redeemed into Life

My first vivid memory of anxiety rises from the time I was eight, just before my family was slated to move a few hours away from the first home I remember. A rare daytime outing with my working mom and a group of other mothers and daughters had led us to a conservatory on the grounds of the local zoo. While I wish I could remember the sight of the exotic blooms that surely filled the greenhouse, or summon the warmth of the humid air that must’ve beaded droplets on the glass, all I really remember is the eternity I spent locked inside the metal and cement of a bathroom stall, sick to my stomach and aching for home.

It seems so obvious now, but at the time, we never suspected my frequent “tummy troubles” were tied to the food sensitivities I now deal with as a matter of course. Nor did we suspect the greater fear that lurked at the root of my discomfort. I was just a rather timid, sensitive child, whose anxious stomach had a habit of intruding on otherwise pleasant experiences, especially flaring in times of stress. Surely I would outgrow it.

Except, I didn’t.

hiding away

Instead, I got better at hiding. So good, in fact, that no one ever guessed how lost I really was—least of all me.

I flew below the radar, appearing to all the world as a bright, obedient, happy child. Creative, a bit moody, and a little on the bossy side (especially if you asked my younger sister). Family life was scrubbed and polished enough to hide our tension and anger behind closed doors. I learned early that doing things “right” minimized conflict—or at least, helped me escape notice—so my perfectionism flourished. Flaws must be hidden at all costs, so childhood hurts and unforgivable sins loomed large within the basement of my mind. Convinced that my weakness would wound those I loved, I confided in no one, determined to bear my shame alone.

Dark thoughts tormented my vivid imagination through unending lonely nights. I reached toward elusive promises of comfort, only to find myself more enslaved. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I didn’t know why I felt so trapped. All I knew was the one thing so driven into my spirit it surely must be true: I was Bad.

What else could I do? I had to be Good! And so I spent all my energies on trying, and I tried so hard. Only by being Good—performing, succeeding, smiling in denial of the dark—could I push down the force of the Bad inside me. Most of the time, I managed it. I graduated from high school, went on to college, moved out of state for grad school … I could do this. I could be Good.

all my anxious thoughts

But none of the darkness I had hidden away so carefully was actually gone. Just like when I was younger, times of increased stress would force up the buried sludge, suffocating me beneath its weight. I’ve heard others describe panic attacks as dizziness and difficulty breathing. Mine are more like intense nausea that manifests in waves of physical and emotional pain. Suddenly every thought is a vehicle carrying paralyzing fear, and I lose my ability to think rationally. Attacks may dissipate after a few tense minutes or linger over several days.

A few rare seasons of desperation over the years forced me to seek out a counselor, usually at the insistence of worried friends. Though well-meaning, each of these professionals struggled to reconcile the dichotomy of good and evil at war within me. Following obvious signposts of abuse and trauma, they prodded tender memories, seeking a source; they found nothing. Nothing to explain why an otherwise moral, successful, well-adjusted young woman would be so tormented. Where had it come from? Why could I not break free?

And all this time, I’ve mentioned nothing of faith. Surely, you must be thinking, this has “testimony” written all over it! This is just the “before” chapter: BEFORE she met Jesus.

Except, it isn’t.

finding Jesus in the dark

Would it surprise you to know that Jesus walked with me down this long, painful road? That He could have spared me all this suffering … and He didn’t?

If I am convinced of anything, it is that God had His hand on me before I was born. From my earliest days, I wanted to love God, serve God, obey God. I wanted to be good. Whenever there was Sunday school, children’s church, vacation Bible school, church camp, I was there! Willingly, enthusiastically. I raised my hand, gave all the “right” answers, went up to the altar again and again: for salvation, for repentance, for rededication. I was nothing if not sincere. Devoted. And absolutely incapable of finding the forgiveness and freedom I so desperately needed.

It wasn’t until much later in my journey that I really began to know God. And in knowing Him, I also started to know myself.

Because you see, all that time, God knew me. And into the wilderness of my sin and shame, my scrubbed-up, churchified righteousness, His beloved voice was speaking …

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine!”

Isaiah 43:1 NASB

In His great mercy, He was leading me through the deep waters, purging my soul in refining flames, so that someday—THIS day!—I would come to realize the magnitude of my deliverance. He was gifting me with a story to tell, filling me with deep empathy for those who struggle and suffer in silence. He was granting me the keys to set captives free as I have been freed: by His grace, for His glory. As I have been redeemed, so I have been given the holy honor of inviting others into His story of redemption.

Dear one, if you find yourself battling fear and anxiety, wondering if there is any hope of a life beyond … If you wrestle with deep questions of your identity, your value, your purpose … know that I have agonized through the same. Who am I? Whose am I? What am I even here for?

The answers have come slowly; I am seeking them still. Yet I know one core Truth rests at the heart of them all:

I am my Beloved’s.

And this is my story …