The Reason.

A deep, deep breath fills your entire lungs, all the way to the bottom, to the intercostals, into your back. It is crisp and cool. After a long time of tense muscles and struggle to remain balanced, your hands join together and lips utter "namaste." Cool pillows, warm hugs, safe homes.

The human condition is filled with really beautiful moments. Moments of repose, peace, and clarity. The are interspersed between hours, lifetimes, seconds of the grind-- pain and mediocrity.

In the gospels, there are many recordings of Jesus healing men and women by the touch of his hand or sound of his voice. Fatal diseases and lifelong struggles were gone. The blind could see, the paralyzed could walk. In my own life, prayer for healing is something I am constantly seeking.

The afflictions of depression and anxiety run deep in my life. More than just a mess of pills and doctors appointments and constantly feeling tired. My mind occasionally stops in its tracks and drops all of my rational thoughts through the floor. My emotions slam into overdrive and I am suddenly governed by visceral, tangible, flighty, raw feelings.

What a terrible word, "feelings." feelings. feelings.

My body and mouth become void of my soul, functioning on their own. My words jump into superspeed and tumble to the floor, like a pile of film suddenly exposed to the light. They shake and change to glass, flying across the room. Almost always, there is someone I love in the path.

My eyes bulge, fascinated by what I am seeing. Detached, I am curios and awed by the movement.

When it is over, I find myself sitting on my own bed, confused by the offended face staring at me and my own tears on my cheeks. I know it was me. It was all my fault. I am overcome with sorrow, and put another pebble in the pile.

The pebbles nearly reach the ceiling, each one a representation. They all hold a mistake. Reasons for my self hatred. I fill up the spaces of my life with these stones and carry them around in my pockets.

So I pray. I pray relentlessly to touch the robe of Jesus Christ. For Him to look at me and say "Get up and walk, my daughter, for you have been healed."

The Lord is all powerful and completely gracious, and I yearn for him with all my being. So here I am, ready to be healed. Help me almighty God-- I cry out to you! The shouts echo around me.

Yet I am continually answered with either no or wait. I don't know which. Is it wrong for me to keep praying to be healed? When should I simply pray to be accepting of my diseases? Am I an amputee praying for the regrowth of my arm? I have no idea.

So when brief moments of peace flutter into my life, I do not take them for granted. I savor the quiet, the calm. I sit with a smile on my lips and soak in the warm sun. Because of these struggles I see so much beauty in unconventional places. The ticking of a clock. The colors of light. The way he smells.

I know that God loves me more than my own mind can understand. He looks at me like a lover, a father, a creator. He knows the hairs on my head and every breath I take. Whenever I have a panic attack, He reminds me that I was never in control in the first place. When I throw fists at Him, He whispers "You are beautiful." He replaces my room full of pebbles with scripture and love.


I am a chaotic mess most of the time. I am a cracked bowl, an empty cup.

But that's the point then, really, isn't it?

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." 
-2 Corinthians 12:9

I will continue to pray for God to heal me, but more than that I will pray for HIS perfect and sovereign will to be done. Calm is only found amid the chaos. Joy can only surface among a sea of suffering.



Only through destruction can there be beauty.