From the Blog
The midwife’s wisdom She said it loud and clear
The first time I experienced acute anxiety I was twenty years old and sitting on the couch watching television. The storm of anxiety snuck up on me, and I was suddenly in its eyeball, my body lifted up from the cushions and whirled frantically around like a rag doll in a cyclone. There were people just next door in the kitchen, but I was all alone. I was helpless (or so I was convinced) before a force of such intense physical power I felt like the only way to escape would be to run with all my might.
Step into any writing class and you are likely to hear these two key principles: firstly, write what you know, and secondly, write what you want to read. I’ve been thinking about a third one recently: write what you need to hear.
Sometimes you just have those crying days. Those days when the tide fills and swells, and the tears come. Often, you feel them building at the least expected and the least convenient of times. They come when you are alone, and they come when you are in public. You feel raw, and it takes very little to chafe against the surface of your skin, and you are exposed.
Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes will know this about me. I am not a builder. Of anything. Not even a gingerbread house is safe in my hands. In fact, when it comes to making stuff I’ve no more skill than my six-month old baby, J, no matter how cute and builderly-like he may look in his overalls.
Confession: I might not look like it, but inside I’m a thief. Countless moments a day I catch myself trying to steal something. Snatch it. Hold it close. To own that which isn’t my own…
Sometime through the monotony of my mid-morning, an email came into my inbox. It was from Dr M. The message title simply read, ‘Lord help me to live beautifully in this season.’ The content of the message is written below. I hope it helps others as it did me.
Because let’s be honest, when I’m tired and overwhelmed, I don’t always go where I should. Instead, I find myself. At the avoidance place. The distraction place. The scroll-until-it-feels-better-but-it-never-does-for-long place.
Below is a photograph of E’s latest etch-a-sketch representation of herself and Baby J. She’s been drawing a lot of these sorts of pictures recently, as her fingers and thoughts come to terms with the yet-again-new shape of our family.
‘It is finished.’ (John 19:30) Breathe in these words. Draw them down into your lungs and out again. Breathe in deep. Because this is a deep reality. Not skin-deep, but marrow and bone deep. Soul – deep. As deep as deep can go. This is an exhilarating reality, more freeing and powerful than the wind. A gale-forced liberation. Our sins blown away. Our wounds healed. By his wounds. As our little E likes to say when something is over or missing, it has been ‘disappeared.’ Our sins have been disappeared.
The midwife’s wisdom She said it loud and clear as she paced the shiny white hospital floor, her solid black shoes tapping an inarguable beat:
The first time I experienced acute anxiety I was twenty years old and sitting on the couch watching television. The storm of anxiety snuck up on me, and I was suddenly in its eyeball, my body lifted up from the cushions and whirled frantically around like a rag doll in a cyclone. There were people just next door in the kitchen, but I was all alone. I was helpless (or so I was convinced) before a force of such intense physical power I felt like the only way to escape would be to run with all my might.
Step into any writing class and you are likely to hear these two key principles: firstly, write what you know, and secondly, write what you want to read. I’ve been thinking about a third one recently: write what you need to hear.
Sometimes you just have those crying days. Those days when the tide fills and swells, and the tears come. Often, you feel them building at the least expected and the least convenient of times. They come when you are alone, and they come when you are in public. You feel raw, and it takes very little to chafe against the surface of your skin, and you are exposed.
Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes will know this about me. I am not a builder. Of anything. Not even a gingerbread house is safe in my hands. In fact, when it comes to making stuff I’ve no more skill than my six-month old baby, J, no matter how cute and builderly-like he may look in his overalls.
Confession: I might not look like it, but inside I’m a thief. Countless moments a day I catch myself trying to steal something. Snatch it. Hold it close. To own that which isn’t my own…
Sometime through the monotony of my mid-morning, an email came into my inbox. It was from Dr M. The message title simply read, ‘Lord help me to live beautifully in this season.’ The content of the message is written below. I hope it helps others as it did me.
Because let’s be honest, when I’m tired and overwhelmed, I don’t always go where I should. Instead, I find myself. At the avoidance place. The distraction place. The scroll-until-it-feels-better-but-it-never-does-for-long place.
Below is a photograph of E’s latest etch-a-sketch representation of herself and Baby J. She’s been drawing a lot of these sorts of pictures recently, as her fingers and thoughts come to terms with the yet-again-new shape of our family.
‘It is finished.’ (John 19:30) Breathe in these words. Draw them down into your lungs and out again. Breathe in deep. Because this is a deep reality. Not skin-deep, but marrow and bone deep. Soul – deep. As deep as deep can go. This is an exhilarating reality, more freeing and powerful than the wind. A gale-forced liberation. Our sins blown away. Our wounds healed. By his wounds. As our little E likes to say when something is over or missing, it has been ‘disappeared.’ Our sins have been disappeared.
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