it’s a Tuesday night – y’all go through this too… right?

this is actually my despair song. my soul gets really emotional when I listen to this song in the shower, and i’ll add vocals to the melody and it’s just the closest I get to crying. I don’t cry much.

a few years ago my therapist told me that an inability to cry when the emotional urge is there is actually due to a disconnect between the spirit and the body. it’s as if the body isn’t letting what’s felt in the spirit come to the surface.

that’s not to say that my spirit isn’t in good shape or anything – a good cry is healthy. he and I redeveloped my ability to cry after he told me that and i’m just realizing now that I lost it again. unfortunately I just can’t really execute it.

trying though.

honestly, writing wasn’t in the plan today. in fact, I should be asleep by now. but the anxiety is through the roof and that prompted me to come here and sit with you. just talk it through. I talked to God. talked a lot today. in fact, we’ve been talking a bunch these past two weeks. I got an opportunity to disconnect a bit, and the avoidance of distraction brought me right into my Father’s arms. no media, minimal socializing, but tons of Scripture and tons of prayer. the anxiety has been a recurring theme, so leaning on him has been a recurring theme even more so. we’ve been talking before I go to bed so he can ease my mind, we talk during my clinical hours to extend prayers of healing for patients, we talk in the mornings to ring in the day. we’ve just been in constant communication.

i’ve had to remind myself that God never adapted his pace as society sped up. we’ve grown so accustomed to rapid iMessage responses, quick DMs, and even quicker shipping from Amazon. God never adapted to that. and that’s a good thing because two weeks ago I approached God for instructions on slowing down.

my anxiety stems from moving so fast. when I can just tread slowly. and assess. and consult with God. and heed his direction. and move forward.

and so two weeks removed from that initial approach… we still have anxiety. but my methods of coping have gotten better, which i’m sure God wanted to address. and slowly, the anxiety will subside.

my low points come from lack of confidence, lack of reassurance, and lack of security. things that i’m not meant to provide for myself, but God is supposed to provide for me. so perhaps its good that my anxiety stays here a while – it’ll encourage me to find those strengths in Scripture and in solitude. then I can go out and integrate into the world again. slowly.

these past two weeks, when the anxiety gets really overwhelming, I’ve had three places to drift away to with God. I felt compelled to tell you where those places are. Rasheed said that blessings are stewarded with gratitude, and that testimonies must be shared to extend faith within others. i’m grateful for these places I drift away to. so now I get to share. here. with you.

i’m wearing a robe. so is Jesus. we’re in a small room. I enter a door to my right immediately off of a busy alleyway and I shut the wooden door and the hustle and bustle of the commoners is immediately silenced. i’m anxious, but i’m also grieving. some days I’m just grieving. there isn’t always an explanation. the room has distressed walls – light yellow with a white base peeking through. and a window on the wall to my left. it lets some light in.

natural light.

comforting light.

I don’t say much. I take a look at Jesus and he looks at me with compassion. and my head falls. in this vision, I’m able to cry. there is no disconnect in this room. and I rest my head on his left shoulder as he wraps his right arm around my neck and just pats it softly. he lets me sit there a while to just let it flow. to let it go. eventually I tell him that my heart is throbbing today and I want him to do that thing he does. so he takes a hold of my heart and pulls it out of my chest, and he cups it in his hands. and we stand there, taking a look at it. and there are wounds, there are open sores, there are callouses.

he rubs his thumbs on the surface of my heart. the tissue doesn’t restore right away. it still looks the same at first. but the throbbing & the burning subside. and before I know it, my breathing has slowed, and that feeling of my heart pounding through my chest has made its way out.

and in that room.

I’m healed.

I was driving home from the clinic one evening and I decided to go local to avoid highway traffic. I made a left on Shaw and I took my time. the top was down. it was hot, the sun was strong. and I was just taking it in. I came to a stop, looked both ways, and proceeded straight at the intersection. and I eased down the street at a calm 20 miles per hour. and I took my eyes off of the road for a second or two and looked up and caught the glimpse of a bird. keeping pace with me. deviating a bit left, then a bit right, but staying on line with me. and it inspired my second place of peace.

i’ve grown worried with the concept of sacrifice. and trust. it’s such an easy idea in theory, but in practice, sacrificing the things I admire and yearn for the most can be daunting. especially when I don’t believe there can be anything better. there’s no chance God can have an even better version of what I’m holding onto in store – there’s no chance he’ll agree to a lopsided exchange once I sacrifice mine so he can give me what he’s had in store for me.

i’m a bird when I drift away here. i’m roaming. i’m exploring. i’m free. without worry. the sun is strong, the skies are clear, and there isn’t a worry in my mind. because God addressed me already in his Word. and he encouraged me to release my fear. I’m part of the little flock.

Luke 12:48: “So don’t be afraid little flock. For it gives your Father great pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

(as you may have imagined, when I drift here with God, I’m much better at practicing sacrifice).

this last place is relatively new to me. God just brought me here a few days ago, but when he did, he spoke to me loudly and clearly. as a result, I’ve been visiting this place often after my first visit.

the ocean is cold. the waves are crashing. the night is here. the thunder is roaring. the lightning is lighting up the sky. and the cold rain is making its way down. it’s colder than the brisk air. I lay on my back, halfway submerged. my toes, my face, my chest and my hands all feeling the dichotomy between the cold ocean and the cold, intermittent rain drops.

I’ve never been able to float, so how am I able to float here? I mentally focus on what I’m feeling again, and this time I note the support of God’s hand beneath me. holding me afloat. in his opposite hand, he holds my anxieties, my pains, my worries, my doubts, and the lies that can sometimes engulf my mind and kill my character. and in this moment

I am weightless.

I’m unfamiliar with this feeling, but I’m very welcoming of it here.

I begin to notice that we’re not moving very fast across the waters. under my own guise, without God’s support, I’d be giving maximal effort to make my way out of the storm. but here. I surrender to God’s pace. the slow pace. the pace that I’m so unfamiliar with, because society has told me to move quicker.

I embrace the feeling of the rain, and the roar of the thunder, and the crashing of the waves.

I don’t fret when I have God’s support. I just allow myself to be weightless. and I enjoy my moments in the storm. when I release my anxieties and my fears, the storm is actually quite nice. and I have no doubts that eventually God’s hands will guide me to stiller waters.

but only when his time calls for it.

I don’t have much else to add here. my spirit is content with sharing what I shared, and I don’t feel the need to summarize or recap with any emphatic final points. but I will say this. I don’t always have the time to drift away with God. sometimes I have a few seconds in between my patient interactions and my briefing with residents and physicians. other times I only have a few seconds between sets at the gym. and other times, I’m driving at speeds that are faster than 20 miles per hour and I can’t afford to lose my focus.

and in these moments, God’s voice still pays me a visit.

“slow. slow. slow. don’t be afraid little flock.”

if you want to be notified the next time we gather here for another (b)lesson, don’t forget to subscribe. i’ll always be looking forward to having you back. I can’t tell you what we’ll be talking about next time you’re here, but I can assure you it’ll be a good, quick read.

praying for you.

all love, love always – E.