I thought I’d be better by now.
It’s odd—in healing, it seems like I’ve been in this period of exposure. Like God is simply making me aware of what needs healing in me. And it’s so deeply rooted. It’s painful. I thought it would be a snap of the fingers, and He’d make me better. I guess that’s not how it works.
Healing, for me, looked like quitting my 9 to 5. I didn’t know that my “discipline” to show up and push through was actually a mask—me suppressing my emotions and the aches truly going on within me. I wasn’t even considering my gifts, my talents, the things I enjoy. I was considering one thing: What am I supposed to do?
Get a big girl job. With insurance. A 401(k). Stability.
I’m here to push against that mindset—the one that traps you in fear. God is bigger than the worldly systems we’ve set up. I’m not knocking those things—I still set aside a portion into a Roth IRA. But I’m talking about our enemy here: the mindset of fear, lack, and scarcity. Those things are not life-giving.
I’m sitting in the sun today. There’s so much pain in my heart and body that needs healing.
After quitting, I stayed in counseling. Found a job as a nanny for a family whose mom passed away from cancer. I got the honor of meeting her before she passed. Within a couple weeks, I was sitting in the back pew at her funeral, weeping—tears of heartache and sorrow for a woman I barely knew, and a family I’d just met.
It’s hard on days when it’s beautiful outside. My body and soul are reminded of how much hurt and pain are still inside me. It’s like my insides don’t match the outside sunshine and warmth. That’s why I lay in it. Maybe there’s some sort of divine healing the Father wants to lavish on me. Just maybe.
Love looks like stepping into grief. Walking alongside those who are weary and heavy burdened. Love looks like a room full of the weary singing “Yeshua.” Love is gentle and still. Patient with this burdened and rebellious heart of mine.
Antidepressants. If you asked most people, they’d probably say they’re on them. I thought I’d take them for maybe a month, and then I’d be all better. Call me naïve. Or hopeful. Not sure which is which these days. That’s beside the point.
I told my counselor I thought I’d be off them by now. As always, she shed light on my darkness—offered a new perspective.
They’re helping me stay in a place emotionally where I can actually do the work toward healing and wholeness.
Who knew wholeness would look like a combination of: antidepressants, counseling, prayer, me meditating in silence on the love of God, Christ-centered community, showing up when you don’t feel like it, serving the church, a few close friends you can be honest with,
and sleep.
Lots of sleep.
The kind that feels like God is knocking me out so He can step in and do some real work—as I lay helpless in His presence.
It looks different for everyone. This is just how it’s playing out for me.
Remember the fruit of the Spirit? Against such things there is no law.
So it doesn’t have to look a certain way.
I speak this to that mindset of mine—and maybe yours too—that forms as you read a “self-help” book: “Oh, if I just do X, Y, and Z…” No. Stop that.
The sun makes me stop. Makes me still. Makes me slow. My body absorbs it best when I’m completely motionless. Whole.
I wonder what wholeness will look like in heaven. I get angry with God all the time about how things turned out. The fall. The hurt. Why? Why all the pain?
And don’t get me started on the enemy. Rotten. Evil. Conniving. He’s such a jerk.
Honestly? He’s a douchebag for deceiving us. Whatever. Let’s not forget who has the victory.
I won’t spend my time trapped in pity over what is. Because then I’d be right where that conniving devil wants me. So I rebuke that.
With that said, I know I’m on my way to wholeness. And this too I know: It won’t be complete until the day of Christ Jesus, my Lord.
Until then, I will wait.
And I realize now—another reason my Lord whispered the word slow over me.
The journey is a process. A lifetime. Not one singular moment or season. It’s lived out.
Wholeness has to be walked out.
Slow and steady wins the race, my friends.
You know when Paul talks about running the race?
Well—isn’t it just like God, using a holy contradiction.
You run to win, it says. But our idea of running feels fast. God’s pace… Well, it’s just that—God’s pace. Not confined by our worldly perceptions.
So just put one foot in front of the other, my friend. Slow is still forward. And forward is still grace.
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