We live in a society that documents everything online, from our opinions on current events to the first steps our children take. We can see what celebrities and friends we follow think, and it’s easier than ever to know what the POTUS believes. It has brought to light injustices that many have failed to see before, and it has stirred people to action and change.

However, social media is a double-edged sword. It can seem that if I fail to document my actions, few will believe I ever did them. Posting “receipts” of charitable acts can resolve this, or they can lead to people thinking I’ve only done something to make myself look better. Past mistakes, even ones I’ve apologized for and sought to rectify, may be held against me and can lead to being “canceled” as some celebrities (and even regular people) have.

Yet none of this compares to the vices that social media has allowed us to indulge in, laziness and ambiguity.

Let me give an example. When people use #defundthepolice, I’ve noticed a variety of reactions. One is the user believes funds going toward police departments need to be reevaluated and redistributed to other budgets or other aspects of police work. The other states that the person who used that hashtag believes ACAB (All Cops Are B*stards) and wants to get rid of law enforcement altogether. Chances are, it could be one or the other, or even something else, but determining which one requires actual research and an understanding of the term’s context. Our scrolls through Facebook over our lunch breaks don’t afford us the time to look into the meaning behind hashtags, and this can lead to a snap judgment based on our own beliefs to move on. Or, if we’ve muted everyone who doesn’t agree with our opinion, we never see hashtags like this used by anyone we know, and we become “outraged” when we see them.

I’m someone who loves learning, and I try to research both sides of an issue before I take a stance on it (though I would be the first to admit that I have failed many times in this regard). Generally, when I post things on social media, I try to explain why and whether or not I agree with it (albeit sometimes imperfectly). Recently, I’ve made posts that have referenced racism and stances that are similar to the Black Lives Matter organization. While I do not support the organization BLM (after doing extensive research on it), I have no issue with #blacklivesmatter. Researching the hashtag (and I did a lot of research back in 2016-2017 that I’m willing to share) led me to the conclusion that it primarily refers to highlighting the lives of black people as valuable in a society that in many ways does not value them. In other words, black lives matter too.

However, I made the mistake of believing others would do the work of researching as well or at least asking me directly to clarify my perspective. As I noted before, I do not support the organization BLM, but many who see #blacklivesmatter see it as support for the organization. So when I added #blacklivesmatter to my profile picture, I did so with my convictions surrounding it in mind. This action led to a few well-meaning folks from back home (rural Wisconsin) asking my parents about me because they were “concerned” I was becoming a “radical Marxist.”

I don’t blame my parents for asking me after hearing this. They don’t have social media. If someone told me they thought my child was holding views that were “insert radical or Neo-whatever terminology here,” I would ask for clarification too. However, my frustration is that this leaves me with the assumption that these “concerned” individuals did not feel comfortable talking to me about what was bothering them. Their discomfort makes me second guess whether or not I’m clearly explaining things. It makes me wonder what I’m doing that made these family friends from my childhood believe I wouldn’t listen to their questions. It makes me wonder who else feels that way.

It’s not that I’m afraid of disagreement (I have plenty of friends and family who disagree with me on a variety of issues), it’s that I will automatically be labeled something I’m not with no chance to explain. There’s a mutual responsibility to post with clarity and to react with openness to see where someone is coming from before deciding it. I’ve tried to do so in my interactions on social media, but it’s exhausting when it appears that few are affording me the same courtesy. I’ve especially realized this recently.

To conclude, I will be deactivating most of my social media accounts for the time being, and depending on how things go, I may never reactivate them. Learning and discussion can take place outside of social media, so it is time for me to log off for now.

I tend to be blunt when I pray.

While in many ways I’m poetic and profound in my word usage, I have found that all of that tends to disappear when I’m praying. It’s one of the few times I’m really vulnerable, and when I ask for something I usually get it in a way I wasn’t anticipating.

