A Job or a Tribute?

I have been blessed to acquire a second, part-time job recently. While only 10 hours a week, it is still nice to have something to cushion expenses, but also add purpose to life. NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Waco has hired me to be a peer support specialist. It is a fancy phrase for saying, "I have been hired to support, encourage, and provide resources to folks with mental illness on the basis that I have one and worked to overcome it." Presently I am placed at a strategic location to build up my clientele and build a report with the clients there. It is a local non-profit that tends to be a hub and safe haven for the homeless population of Waco and those who are among the poorest. It has been really great to sit down at a picnic table with folks and hear them tell their stories, as raw and honest as they could be.

I can't help but think of my brother, Carlos every day I am there. My brother was not well known, but I can confidently say he is my hero of heroes. The man battled paranoid schizophrenia for twenty years, terrified that someone was going to kill him. Yet, every single day, he kept living some how. At the time of his death, he was almost done graduating with his college degree. He would take the bus and ride his bike all alone, across St. Louis mind you, to go to his classes. Every day he would text our sister about people he was sure were wanting to, or planning to kill him--and he still went to class. I don't have that type of courage and determination!

Carlos was 10 years older than me. He was in foster care shortly after his diagnosis, so he never really had much to integrate him into adulthood. It was a struggle for him to figure it out on his own, which led to him being homeless for many years while I was growing up in elementary and junior high. He would be nomadic with his living arrangements, which would change with every hospitalization that he would have and he had many. Periodically, he would call or write, but he was never consistent with it. Our relationship was not well defined for me and I never really knew what to do about it, or how to improve it. It is one of the things that still bothers me after his death to be honest. I didn't realize the reality of what he went through as a homeless person until this job.

There's street life homeless people live to survive. They find ways to get food and water, but also find rest and have a sense of safety. Some live two miles out of town under an overpass because their afraid of getting hurt. Some live in groups in an abandoned building downtown. They have a certain determination to keep living life, regardless of the circumstances that led them to this present situation. One saying I hear often is, "My life purpose is to survive and keep pushing through the tough shit life hands me." The honesty of that sentence makes me pause for a moment.

Once in awhile I look at these people around me and I see my brother in every single one of them. "The absence of your presence is everywhere." I try so hard to respond with respect, dignity, and friendship because so many of them don't have any of it. And I often wonder, who was respectful to Carlos? Who gave him dignity? Who were his friends? When he was homeless, who gave him the last two dollars they had because he held up a sign--or did he ever hold up a sign? Then, I think of his home he had in St. Louis.

Carlos had an apartment at the time of his death that he was proud of. Our sister helped him get in touch with various services so that he didn't have to constantly lose his home with every hospitalization. He was able to afford his apartment in the worst side of St. Louis. The building was a four-plex and he had a studio. It was a decent size, but it was not in well-kept building. I can't even describe the environment properly except to say I could never live there, or be paid to live there. Carlos was so proud of his self-sufficiency. His plan was to eventually provide for himself completely and he was well into his goals for his recovery. My thoughts often reflect upon this chapter of his life. I wonder if he had any regrets? What would he say if a peer support specialist talked to him? What goals would he have in his recovery? What advice would he give people? And sometimes, I think about our relationship.

We sort of drifted apart over the years because he was so challenging to engage and interact with. Towards the end of his life, he was having audio and visual hallucinations. It was not uncommon to have a perfect normal conversation over the phone, only to find out later he called someone else in the family because he was so sure you said something you didn't. He would often ramble on and on, sometimes making sense, but sometimes--most times--not. And I wouldn't know what to do or say, so I would suddenly say, "Well, I gotta go!" I would end the conversation whenever it got too weird, only because I didn't know what else to do. I wonder now, what would have happened if I would have just listened a little bit longer? Often times I wonder if I told Carlos, "I love you," and if he actually knew that I did? This is the biggest thing I struggle with after his death: Regretting the way I loved him and how I showed him I loved him.

I suppose this job is more than a job to me. It is a way for me to honor my brother's legacy. A way to stare mental illnesses in the face and not be afraid anymore of the weird moments, or the hard moments. It is a way for me to show up in a life of another human being and say, "I see you. I hear you. I understand. You matter. You have a value and a purpose. You are loved." Of course, I may not say it with words, but with my actions. And every single minute I am clocked in, my brother is on my mind. I guess you could say, I work to honor his legacy.

