Row

During class today, I just got really sad. It was around 7:41pm and if I had been alone, I would have probably cried, but I carried on in my usual rambunctious nature. I journaled during the last group’s presentation. I needed to get words out. I remember why I journaled as a thirteen-year-old. I had no one to talk to. I have talked to a lot of people in the past three weeks, but sometimes, it still feels like I have no one to talk to when I really need to talk. My struggle is in my general distrust of people. So sharing sorrow and opening myself is a long-term process. I disclose only when I feel safe. There’s an article about a baby seal that took three years to photograph because it took that long to trust the photographer. I’m a baby seal. I know I am wrong. I know it. I don’t need people to tell me I am wrong. I need people to prove me wrong.

I left class and just sat in my car listening to the same song. Row by The Autumn Film.

She hid under her covers
In fear for her life
The water rushed over
While she capsized

May your heart hold on
When it gets hard
And may your pulse stay strong
When you’re falling apart

Row, row, row your boat
Row, row, row your boat
Gently, gently

All these words transcendently resound my life.

Songs turn into pictures in my mind. I see a girl departing an island, she should have never ventured to in the first place. Leaving the island and entering the ocean again was a wise decision, but came with its challenges. Exiting the island meant two things: (1) she opened herself to the ocean never knowing when and where she will drop anchor for a final time and (2) she exposed herself to the harshness of the seas. If departing was hard, she immediately enters a storm in her little rowboat. There are moments where the eclipse of the waves seems manageable, but there are other moments like these lines where she capsizes. The winds and waves crash and collapse and overturn her little boat. So, she just holds her breath as she manages to turn herself the right way up once again to fight the wind and the rain and the salty ocean water. With tears of determination in her right eye and tears of pain in her left, she just keeps rowing. She just keeps rowing, slowly, painfully, gently.

I finally drove away to pick up Chick-fil-A. I needed a change from my steamable Veggie Pasta meals. I went home and ate dinner in my bed like I always do and watched Totally Spies to numb whatever I was feeling until I garnered enough emotional and creative wherewithal to document it and share it with people on Friday morning.

There’s no perfect resolution to a storm except to keep rowing. So, I will keep doing exactly that.

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Ashes, Ashes, We all Fall Down

I enjoy ranking things. Friends, today topples the rank of worst Valentine’s Day of my life. I have spent literally every Valentine’s Day without a valentine and this one can, by golly, this one can bury itself in a massive pile of elephant shit, light itself on fire, and burn until the ash blows away into the wind back to the hell hole from which it came.

It was not my intention to be this bitter. My bitterness towards today is not correlated with my singleness. In fact, I made all the attempts to have a good Valentine’s Day and was met with frustration every step of the way. Some of it internal frustration; some of it external frustration. I should have known when I was crying by 9am this day would smack of all thing wretched. Still, I pressed on foolishly assuming that there would be something redemptive about today. NOPE. Everything in me desires to list off hyphenated four letter words creating conjugations of curses that make the sky roll back and swallow me whole because existing in this time in this body in this place raises a fury that was simmering but is now coming to a boil. I fear it’s potential of splashing over, burning those attempting to cool it. I know some already have been seared. The workday ended with me being both empty, but filled with anger; scared, that my general reset button was broken and I was going to completely lose it: my mind, my will, my spirit, my hope, my breath, my life, my me.

I left to go to yoga and while zooming down Emancipation decided Ash Wednesday service was where I would be found at 7pm. Here’s are my reflections from that time.

Ash Wednesday is a liturgical reflection centering on our mortality. We all are going to die. Death takes us all. Sometimes one by one, other times in shootings, and tornadoes. Every man both rich and poor, male or female, will taste death. However, as melancholic as Ash Wednesday is meant to be, I find the Christian perspective on death to be rather hopeful. Death is hideous and ugly. It’s a dastardly thief. As a child, I struggled with suicidal ideation. I plotted death a couple of times and once sat alone and behind a countertop with pills in hand staring and still. Death has always felt like a door. By the end of the hour of the liturgy, I sat through the last readings to write words that felt true of the space and season I have lost myself in…

Death does not scare me, for I know that it’s the only passage way into life. It s life that cause me the most unrest. We are all heading to death, why fear a door. I’d rather fear the journey. I am mortal searching and hoping for immortality. I am done being dust. I feel like dirt already. When will I be clean? What becomes of my dust when I am dust no more? Death reminds me of life. Life reminds me that I am broken and I need life. More that love, I need life today. 

It’s the end of the day. I have holed myself in my room hoping to keep myself at bay…hoping for redemption on this day…hoping for the ashes on my head to cover me up…hoping tomorrow I’ll have a bit more love to give, but much more to take…hoping for life on planet earth just to be okay…hope

Brokenness & Idolatry

When I get lost, I lose myself. It is not that I have wandered and need to return, I feel more like the prodigal son who has forgotten he was someone’s child and completely gone rebellious. I don’t know if this is for everyone, but when sin takes over my life, I just don’t feel like me anymore. Well, at the very least, I don’t feel like the me, I was intended to be or have been for a while.

I am lost. Last year, I spent time generating themes for my life. There were four and they were cyclical: chaos/erosion, creation, brokenness, restoration. Chaos or Erosion is external. It is the process of my life in some fashion being completely dissembled. It can be through displacement or job loss or broken relationships or switch churches. Sometimes, it is erosion simply because it’s a natural progression or wearing away. Creation is the process of something being generated out of disorder, finding my current job, developing a personal sense of authenticity, finally getting counseling. Brokenness is my least favorite. Brokenness is internal; it points at my sin and depravity and does the most damage. Brokenness has been the most haunting of my seasons. Broken is how I came to Christ. Broken is how he finds me time after time. Brokenness frustrates me. It preys on every wicked desire for self-sufficiency that I have. Brokenness points a hard finger to God demanding that He back off and let me do this myself. Extended periods of brokenness lead to numbness. I am numb, and it’s my fault. I don’t state this condemningly. I did this to myself. I’m in bad need of a spirit defibrillation. I know, I am made alive in Christ, but sometimes, it feels like I am barely hanging on. Restoration, God is a good God. He is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast compassion. Restoration is entirely the working of God. I wish, I could jumpstart it, but I know that He will come.