Since December I have been wanting to move closer to family. I’ve lived far from home for nearly seven years in a community made up of tightly knit families. Since I’m still trying to go on the mission field I figured now would be a good time to be closer to my family so moving to the other side of the world wouldn’t be as difficult. And things seemed to be falling into place to make that happen. My grandparents need more help around the house, so my family and I have talked about having me moving in with them to help out. They live roughly halfway between the city I currently live in and my parents, so I could easily visit my friends or family on a single day trip. They also live close to a divinity school, so I requested info from them and thought about applying. Everything seemed to be working out.

I have been so unhappy and frustrated with my life in my current city. Not because I dislike my friend group or my church (I love both of them dearly) but because I don’t think I would get anywhere if I stayed. I remember being frustrated to tears and crying out in my parked car that I would rather be anywhere else. That if God wanted me to stay where I was he was going to have to slam the door in my face.

Then the pandemic happened.

I’m not claiming that my prayer for a slammed door brought about a horrible virus that is shaking the world right now. However, I am saying God uses a variety of circumstances to remind us that he is in control and guiding us in the way he sees fit for us. Romans 9:20-21 has been especially convicting for me. But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, “Why have you made me like this?” Has the potter no right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for dishonorable use? 

I may not know or understand why God decided to keep me where I am currently, but I do know that it is meant to bring him glory regardless of how I feel about it. And while I have been humbled all I can do now is echo the words of my savior in praying, “yet not my will, but yours be done.”

Vulnerability is actually quite difficult for me.

I talk a good game about being vulnerable. I’ve told people that I’m willing to call people out, and in some cases that’s true. I’ve told people that I’m honest, and there’s the partial truth. Because while I’m willing to listen to others and be a confidant in their struggles, I’m hesitant to go into detail about my own or to go beyond just mentioning a half-truth or blurting out a fact without further explanation, hoping they forget I’ve admitted something significant.

It’s so much easier to say “I’m fine” than to admit what’s going on in my head. It’s easier to throw on a fake smile than to shed tears. It’s easier to act cheerful than to beg for comfort in a hug when I’m overwhelmed and for someone to say “it’s okay; you’re okay.”

I work hard to maintain the mask I’ve made for myself, and every time it cracks I berate myself just a little bit more for it. I tighten the reigns on the standards I hold no one to but myself and try again to meet them. 

Vulnerability is a strength for others. When someone admits they’re struggling, I think they are incredibly strong. They are confident, spiritually mature, and truly amazing.

Vulnerability for me, however, is a weakness. I’ve shared certain things about myself with others, but I end up second-guessing myself. Admitting my struggles makes me think that I am weak, that I look foolish, and it makes me feel pathetic. It makes me hate myself just a little bit more.

But I’m tired of living that way.

I wish I could conclude this with some amazing insight or pithy sentiment, but I can’t. Not right now, at least. All I can say is that I’m trying to change that mentality, and perhaps confessing that is the first step.

Here’s to vulnerability.

Lord, let me be thankful.

For the family that I was born with, and the family I have chosen. For the brothers and sisters in blood and in spirit. For new souls in this life and the ones who have left it.

Lord, let me be mindful.

Of the ones who are mourning and the ones who are joyful. Of those who bear burdens and fill voids with sorrow. Of those who fear they have run out of tomorrows.

Lord, let me lament.

For the time I have wasted and the failures I claim. For the guilt that I carry when happiness brings shame. For all of the times where I gave you the blame.

Lord, let me bring praises.

For granting me mercies beyond what I know. For granting new life to my withering bones. For grace all-sufficient no matter the unknowns.

Lord, let me be reminded.

Of loved ones that you’ve given me over time. Of love beyond what I could hope to describe. That no matter the hardship in you I abide.

Lord, let me abide.

My soul, why are you weary?
Why do you fear you’ve stayed too long?
You see long life with mourning;
Why not each new day with song?

Tis a gift given to few;
Days that you can hardly number.
You long for time reversed
As your reason rests in slumber.