Carlos' legacy of determination, hard work, and courage are things I hope I hold onto every single day of my life. I only wish his heart would have kept going long enough for us to reconnect and restore our relationship. And I will always hope he knew I loved him more than he ever knew.

Transitions and Triumphs

I have my own room. I know it sounds like a common thing for most people, but this is no small feat for my present life. I have lived fairly nomadic in the past five years. Truth be told, it's not all been exciting.

I moved to the Twin Cities (aka Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota) a few years ago. My first gig was as a nanny for a lady who turned out to be a not-so-recovered recovering drug user. A new friend invited me to her home at the last second, which was an amazing gift. It did mean I had my own room, but I couldn't really decorate it "my way" and it was supposed to be temporary until I was married . . . another post for a different day, perhaps, but I stayed there for quite awhile. Then, I moved into a house that ended up being foreclosed on. Then, this Abraham Journey to Texas led me to a big house full of people who were lovely and three roommates! Eventually, I moved in with my sister, Meagan, and realized it would be lovely to have my own room again--like a grown up.

I have never slept well in new places. My very first apartment took me about 3 months before I slept in my actual bedroom. For some reason, I forgot this challenge until this week. I did well while my roomie was here, but she's back to work and not here much at night. I have come to regress heavily in any progress I was making in the issue of obtaining and maintaining a sleep cycle.

Transitions have never been my favorite. Change isn't something I have ever embraced. It all looks suspicious, so it feels bad and unsafe. I feel much more than logic would tend to bring to my mind, but I think that's the heart of anxiety--feeling more than truly thinking. I have been overwhelmed with the transition this time. My first mistake was thinking I could work full-time while also packing and moving. My second mistake was over-committing myself and making me exhausted so I became extremely ill in the matter of a few hours. Sparing you the details, it was awful.  For some reason, I lack all wisdom in dealing with change and transitions, seriously.

Today I find a new reality as I become a ball of anxiety at night. I used to feel like this every single day, so I know what it feels like. I know it's based on irrationals, lies, and twists of reality. I know what it is like to fear the unrealistic as though it is a logical progression. I know what it is like to doubt the shadows and jolt at the tiniest sound. Let me tell you: It is exhausting.

I can't admit all of this and deny the triumphs that exist at the same time. There's been a few that are noteworthy to me.

First, I found a life group. The craziest struggle on this Abraham Journey thus far was a small group/life group. I took a time out at the church I was at and opened up the door to meeting other people. Then, a friend suggested I give it another try. So far so good and I feel at peace back at the church I started with. The group is made up of some older and some younger than me, which I find ideal.

Additionally, I switched clients at work. This is no easy decision, but it proved to be wise. I have a lot of unique experience working with the elderly and challenging diagnosis, so I tend to get handed the challenging clients. However, today I learned my next primary one may not be so challenging. It's nice to have a break from the intense clients. It all started by me reaching out to my boss and continually doing so as though I am just as important and just as deserving to like my job as he does. I don't think I have ever been able to express myself with any supervisor so freely, which is a huge sign of healing.

I also reached out to friends for help. When I can't do a lot of continual stair climbing without passing out, this sounds really logical. However, it is a vulnerable and scary thing to say, "I need to do something that I can't do without your help. Please help me. This is what I need: _______. Will you help me?" There was a moment when my friend Joanna came up the stairs the 100th time and I felt like kissing her feet. How do you tell people thank you enough? This is the body of Christ, yes, but everyone has to choose to be an active part of it, which is a beautiful thing when they do!

Lastly, I have been fighting this anxiety with prayer and worship. It's a new sort of weaponry and one not commonly used in my situation. However, it feels more of a spiritual battle than a physical one, especially since the anxiety is not a 24-7 struggle. I have found constant worship music to be an amazing weapon, especially "You Make Me Brave" on repeat. I reached out to a couple friends who have been there and get it--friends who know this valley and still have hope in Jesus. It is not easy to admit to someone the illogical anxieties you have while also acknowledging they are limiting your rest. When you are met with people who understand you're not wanting to hear how irrational you are, but be affirmed in the emotional struggle it is a relieving conversation to behold.

While change will probably always be hard for me, I am thankful in the midst of them I can see God at work. Any triumph we have comes from Him alone. 

My Logos 365 for 2016

I am really late deciding not on my word, mostly because I couldn't decide and wasn't sure. Last year was complete and it was exactly that! 

