Whenever Maya Angelou visited the Twin Cities she stayed at the same hotel I worked at, and since I was the bellman, I was charged with pushing her around in her wheelchair.

So there I was, carefully steering her about and making sure I didn’t run into anything. Much of the experience consisted of just waiting for her to get ready, taking her to her room, meetings, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and basically wherever else she wanted to go.

by ambro freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve previously written about recovery avoidance in those with OCD, and how heartbreaking it can be for family and friends to know there is treatment for the disorder, yet their loved ones refuse to commit themselves to it. I’ve talked about how important it is for those with OCD to identify their values, so that the desire to regain the things they hold most dear could hopefully propel them toward recovery. But still, time after time, I hear of those who just can’t bring themselves to embrace treatment.

They are too afraid.

As someone without OCD, I have never understood this. In my mind, since OCD sufferers are already living a life of fear, it makes sense to pursue treatment (ERP therapy), and at least have this fear lead to some positive results: freedom from OCD. I know treatment is scary, but is it really scarier…

I’ve been pretty quiet, even though I’m bubbling over with stuff to share. I feel free and terrified and growing.Maybe these things need to sit, to work down into me before I broadcast them into this tiny corner of the interwebs.

I’ve been realizing -and practicing- belief as a choice, not a feeling. Sounds elementary, I know. It’s something I’ve known at a superficial level for a while, but the truth and experience of it is sinking down into me. I realized the other day that I don’t have to feel that Jesus is with me, has been with me through all of this pain, in order to believe  it. I get to CHOOSE what to believe. I use to find that prospect terrifying. It’s still pretty scary, but now I see the beautiful freedom in it as well.

And so I’ve been unweaving the heavy, soul-crushing chains that…

It is April. For me, it is a season heavily soaked with memory, like a towel submerged in water and then hung without being wrung out.

I wrestled with my cumbersome white trash bag out to the dumpsters, a taught paper bag of glass and plastic in my other hand. I felt aged, as if someone were to watch me from behind, they would think I was old and frail trying to wade through decades of memory. I have a new respect for the elderly.

I also finished a book recently that struck me deeper than I expected it to. It was The Bride Collector by Ted Dekker. Having read his stuff since I was a teenager and having taken a break from his writing for a few years, I circled back to it when…

I mean really, what do you do with that?

One of your best friends, a person you’ve admired and followed and tried really hard to be like, dies a horrible death. You’re shocked. Numb. Scared something similar might happen to you, given the political climate.

And then, a few days later, he’s standing in front of you.

Your mouth goes dry, agape. You hug, but you still don’t know how to believe the truth of what you’re holding. And then you’re sitting down on a mountainside, having supper and saying things like, hey Jesus, will you pass the cheese?

***

Lent is over. Easter is finished. I’ve been reminded. I’ve remembered. I’ve worked really hard at giving up my anger to be more like Jesus. And meanwhile, my…