Sweetly Broken...
I saw a picture today, of a woman who was confident and strong...and
healthy and happy. I caught a glimpse of her, and she made me weep.
It wasn't a literal picture, it was just a sense of who I am, in the midst of a really difficult week. It wasn't one of those moments where I was flipping through old albums reminiscing for what was, or could be, or even envying someone else who has what seems so ever unattainable to me. It wasn't even earth shattering. It was just beautiful.
I marvel at times in my capacity for brokenness, I spent ten years trying to conquer anxiety and depression, and much of the following decade (re)building my crazy, challenging, amazing marriage. There was a lot of broken and a lot of building in there.
I realize as a result, how much of my identity rests in knowing that I have overcome some wickedly insurmountable odds, and accomplished some amazing things in the last decade. I say that not from a place of cockiness—but of risk—of thinking I've arrived, of becoming comfortable.
Yet, 'the beautiful' today rests in a renewed realization I have not arrived.
I am broken, and I love that. I have a list of promises I've made and broken to myself. I'm picking them up and looking at them tonight. They are about being more than I am, and less than I am. They are about living instead of waiting. They are about making choices each day that are Christ-honouring, and that reflect the gratitude I live in each day. They are choices I haven't made.
Today was a shining example of "not arrived". I got Crazy-Angry-Frustrated more than once, whined a lot, snapped more than I should have, and basically was miserable. A lot miserable.
If I were into making up words, which of course I am, I'd call today a Craygry Day. It would make it less crappy, and more funny. It is also a perfectly wonderful use of the internet.
But back to the not funny part: I feel like crap, my hormones are raging for no apparent reason—though more than one person is suggesting Peri-menopause might be setting in which is terrifying in a way I can't articulate yet—and I'm in physical and mental pain in a way that is less familiar than it used to be.
Anxiety has reared it's head in recent weeks, and the wicked part about anxiety is that in it's very presence you begin to fear anxiety itself. And yet, for the first time in—well ever—my gut instinct didn't say "Call insert name of awesome friend".
It said "Just breathe Tara".
It said: "It'll be fine Tara".
When. The. Heck. Did. That. Happen?
When did I become OK with being broken. When did I become OK with sitting within my own imperfect thoughts. When did I become OK with promises made and broken weighing heavy on my own shoulders. When did my imperfections stop being swords, and start being cornerstones? When did they become a place of hope?
Tattooed on my arm is a promise, that in the midst of all my mess: the ugly messes of days long gone by, the anxiety which has stalked me most of my adult life, the mess of Craygry days like today, and even the mess of getting older are infinitely smaller than that promise.
That today is good.
That God is good.
That I am good.
That in the midst of imperfection, and that when I still have crap to work on that I can get stoked because it means there is somewhere good to go...
In other news, thanks for sticking around. One of those broken promises is writing, which I may or may not have burnt out on (thank you Master's Degree)...I'll try harder ;-)
It wasn't a literal picture, it was just a sense of who I am, in the midst of a really difficult week. It wasn't one of those moments where I was flipping through old albums reminiscing for what was, or could be, or even envying someone else who has what seems so ever unattainable to me. It wasn't even earth shattering. It was just beautiful.
I marvel at times in my capacity for brokenness, I spent ten years trying to conquer anxiety and depression, and much of the following decade (re)building my crazy, challenging, amazing marriage. There was a lot of broken and a lot of building in there.
I realize as a result, how much of my identity rests in knowing that I have overcome some wickedly insurmountable odds, and accomplished some amazing things in the last decade. I say that not from a place of cockiness—but of risk—of thinking I've arrived, of becoming comfortable.
Yet, 'the beautiful' today rests in a renewed realization I have not arrived.
I am broken, and I love that. I have a list of promises I've made and broken to myself. I'm picking them up and looking at them tonight. They are about being more than I am, and less than I am. They are about living instead of waiting. They are about making choices each day that are Christ-honouring, and that reflect the gratitude I live in each day. They are choices I haven't made.
Today was a shining example of "not arrived". I got Crazy-Angry-Frustrated more than once, whined a lot, snapped more than I should have, and basically was miserable. A lot miserable.
If I were into making up words, which of course I am, I'd call today a Craygry Day. It would make it less crappy, and more funny. It is also a perfectly wonderful use of the internet.
But back to the not funny part: I feel like crap, my hormones are raging for no apparent reason—though more than one person is suggesting Peri-menopause might be setting in which is terrifying in a way I can't articulate yet—and I'm in physical and mental pain in a way that is less familiar than it used to be.
Anxiety has reared it's head in recent weeks, and the wicked part about anxiety is that in it's very presence you begin to fear anxiety itself. And yet, for the first time in—well ever—my gut instinct didn't say "Call insert name of awesome friend".
It said "Just breathe Tara".
It said: "It'll be fine Tara".
When. The. Heck. Did. That. Happen?
When did I become OK with being broken. When did I become OK with sitting within my own imperfect thoughts. When did I become OK with promises made and broken weighing heavy on my own shoulders. When did my imperfections stop being swords, and start being cornerstones? When did they become a place of hope?
Tattooed on my arm is a promise, that in the midst of all my mess: the ugly messes of days long gone by, the anxiety which has stalked me most of my adult life, the mess of Craygry days like today, and even the mess of getting older are infinitely smaller than that promise.
"In those days when you pray I will hear you. When you seek me with all your heart I will be found by you. I'll be found by you, says the Lord".
It's on my forearm to remind me that I don't need to have arrived.That today is good.
That God is good.
That I am good.
That in the midst of imperfection, and that when I still have crap to work on that I can get stoked because it means there is somewhere good to go...
In other news, thanks for sticking around. One of those broken promises is writing, which I may or may not have burnt out on (thank you Master's Degree)...I'll try harder ;-)
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