The fear resting in your bones
Has calcified your heart.
He has told you not to worry;
Let all doubt in him depart.

Rest within his promises.
Lower walls and be at ease.
Let him mend your heart anew
As you journey through the trees.

I’m always writing.

If I get an idea, I have to get it down. Sometimes it’s snippets of dialogue that I would consider using in a story that will never see the light of day. Other times it’s words I want to put to music. Most of the time, however, it’s lines of poetry that I failed to string together.

These end up in obscure places. I have a lot of notebooks, but I never seem to have them when I actually need them. Instead my thoughts end up spilling on the backs of receipts, post its, envelopes, and in the notes app on my phone.

I’ve been trying to free up storage on my phone, and I rediscovered some of these lost thoughts. I hope to eventually patch them into future projects, but for now they will rest here. So without further explanation, please enjoy this scrap pile of random musings.

• And so I wait here for an answer as my heart crumbles like plaster. So dry due to lack of moisture the source could write an overture, but this is a lament and it requires me to repent.
• Without a hook I sank down further than anyone could drown.
• Sometimes you have to accept that people are too busy to have you in their life. They see only the necessity and try to be concise.
• Let me stay, scars will fade, as we see another day.
• Got holes in my jeans and holes in my heart and just cause it rhymes doesn’t mean that it’s art.
• Relationships run like sand through my hands.
• I wanna be something I’m not and can never achieve, but I can pretend if you just bear with me.
• Over analytic gears grinding in my head, non stop the way they’re turning it’s a wonder I’m not dead.
• A valley deeper than an ocean, I may be chipped but I’m not broken.
• I’ll always remember this tender November.

Oh, passive aggressiveness, you drive me insane.

My apathy you heighten. My patience you wain.

Why must you be like this? Oh do please explain,

Why a complex answer gives you much to gain?

 

For you to be straightforward, what price must I pay?

It’s clear you won’t tell me; I must guess away.

So here we both sit at the end of the day.

To stubborn to admit what our hearts want to say.

 

I’m a seminary dropout.

Perhaps that statement is surprising. Perhaps you don’t know me well enough to know that I was in seminary in the first place. Perhaps you know me well and are surprised. Regardless, it is another aspect of my journey, and the reason for it is something I have been silent about.

I enrolled in seminary for a masters in counseling so I could go on the mission field and provide trauma therapy for refugees. As someone who has struggled with depression and gone to therapy, I knew how beneficial counseling was. Friends with similar struggles who came from different cultural backgrounds made me realize how detrimental the lack of care for refugees was, and it inspired me to continue my education.

However, seminary proved to be my undoing.

I’ve been open about my struggles with depression in the past, but before now I’ve never really gone into just how difficult it was to deal with while in seminary. In college, I had a support system. I lived with people who led similar lives, and there was a counselor on campus I could reach out to. I wasn’t alone.

In seminary, I was isolated. I was lonely. I was afraid to admit that I was going numb to feeling anything. I told myself that people I had once confided in were too busy to be burdened with my problems. I told myself to internalize my pain because so many others had burdens heavier than mine. I began to feel lonely in my church as I noticed just how much I didn’t fit in. I noticed how most days were filled with a weight in my heart that I was tired of bearing. I believed I was a failure even though I was working harder than I had in college. And I believed I was further from God than ever. I was becoming apathetic, neglecting Bible reading outside of what was required for my theology classes, and constantly falling asleep before prayers were even started. Surely if I couldn’t get through seminary I couldn’t do ministry. Surely God wouldn’t want to use me. Surely God didn’t want me.

Yet God never abandoned me. He proved me wrong, though not in the way I expected.

In the end, it came down to either giving up what I thought was my calling and identity or giving up the reason for pursuing seminary in the first place.

I gave up seminary, and I am still struggling. I am still struggling, but I am being held. I am healing, and through the grace of God, I am being made new.