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Category Archives: Christianity
my sister’s powerful dream
On the night of March 1st, 2004, my sister Kristin had this incredible dream that I’d like to share with you. Here she describes it in her own words:
Jesus is thrown into a whipping cage and I am thrown in with him by accident. He lays on me and says “I do not want anything to touch you. I love you SO much and because of that love I am going through this. I do not want that whip to touch you at all”. As he is saying this he is being whipped over and over again. I am crying and trying to hug him, but he won’t let me because he does not want any chance of the whip touching me. Blood is dripping on me, and there is so much because of how long they keep whipping him. I am seeing this up close and he is telling me over and over even with the whip hitting him, that he loves me so much and is going through this horrible death because he loves me. I am sobbing by this time.
Can you imagine? To experience this protection of Christ in a firsthand way like that? Living in this century, when we view Christ’s great rescue, it always seems to be from the spectator seat, not looking up from the base of the cross while His blood drips onto us. Even though it was sad and intense, I wish the dream had been mine. That is an experience to hold onto for life.
holidays are hard for some of us
Last year, I posted that Christmas isn’t fun for everyone, and today I am thinking again how that is true. And not only Christmas, but other holidays too.
Thanksgiving is just behind us, and to be honest, I am glad. Mine was fine, very lowkey– I spent it with my sister and brother, eating pizza and banana cream pie, watching the Dallas game and hushing my voice when the Cowboys fell behind the Redskins and my brother raged at the TV screen. It was fun, very chill, lazy, and we all met up at Mom and Dad’s house, even though the parents were in Missouri to see Grandma and the rest of Mom’s family.
But it’s these winter holidays that do me in. While everyone else is giddy with anticipation, I am anxious mostly for them to be OVER. Somehow there is an expectancy surrounding the actual holiday, something that stresses me out and makes me just want to return to normalcy.
I think, for me, it’s a combination of the cold weather (it snowed all afternoon in Minnesota on Thanksgiving), the claustrophobia of bundling up in jackets and scarves, real or imagined seasonal depression, and memories of high school, when the holidays were the hardest.
1997. Thanksgiving. It was the first real breakdown of my life. I can remember it like it was yesterday and not fifteen years ago. Was God real? How could anyone ever really know? And if I didn’t know, then wasn’t I hellbound? (Such a paradox, I know– if there was no God or heaven, then there would also be no hell.) I was in 10th grade, and OCD was swallowing me whole, and it would still be another seven years before it would even have a name.
I was in Missouri with the rest of the family, breaking away from the games and conversation and cooking upstairs to retreat to Grandma’s basement, lock myself in the bathroom, and sob. The ground had been taken from underneath my feet, and all I could do was weep– all while hiding it from the rest of the family, all those happy Christians upstairs, secure in their beliefs.
I can picture myself now, doubled over on the bathroom floor, lost and sad and scared and not understanding that God Himself could supercede my disbelief and make Himself known to me. It was a dark year that followed. I was scared of everything, especially of dying without knowing that God was real. I held my breath when I’d pass a car on the highway, knowing I was inches from my death– and maybe eternal death.
OCD, you thief. I hate you with such intensity.
For years after that, I could not return to Missouri without being triggered into a complete relapse which would take weeks to recover from. Once I went to college, I refused to return. I wonder what my mom’s side of the family thought– if they wondered if I was stuck-up or selfish for not making that 11-hour drive to see them. It was only once a year, for goodness sakes. They didn’t know any of the background, didn’t know the way that just crossing that state border into Missouri had become the instant switch for me to question my faith.
Christmas stumbled along after Thanksgiving, and it was just as hard. And so, these holidays over the years cemented themselves into difficult seasons that I would have to survive. And even though November and December are nothing like they were even ten years ago, those memories are strong.
I know there are a lot of people out there who will have such a hard time this season, those of you who have Christmas hang over you like a stormcloud, who will breath a sigh of relief when you return to “life as usual” on the day after New Years. I’m so sorry, and I totally understand. I hope that this year will be different for you– that God will supernaturally supercede your painful memories and depression and general feelings of wrongness, and that He will give you joy in your hearts instead of these.
As Christmas approaches, my prayer for you is this: Jesus Christ, You are the Word that became flesh, a holy incarnation that blows my mind every time I stop to consider it. Please overwhelm us with the sacred mystery of it all in ways that memories, depression, OCD, anxiety, and other mental illnesses can’t defeat. Jesus, be the mighty redeemer that You have been and continue to be and REDEEM this holiday season for those of us who need a rescue. Hold us in real ways that we can feel. Amen.
Holy Communion
I am not even joking, every Sunday morning after the pastor has preached and prayed and the band begins to play, it is all I can do to keep from running down that aisle toward the communion table. I am always eager for that bread and cup, that holy reminder of my Savior’s body and blood, and as I swallow in the pew, I think, This is the best meal of my week.
I am so grateful for Jesus Christ’s sacrifice, and I think this eucharistic sacrament is a beautiful and sacred way to celebrate it.
what I call good writing
There are essentially three reasons I will like a book:
1) The writing is beautiful. If the writing is lyrical, or the prose almost reads as poetry, or if the writer has great diction and uses sounds to her advantage, I’m captured. When an author does a dance with words and creates images that burst like berries on the tongue, I’m sold.
2) The plot is fascinating. I love books that have twists and turns and surprises. I don’t need them to be action-packed, just interesting, with interesting scenes and a great storyline.
