If you’ve ever seen the movie “Thirteen Going On Thirty,” being with this person was similar to thirteen-year-old Jennifer Garner waking up as her thirty-year-old self. When she saw herself in the mirror, she was forced to see who she had become.

I looked at this new “mirror” friend with confusion. I was showered with acceptance and affirmation for no reason.

I met more people like my mirror friend.

And then, I met their source of love.

It didn’t happen immediately. It took a long time – about twenty years actually – to truly feel the depth of it.

I started to value myself.

My identity emerged when I finally allowed the love to overtake me.

Nothing I did, or could do, would provide true validation.

Only His love.

***

Annette LaDell is a writer. She created her blog, Overcoming Obstacles, two years ago to share her healing journey with her readers. Her goal is to reveal God’s healing love to everyone her blog reaches. Annette is a divorced mother of 4 teenagers who love and challenge her daily! She recently started working on her Masters degree in School Counseling and hopes to reach at risk youth with God’s love.

Feature photo at the top by Duncan Sanchez on Unsplash.