I’ve been reading about spiritual warfare lately. The book I started today is called Understanding the Wounded Heart by Marcus Warner, which I didn’t realize was about spiritual warfare when I ordered it. Two other books I’ve recently read and spent time rereading are The Adversary: The Christian Versus Demon Activity by Mark Bubeck and Warfare Praying, also by Mark Bubeck.

The term and concept of spiritual warfare is based on the passage in Ephesians where Paul states that, “we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.”

The sinful flesh, the world, and the devil and his demons are all elements in which the Christian will encounter warfare and are called to wrestle against. I’m still digesting, but several things have stood out to me so far.

1. The devil is a liar. Unless our minds are routinely bathed in the words of Jesus and the truth of his word our minds become saturated with lies that consciously and subconsciously control our behavior.
   
2. The truth is stronger than lies. Mark Bubeck uses the term “doctrinal prayers”, in which our prayers are not simply crying out to God for help or deliverance but declaring in faith who God is and what we know or have been told is true about Christ and his work.
   
3. Who we are in Christ is an actual thing. Our identity has changed (About that…that “identity” that you’ve somehow found yourself attached to, that bothers you so much, that causes you to fear or dislike yourself and keeps coming back over and over again? Has God ever said that about you? No? Then forget about it). Again in Ephesians, Paul tells his readers that no longer are they strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God. We are part of God’s family. The death and resurrection of Jesus joined us to Christ and made us part of his body.
   
   The Christian life is one of daily remembering who we are, of joining in with the fellow saints and singing, “You are my Lord, I have no good apart from you” (Psalm 16:2).

I don’t think any Christian ever wakes up saying, “God, you’re great, but I’m all about living in my own strength today.”

Still not 100% here, still a ways from it from my perspective, but last time I wrote I said I’d given that up. I wish I felt better than I did. I am praying for healing, not just physically, but for all these different parts of myself. I’m having a few more tests done this week so I’m praying to get some more direction and that it’s nothing too scary. I’m also trying to take the words from my gentle yoga video into account where she says to treat yourself with compassion and not let yourself get into too much of a place of expectation or defeat.

To let it be as it is.

Sorry to be self-absorbed (okay, that’s an outside label I’m going to have to deal with at some point), but one thing that’s kept me busy these months is sitting with my progressive thoughts. This is going to sound obsessive but something I have taken interest in is how cycles repeat themselves. In this case I’m talking about the thought patterns linked to the day of whatever day I’m on in my menstrual cycle.

This really happens.

I’ve never considered myself much of a control freak. I don’t want to control anybody else anymore than I want to be controlled. But I also don’t like when I can’t control things, or rather, when things don’t go the way I want.

In reality it’s never that direct.

I don’t like when I put effort towards something, and it fails to produce the results I am after. I feel like our society is based on a system that works, produces, and then succeeds. I honestly don’t know how to not think like this.

But aiming for success sets a person up for failure. And if you’re trying to succeed, the absolute last thing you want, the thing that will drive you crazy and lead you straight into despair faster than probably anything else, is failure.

I don’t understand this part of myself. I’m not a control freak. I’m not a type A.

I’m a type B living with so many different variables that even I struggle at times to be laid back.

(To all the control freaks out there, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t like to be called that, which is probably why I keep denying that I am one. I’d rather be known as something else.)

But I am a perfectionist. Which means I’ve have had to spend my life trying to figure out how to deal with the fact this world isn’t perfect, including me.

(Right. Right. Right. But I tried!)

Oh no. I’m not going there this time. This isn’t about me having to now go back to the drawing board, back to the journal to figure out what I need to change about myself, what part of myself needs to be ignored, denied, stuffed down, locked away, tweaked, worked on, adjusted, “surrendered”, joked about, and examined in order to survive.

Because while even in my Christian life Jesus was not enough for me (again, it’s never ever that direct), he’s enough for me now, even though I’m still doing it. I’m still noticing and still talking about where things aren’t right and trying to say where I want them now. In the meantime God shows me how they already are. God has always been enough for me. His is the perfection I want, that I have because he freely shared it.

The kids made cookies this afternoon. Between the chilly temps and the falling snow, it seemed to them a cooking making kind of day. This morning they watched another snow documentary, which they ended up telling me later they had already seen. I had to leave this morning to go to a chiropractor appointment. The documentary was shown in honor of the snow, but also to fill the half hour space between when I had to leave and when dad would be home. I’m thankful for the presence his job has allowed.

