This is Communion: A Confession

Do you remember when your faith was simple? When it was easy to love and trust Jesus? Do you know when things seemed to shift, to change? For me, I can pinpoint the time I stopped trusting Jesus, exactly - it was my senior year of college. I was preparing to graduate, working two jobs, had no post-graduate job lined up (all I had been offered was either kids ministry or church secretarial work; neither of those options appealed to me), I was getting married, and I was moving out of the house I'd lived in for 22 years. To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement, okay?

On top of all of this, I developed anxiety. I'd always been easy going and positive, upbeat and not easily discouraged. But something happened to me this particular year; juggling so much, having so much hanging in the balance, my spirit began screaming, "The center cannot hold! The center cannot hold!" and suddenly, I had a new constant companion. My anxiety became the voice in my head that told me I couldn't do it all, that everything was destined to fail. That I sucked. That I would never get a job in ministry that I wanted because I was a woman, and women in MS can't be leaders in churches outside of children's ministry.

Over the course of my final semester, I stopped trusting Jesus and started relying solely on myself. "If it's meant to be, it's up to me" was a phrase I internalized. I was trying to prove my anxiety wrong, you see. I was trying to show it that I COULD do it all, that I could keep the proverbial balls in the air, that I could handle anything and everything. That change wasn't scary. That I had it all figured out. And in the process, I left Jesus. I left the Father.

And confession: I stayed gone from them for well over a year. I was burnt out and tired. I kept up the façade that everything was fine, even though internally it felt like I was drowning, that I was spiraling. I had always been "so spiritually mature" and all of a sudden - I was in the wilderness. God was silent. I was alone. I had close to two years questioning God, being angry, feeling like anxiety was going to swallow me whole.

I wondered, I wandered, I was lost. And I had never seemed more put together on the outside.

Anxiety is a cruel god. It brings us into deserts, away from the lush gardens of hope, and it convinces us that we are simultaneously strong enough to handle things on our own, while being unworthy of help from others.

If you're in the desert like I was, I want to encourage you with this: These lonely, silent periods are not punitive; they are not here because you have failed God, or failed to live up to His standards. You may not have a reason for being there; there are those who would suggest that you're supposed to be getting something out of this time, but that may not always be the case. Sometimes, we find ourselves in the desert for no good reason.

Whatever you circumstance, believe this: Exoduses don't last forever. God is still good even if you are struggling to believe that. You are not alone. You are seen. You are valued. You are important.

Common Hymnal's song "Communion" touches my heart, particularly with a line in its first verse: "We will feast on life, and not death."

Sister. Brother. I know you're feeling alone, but you are still called Beloved. The covenant born from Christ's blood still rings true. As you struggle to keep your head above the waves, I beg you to seek life. Feast on life and all it has to offer -- do not allow your demons to drag you under.

If you're in the desert, practice self-care. Have honest, raw conversations with your friends. Have Disney movie marathons with your family. Yes, get in the word, get on your knees if you have to. Or don't. Raise a fist at God and demand answers -- He's big enough to handle your doubts.

Read good books, wear fuzzy socks. drive at night with your radio blasting.

Yes, these things may serve merely as distractions. But we cannot allow ourselves to feast on death, to allow our lives to stop because we are in deserts. The hardest thing you'll do during this time is fight to keep living life fully.

Know that I'm rooting for you, that the Communion table will still be here when you're back.