I have decided this years word is "goals". It has been a year of learned to make goals, be goal-setting, and attempt to achieve goals.

Picking a verse for this year has been also hard, but I think I have settled with:

Philippians 3:14: "I press on toward the goal to win the [heavenly] prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."

I really like this verse because it reminds me to not forget the goals I'm attempting and keeps me encouraged!

What's your Logos? 

Listening + Journaling + God = Peace

When I was in d school, one thing that was talked about was creating a listening journal. It was explained as an effective way to tend your heart, opening yourself up to an intimate conversation with God and recording it. I latched onto it the first day I learned about it and grabbed an empty journal from my stash!

It is easy for me to forget to open up my heart to anyone. Any victim of trauma can testify that our general, automatic response with any other human or relationship is to self-protect. I am even more complicated when you add in the fact I was a child growing up with the trauma. Making sure there's walls around my heart and around me became my specialty, but it never brought me peace. Instead, I have realized living like this only closes you off to friendship, love, and growth. 

In the midst of the business of life, my Quiet Time evolves daily and is never exactly the same. I do this on purpose to avoid getting stuck in a rut, to avoid feeling like it is a chore, and to prevent myself from developing a legalistic view of my Quiet Time process that plagues many Christian women. I got so caught up doing other things that I forgot about my Listening Journal!!

There's a lot going on in my inner world these days. I have talked to a few friends about some of it this week. I have also prayed about it for several months. But today, I felt like I needed to really have a conversation with God about a few things. I grabbed my listening journal and began a beautiful conversation that was not only needed, but lifted my spirits.

When I started my listening journal, I knew I was gonna want a consistent color for recording God's responses back to me. I really wanted His presence clear and easy to find later. I decided to pick the color orange for His responses. Then, I learned the following: "Orange is associated with meanings of joy, warmth, heat, sunshine, enthusiasm, creativity, success, encouragement, change, determination, health, stimulation, happiness, fun, enjoyment, balance, sexuality, freedom, expression, and fascination. Orange is the color of joy and creativity." It sounds exactly like God!

Today I opened up to Him about some tough things and He not only listened, but provided some advice. He also was affirming, supportive, gracious, and full of love. It was exactly what I needed to hear to move forward.

I highly recommend a listening journal! It will change your relationship with God in amazing ways!! It will also grow you I'm ways you didn't think were possible.

An Empty Cupboard, Duct Tape, and a Box

This week I have been packing up the apartment I share with my roommate, Meagan. We are getting a 2 bed-2 bath apartment in the same complex. We move next Saturday.

I have moved so much in the past 5 years that I hate it, even when I should be excited it is the last thing I ever want to do. It is a ton of work!

One thing that is consistent about moving for me is how weepy I get, even when it is a good thing. I get a little bit sappy at the sight of an empty room, an empty cupboard, or even a duct tape label on a box.

Moving has always been a marker for significant times in my life. I was between 4th and 5th grade when we moved back to Minnesota after living four years in Arkansas. I lived in Bemidji, MN for 5 years and dated my fest two boyfriends, which was a huge marker. I moved back to my hometown during a horrible period of dealing with PTSD and depression. I moved to the Twin Cities to be closer proximity to the boyfriend I had at the time. Instead of getting married, I learned the importance of standards, the need for friendship, and setting boundaries. When I moved to Texas, I learned to trust God in ways I have never had to before. And now, I am moving to a place that will be my own for the first time in 5 years! My room and my bathroom are mine to do whatever I wish!! I can decorate how I want to, listen to whatever music I want to, and do art in my art studio I will have in my bedroom! I feel as excited as I feel nervous for the change. 

When I finished packing a section of kitchen cupboards the other day, I got all teary eyed. I started thinking back to when I paced my apartment in Fairmont to moved to the Twin Cities. I was so scared and full of hope at the same time. I was sad walking through my very first apartment in Bemidji when I was moving back to my hometown. There's something about an empty cupboard that is a sign of reality--I am really moving and won't be here anymore. Someone else will live here!

As I looked around and shed a few tears, I was thankful for what this move means. It means I have a home of my own. It means I have successfully moved out of state. It means I have a close friend. I means I am successful in that I can afford an apartment in a safe complex. It means I have trusted God on this journey and have shelter, protection, provision, and my own territory. I can be thankful for all I have been given regardless of certain things not panning out.