This present “season” has put a little more space between me and the kids. It’s not something I sought or even necessarily felt like I needed, but rather has become a practical necessity in dealing with my various appointments and needs. I have to say, it was rather abrupt, and something I didn’t have the energy to process, fight, or even worry too much about. If it weren’t for the still small voice saying, “Trust me”, I might have been or might still be a little more upset about it, the way it happened so fast.

I’ve moved out of the phase of waiting for 100% to return tomorrow. 100% may look different from now on, meaning there might in fact be a new normal for me. It’s not just a physical difference I notice in terms of limitation, it’s an emotional one. It’s like an entire layer in my range of emotion has been shaved off. With frustration. With sadness. Physically I can’t get too excited. From my bed, I was FaceTiming with my mom and sisters. Personality wise the energy, elation, and laughter is there, but it’s almost like my body cannot contain it. My legs were shaking the entire time we talked.

That being said I’m still feeling and seeing improvement. It’s just been slow. Last month at this time it’d been a little bit over a week without Xanax, something that a month before would’ve seemed possible only in the presence of God and miracles. The journal entries gradually morphed from “7:30AM-Yuck” and “2:00PM-Crazy awfulness” to “made it till 11AM without a pill” to “4PM-still doing alright”. This month I attended the Easter vigil service and watched my son get confirmed from the cry room. I went to my son’s first baseball game last Monday and watched from the car. I haven’t been back.

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”
~Romans 8:37~

I am not normally a TV or even much of a movie person. I get bored and (or because I???) have a hard time following along with the plots. But when I was at my parents’ house in January my mom introduced me to a show called The Chosen. I wasn’t much able to tolerate being out of my bed so she set up the TV upstairs for me. We watched the first episode of Season 1 together which is about the story of Mary Magdalene.

You need to watch this show. The storylines are all about real people and the lives Jesus is calling them out of to follow him. The way Jesus is portrayed in these shows is now my favorite screen portrayal of Jesus. He is the most human Jesus I have seen. He is kind. He is gentle. He knows everything about the people around him and is not afraid of them or their problems. He is not put off by human beings. He loves them.

I haven’t finished watching Season 1 yet but I have now watched episodes 1, 2, and 3 of Season 2 which were extremely moving and well done. May God’s love be shared and may many be blessed.

“But I say, ‘Walk in the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Sprit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do.'”
~Galatians 5:16-17~

This is a picture from the top of the beach trail. The thought that I was ever at one point able to walk all the way down there seems so far away from my actual reality that I can hardly bear to think about how far away the beach is. The honeysuckle, such a sweet sounding name, are considered a foreign and invasive species. In the early spring, before even the mightiest trees begin to bud, the honey suckle plants are alive and well. It’s the same way in the fall. They are always the last to die, with their green leaves surviving even multiple winter snows. The only place these plants do not overtake the ground, or grow at all, is in the lowlands where the creek and river flood them out.

Such is the way of our sinful flesh, is it not? I’ve often not liked this particular doctrine, the constant reminders that our flesh is sinful, but also that even as believers sharing union with Christ we are waging a constant war against our flesh. Give me talks of love and joy and peace and all the beautiful fruit that is ours in Jesus, and leave the parts of the fleshly wars out. Wars are meant to be won! I’ll think to myself, “Come on, guys. Get it together. You’re telling me you haven’t yet figured this out? You’re telling me this is what victory looks like? You’re telling me even life in Jesus doesn’t get any easier?”

Even now the flesh calls. Even after I’ve said, “Lord, I don’t want this anymore.” Even after I’ve said, “Enough is enough. I can’t live like this.” Even after I’ve asked, “But Lord, we’ve dealt with this already, through the years and the years, O Lord, have we not? Oh, how many times? Oh, how many times? By your mercy, steadfast love and faithfulness, the one time death and resurrection of Jesus has taken this away and this sin is no longer a part of my life.” It’s like you might get a brief reprieve from the sin side. The joy of the Lord overtakes you. The Spirit of God fills the heart with such a lightness and freedom. The grace of God becomes far too real a gift to squander on phantoms.

