Word:
I struggle. Often. Usually very poorly. I struggle to be a patient, loving, and humble husband and father. I struggle with depression and self-objectification. I struggle with anxiety, doubt, rage, and lust. I struggle with emotional and physical self-mutilation.
A fundamental part of me hates struggle and the many painful feelings that it brings--anger, frustration, confusion, sadness, grief, disappointment, resentment, and shame, to name a few. For years, I was willing to settle for numbness, rather than facing my struggles directly. My strategy was avoidance. For example: believing change was hopeless, believing that it doesn’t really bother me or anyone else, or silencing the pain with self-medication. Struggling is hard and I often want easy.
I don’t have a refined theology or unimpeachable exegesis about struggling, I just have story. Also, I've had a pretty plush life and I’m in no way telling you how you should feel about the struggles you're facing. I’m not telling your story. All I have is my story. My story is about how my struggles have become the most treasured parts of myself.
This is not an it-was-all-worth-it message. I’m not writing about finding beauty despite struggle. I am talking about beautiful struggle. There is a mythology that if we struggle hard and long enough, then we'll eventually see the pay-off. Sure, there are times when we can look back and count it all justified. Maybe someone else will explore that, because the sweetest beauty I’ve seen is in my struggles lost.
Through years of stockpiling ignored sadness and ungrieved struggles, I allowed entire sections of my being to be written-off as consigned to darkness. But that darkness always finds a way to ooze out. In desperation, I pleaded with God to amputate the weak, broken, and shameful parts of myself. In His unpredictable, yet consistently audacious way, He answered by extending an invitation down the descending path of a brutalized savior. As much as I hate struggle, He has filled, even that place, with his blinding beauty. What a scandal that is.
While trying to lobotomize my struggling self, I believed that my Lord was nowhere to be found. It is said that Christ was a man of sorrows, deeply acquainted with grief. So maybe it is painfully obvious to others, but I was dumbfounded to find that the savior I searched for had been eagerly waiting for me to meet him in the very place that I actively ignored. Where else would the sorrowful King do His work than in the muck of my struggling?
As I hesitantly journeyed into that previously forsaken area, I was stunned by the beauty of a thinning veil. I’m very much still exploring. When I actually feel the emotional pain associated with my burnt and bleeding skin, I discover that my God is there weeping and bandaging my wounds. In my filthiest moment, when the stench of the brothel has yet to wear off, my papa is throwing an opulent party just to celebrate knowing me. He does his best work in my powerless struggle. He is showing me that I allowed the most exotic parts of my inner landscape to grow desolate. God doesn’t offer us justifications for our struggles, He promises redemption. I promise you, He never starts with conviction. He starts with overwhelming, veracious, and relentless love. Struggle is painful, yes, but beautiful all the more.
Meal:
Chili over mashed potatoes with a side of cornbread and honey. I remember first learning that is not how most people eat chili. It shattered my little home-schooled reality. It might not be how you normally eat chili, but give it a try. This simple meal might be a comfort that you feel you don't deserve, but the greatest beauties are the ones we could never earn.
Music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TFxgGb6SBM
“We’re gonna take back all the enemy has stolen…. We’re gonna plunder the pits of hell.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czFgKa7YcIQ
“And the sun, it does not cause us to grow. It is the rain that will strengthen your soul.”
Prayer:
Daddy, thank you for your gentle whisper. You ran after me, white I was still a long way off.
Teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Jesus, my dear murdered brother. My foolishness was your demise. Yet still, you pull me close, take my face in your strong hands and tell me that you'd die 1,000 times over for my sake.
Teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Spirit, my comforter. Your light has restored my dead places. I know now that you draw nearest when I'm feeling most alone.
Teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Time:
Dedicate time to getting to know the terrain of your own struggle-lands. Don’t rush it. Examine the cup of the life you’ve been given, and commit to drinking it to the dregs.
Also, watch Inside Out.
Sam Simkins // SSimkins9@gmail.com