Forgiveness is one of those weird acts that we all have to do every day but most of us don’t really know how to. And the lack of forgiveness tears down societies, relationships, and families. Unforgiveness is painful. It’s poison in the body of the hurt and ice in the life of the unforgiven. It spreads pain and fear and distrust.
M.L. Stedman said it like this, “I can forgive and forget… it is so much less exhausting. You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things.”
Just because you’ve been hurt doesn’t mean you have to live hurt. You can make the choice, daily, to forgive and free yourself, and others, from those chains.
Unfortunately, forgiveness can also be painful. Sometimes it hurts.
I’m not sure at what point in my life I gave myself some sort of unspoken challenge. To make myself great. To be successful. To live an exotic, adventurous life. To make my pain and failures into something good. Some sort of dust I can rise from.
I don’t know when I started being so hard on myself. When I found myself overwhelmed by the heavy responsibility on my shoulders.
I’m also not sure when I realized that I did that to myself. No one else gave me this false responsibility.
No one else expects perfection.
No one else judges every single aspect of success in my life.
You’re following my family’s story right? You’ve been reading our Facebook posts, liking them and sometimes commenting. Maybe you’ve shared one or two. You’ve prayed and reached out and I can’t say thank you enough.
If you haven’t been, that’s okay. Welcome to… well, I’d say hell but I’ve seen too much of heaven to be that blind. Welcome to one chapter of a bigger story. It’s a wild ride, step on and share it with us.
Here is the quick rundown: My dad is a traveling missionary. He was in Africa. Some d*mn mosquito bit him. (Eff that bug) My parents go to Siberia in the middle of no where. My dad is really sick and unresponsive. It’s 2 am. My mom is alone. Queue a week in a crappy Russian hospital where the paint is pealing off the walls and my mom isn’t allowed to see my dad and the doctors don’t speak English and they’re telling my mom to remember him as he was. Span over to Greenville, Texas in a full house on an acre of land where five people, mere kids in this moment, are desperately doing all they can to keep their dad alive from 10,000 miles away. Take in the whole picture and see thousands of people, believers, holding this family up. Fast forward to the success of my parents making it to Paris. The doctors doing all they can. The kids crying at his bedside while a machine breathes for their dad and their mom fights to stay strong. Continue reading →
As with any post that contains incredibly personal themes, I must preface the blog with this: I am okay and I do not want you to ask me if I’m okay or talk about my mental health to other people without my permission. Good? Good.
So here’s the story.
I woke up and the weather app told me that today was going to be the best day in a couple months. The temperature was a glorious number of 64 degrees and I had my favorite class later. It was going to be a perfect day.
I have to give my roommate, Zoe, so much credit for my thoughts. They’re my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings and emotions but more than 80% of the time, conversations with Zoe helps me understand them. I could have a huge, pressing problem that I wouldn’t know about until Zoe helps me sort through my feelings. I’m getting better at it, my emotional maturity is slowly getting higher and my vocabulary to explain my thoughts is growing, but I still rely on Zoe or my counselor to help me through the jumbled mess in my mind. It takes multiple conversation’s sitting on my counselors couch or on Zoe’s bed for me to be able to say out loud “Oh yeah, I’m really insecure about that.” And then Zoe just laughs and goes, “I’ve been telling you that for years.” Continue reading →