I am in between brokenness and restoration. It is in this limbo, I have felt God nudging at me. Reminding me of who I am, “You’re a worshipper”. It’s my primary identity. I was created for worship. My open hands moved towards an idol that I worshipped wholeheartedly. It’s only in repentance, I find restoration. It is my hope that it comes soon. Brokenness is completely unideal. I feel like if we as humans were more honest, it is not that our success that drives us. It is not our desires, but the brokenness that drives us to idolatry, but no idol can fix it. No job, no relationship, no item, no person can set our wayward heart set straight. My only hope. Our only hope is in someone completely external. Oh, Lord let it be you.

Before, my idolatrous season began, I wrote a song named Idolatry. As I look back on the lyrics, I had idolatry more right than wrong. May it not overtake me once again.

Idolatry, you pull me straight down to my knees

I worship you, hoping you’ll make me complete

Your siren sound, echo my unanswered prayers

Those hollow words, I’m helpless you leave me so scared

I’m paralyzed; you’re draining the life out of me

I cannot move, silently suffocating

Another drink, pour it up watch it go down

Your praise begins, prostrate I lay on the ground

I will return, for you are my stale daily bread

You’re killing me, but you also keep me well fed.

God,

I always need You, but I need you especially in this place, where I feel fragile and fragmented. Mind me of the work of Your blood. Help me to understand it, trust it, and live in it, not just for today, but especially for tomorrow and the days after.

In Christ,

Amen

To Be Broken is to Be Human

Oft in my writing, I am found in the middle of my brokenness. Historically, I have leaned into it to understand the actual problem. When does it end though? When will I lean out and into something that feels whole and complete and healed? Leaning into brokenness often feels like leaning into emptiness. Boy, have I️ leaned into the abyss this year.

People will say, we are all broken, as a word of solidarity. However, it negates the uniqueness of each of our brokenness. It disregards the individuality of it. In a family, two children can go through the same thing and be broken in different ways. The more, I have leaned into my brokenness and explored it, the more I can relate to others. However, there are moments where I have leaned to deeply in, passed the brokenness, and into depravity.

This is a year where I have been starkly reminded of sin and its effects. Sin ravages and leaves people broken and empty. I don’t mean that in a condemnatory way, I say it experientially. Sin broke me and consumed me. Often in the Epistles, we read of the brokenness in the churches and say proudly, “Don’t be THOSE people”. It’s too late. We are THOSE people. For those who “excel in self-righteousness”, the Epistles tell you who to point a judgmental finger towards. For those who “excel in the righteousness of Christ”, the Epistles remind you of how easy it is to fall into sin. For those who have fallen and broke, the Epistles remind you that other believers are broken as well.

We Christians come from a foundational, historical, and present community that has practiced all sorts of abominable and immoral behavior. It brings comfort to know that I am not the first or chief among sinners. Paul took that title for me. When I fall broken, I arise with a number of thieves, adulterers, murderers, liars, rage-filled monsters, who somehow received the healing salve of the Savior. Who knows, I will break again.

Yes to be broken is to be human

But to be healed is to know divine

Merry Christmas Eve,

Tosin

Placement

Finding where you fit as an adult is difficult. Sometimes, the adolescent fears only hibernate during your early twenties and then reemerge from their slumber in your late twenties. Being displaced for a season doesn’t help that. Being single doesn’t help that. Struggling to figure out “family” both biological, fictive, and spiritual doesn’t help that.

Last week, I moved into (more) permanent housing. In the next two years, I want to save to purchase a house. I am still in the phase where I feel like I am at an Airbnb. It’s home, but it doesn’t feel like mine. I struggle to do things in the common areas and still feel safest and most comfortable in my room. I don’t want to connect. This is no one’s fault, but my own for all childhood traumas, anxiety, and apprehension, ultimately, I must put blame on myself for not allowing myself to move beyond it.

Today, I cooked a meal in my new home. It was different. The spice cabinet was on the left of the stove rather than the right. There were fewer cooking instruments at my disposal. The counter is easily overcome by 5 grocery bags. However, I cooked a meal to prepare for the week. I dirtied pots and pans and bowls. On a day, where I feel least like myself. In a space, where I feel most like myself, the kitchen.

I look forward to the day, where I feel like myself again and can stop acting. Confident. Jovial. Extroverted…kind of. However, I take these tiny moments as wins. You gotta claim victory where you can.

Day 8: Most Persistent Thoughts

I didn’t write this because, my thoughts are often inconsistent, but I will tell you what has been on my mind this evening. In Galatians, there is a call to “bear one another’s burdens”. When I have heard this phrase used, it was an admonition to share in the carrying of other’s burdens. The same way that Christ undertook the burden of sin from us.

However, my struggle is allowing people to carry it for me. I would let something crush me completely before, I called for someone to carry it for me. Carrying other people’s loads feels instinctual. Allowing someone to carry mine feels sick-inducing. I don’t know how to let people in because I don’t. Everyone is held by a tether where I slowly and incrementally draw them close, never knowing what minor mistake or mishap will release all the slack.

My most persistent thoughts are questions?

  • Why am I so resistant to letting people in?
  • How does someone allow others to share in their burden?
  • Is this the cause of my loneliness?