3) The message is profound. When the story tugs at my heart or opens up my mind to new ways of understanding something, the book touches (and sometimes changes) my life.
Some books fall under one of these categories, and it is enough to make me love it. For example, Annie Dillard’s book For the Time Being is beautifully written (for that matter, pretty much anything she writes is!), but there is not really a plot to it, nor did its message truly change my life. Harry Potter has a thrilling storyline that completely pulled me in, and the series also has a wonderful theme of good versus evil, but I wouldn’t say that Rowling (in those books) is a lyrical writer, although she does have her moments! Hinds’ Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard is an allegory, and as such, the plot is pretty obvious, but the message deeply touched me and wrenched tears from me left and right. As you know, The Chronicles of Narnia are my absolute favorite for their fun plots and the deep truths in them, but the writing is not as beautiful as some other things Jack Lewis has written.
To me, some of the best writers are those who combine all three of these elements. Some of the best examples I have of this are The Book Thief by Markus Zusak (gorgeous writing, super fun storyline, excellent message), C.S. Lewis’s space trilogy (the writing is so masterful it makes me want to curl up inside of it, the plot is riveting, and the takeaways are tremendous), Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (literary writing at its very finest, interesting characters and storyline, an underlying message that is like a rock to stand on), and The Last Unicorn by Peter Beagle (breathtaking writing, intriguing fantasy plot, message that lingers long).
Your turn. What makes you like a book? Are you drawn to one of these three reasons over the others? What are your best examples of books that fit these categories?
the Great Lion
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Gala at Death
As I wrote yesterday, sometimes heaven scares me.
Here was an attempt to process my thoughts while in college:
Gala at Death
Consequently, my poems all died—even those unwritten—
when I realized that Revelation promises the annihilation of my pages,
that I will not be archived in Heaven’s library,
my words jacketed in celestial gold.
So now the hollow worth of writing’s result faults me
for delighting in my bookcase of sale-annex idols,
bothered by heavenly boredom—
nothing to read but the Bible for a slow eternity.
The apocalyptic book humbled my hands, but bowing, I knew
I’d wear white to the funeral. There all poems everywhere
then died to me—how easily paper curls and burns.
But literature’s epitaph reads, The Author of Life Wins,
and that graveyard is where writers worship God.
thoughts on heaven
I have heard it credited to Saint Augustine: “Make me chaste — but not yet.”
For a long time, that was my thought about heaven. I wanted to go there someday— but definitely not today.
Heaven scared me, and it still does sometimes. There is so much I don’t understand about it:
* How can something last forever?
* Won’t it get boring?
* If all imperfection is gone, who will I even be?
* Will we have goals?
* Will I still write?
* Will there be any challenges?
* Will I interact with others or only be focused on God?
Even now, thinking about it has made me a little uneasy.
My co-worker believes that heaven will be on earth. I seem to think it will be entirely separate. I know that I will be with Christ, and since He is my true love, I will be happy. But I still get a little scared sometimes. I’m so used to this earth, as messed up and sinful as it is. I know what it is like to desire things and work for them and how to draft and re-draft chapters in a bookstore on the weekends.
I used to be even more scared of heaven– before I read The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis, that culminating seventh and final book of the Narnia series. I won’t tell you what happens in it (my favorite book), but it eases my mind about heaven. It reminds me not of the questions I have but of the JOY I’ll experience being in the presence of my Savior.
joy in sorrow
I grew up hearing that happiness was situational but that joy was not: that joy was this solid rock you stood on, and it never moved, even when everything else around you was crashing down. I was supposed to feel a deep-seated joy, even when I wasn’t happy. I knew this. I tried to make it be true, tried to convince others that it was.
But for much of my life, if you were to strip away all the smiles and masks, I was resting on an uncomfortable bedrock of deep sorrow, bondage, and fear– and oceans below, barely visible, there was a flickering hope. I smiled often– sometimes it was fake, sometimes it was real. There were moments of joy, real instances where it flashed so bright that I couldn’t see the ugliness around me.
It’s different now.
I have what I always wanted while growing up, and it is incredible. Even when I am feeling low, depressed, frustrated with friends or with my writing life, or even deeply saddened, I am grounded like an anchor to JOY. I have a permanent seat inside it, and from that seat, I can experience the whole wide range of other emotions, but I don’t move from the chair.
I believe that anyone who loves Jesus Christ can have this be true. In my early life, the problem was that I was convinced by a lie: I believed that my future was not secure in my Savior. Obsessive-compulsive disorder robbed me of that truth. Cognitive-behavioral therapy restored it.
What is at your core today? Are you standing immovable on joy, or something else? Why is that?
mmm, the gospel
My co-worker Brittane and I try to have lunch together whenever we can– last spring, amidst some crazy parts in our lives, we were getting together every Friday, walking over to the college cafeteria, and sharing as much of our lives as possible over our short lunch break. Brittane would roar at me, “THE GOSPELLLLLL,” with one hand raised in the air in praise, her reminder to both of us to KEEP THINGS IN PERSPECTIVE, and over the course of several months, it became our war-cry. Our prayers shortened to, “Thank you for this food, this friend, and the gospel.” Then we would each raise a hand and repeat, “THE GOSPELLLLL!”
Gospel. Good news.
And it belongs to us. I am so happy to have this good news in my chest like a story, covering me like a shield, on my brow like a crown. I claim it. I spread it over my life like a blanket, like a slogan.
Jesus Christ lived and died and lives again; it makes all the difference in my life.
JACKIE LEA SOMMERS 