But no sooner have the leaves begun to bud on the tree, and there appears the honeysuckle back at its feet. And I’ll have to believe that things can be different. Such is the way of my sinful flesh. It’s like this stubborn part of me that refuses to believe what other people are saying, no matter how many witnesses back up their claim. It’s the part of me that wants to figure it out for myself, that believes there has to be another way, and if there is, I will find it. If I’m gonna believe, if I am ever going to truly confess and believe, then I’m going to insist on learning the hard way. Like the men whose ships remained trapped and frozen in the artic sea for years and years, until their dying shivering breath was the final realization they were lost and doomed, only then comes

“Lord, there is no other way.”

I’d like to amend this part of myself. To give it to God and say, “I don’t need to learn like this anymore. I can be different. I can be holy. I can take my life and let it be something better than any mess I could ever make on my own. I believe this, Lord. Help my unbelief that I can be somebody other than who I was but only you can do this for me.”

Only You can do this for me.

And he does, friends. He does. At least I have to believe that he does, for what other hope would we have if he didn’t? Isn’t that what the battles are really about? The sin. The fears. The doubts. The question: What kind of Christian life is this when you can’t live in sin but also live here with sin? Either there is hope in this world or there isn’t.

God doesn’t sigh and say, “Seriously? You’re asking me this?”

He dies on the cross and tells us there is.

I made my first cup of coffee this morning in nearly three months. It was less a desire for coffee and more of a searching for some kind of normalcy, something to make the body that is mine and this life I am living feel a little more familiar. The first time I made it the taste was too weak, so I poured out the decaf with cream and started over. I doubled the scoop, but the second time wasn’t much better. I only drank a few sips.

I still like the smell. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. I wondered again. Perhaps a brief walk in the grass would bring it back, would wake my body up from this feeling of being tired, weak, and under-used. I hoped, down the deck steps to walk barefoot in the violets. The air felt good and I’d forgotten how much I like the spring sounds. I’ve long labeled spring as my least favorite season. It’s not so bad.

My grandpa crossed over from life into life everlasting yesterday morning. Both of my grandpas have died this year. My dad’s dad died toward the end of January at the age of 89. My mom’s dad died at the age of 90. I’ve spent more time with and have more memories of my mom’s parents, but I love both of my grandpas’ forever. I’ve been to New York City two times in my life, and each of those times I went with a grandfather.

The boys and I worked in the school room this morning. The word worked makes it sound a lot more vigorous than it was. I sat on the floor with my garbage bag next to the pile they’d made. Anything that had a place they put in its place. The rest of it I put in the trash. As for the pile of completed workbooks I was saving to look through and find scraps to possibly make year books out of I told them to take them out to the burn pile, except for the copywork and handwriting books. I’ll help if needed, but still remain hands off with school at this point. Homeschool is changing, but into what, I don’t know.

I’m doing okay here, my thoughts just tend to get dark and cloudy at times. Not to use all or nothing thinking, but grief is something that never really seems to ever completely go away down here, like there’s always this sadness attached or around. I’ll feel like I need to wait and write until I’m better, either in thought, feeling, bodily workings, or deed. It reminds me of that meme with the skeleton on the bench. “Rebekah waiting around until she feels completely better.” Just the thought of it makes me laugh, how free they all must feel right now, the saints in the company of Christ and each other.

Seriously, though, I don’t enjoy feeling bad. I’ll wonder to myself, “Am I actually getting better?” Am I really making progress? Am I going to come out of this? I fear at times I waited too long to make changes, that I let things go that needed addressing, and because of that I now suffer, having damaged myself to a place beyond fixing. It all might very well be true. But I’m also needing to realize that my hope in this world is not in my visible or measurable progress. My hope is in Jesus, my Lord and my Savior and lasting redemption.

“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God”
1 Peter 3:18

I’ve been having a hard time writing any updates here. Written words are spilling out all over me but I can’t seem to catch them in time or when I do, there seems to be no relevant place to put them or appropriate form for them to take. I’m just wanting something that comes out sounding more like, “Hi. This is me. I’m a regular person.”

Yesterday was another day in bed. Soon after the day got going I recalled the words “tremendously better” I’d used here to describe how I’d been doing and wondered if that had been the best choice of words. Tremendously better is how I felt for four days. Yesterday I was extra tired again, so I mostly stayed in bed and rested some more.

Today I’m at peace with being not as tired as I was yesterday, but not as incredibly better as I was for four days. I remember a patient I used to take care of in the hospital. He was a younger middle aged man with MS. Every morning I walked in to his room and asked, “How are you today?”, his answer was a sometimes a sleepy, sometimes a quiet, and even sometimes a chipper, “Better than I deserve.” He was a believer in Jesus.