Three and a half years ago, I think I was depressed. What a weighty word - depressed. I get imposter syndrome when I use it, but I can’t think of a better word to describe it. I was living in Auburn, Alabama, less than a year after a cross-country move I had made three weeks before a global pandemic changed everything. I was crying a lot at this point in my life. I remember laying on my bed in the tiny back room of my shared apartment, talking on the phone with a friend who had also just moved across the country. I said hollowly, “I don’t know if I’m really depressed. I know I’ll be okay. But also, I think I’d be relieved if I didn’t wake up tomorrow.”
So I guess I was probably depressed.
A few months later, I made the decision to move back home to the Midwest. It was a blow to my ego, and simultaneously, it was a relief like I had never known before. I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
It’s funny how what felt like the end of the story at the time has now become the beginning of another. From my current vantage point, I view that moment as the end of my college years, and also, more importantly, the end of my naive, innocent faith. The days of a faith built on emotional experiences, worship concerts, and flashy sermon illustrations were over. I was coming out of a time of wrestling with God, and there was no going back.
Sometimes I miss those days. It was easy to follow Jesus then. As long as I felt good, then I knew Jesus was good, that he was for me. But that kind of faith isn’t faith. It is built on sand. The Lord knew that, and he washed it away in order to teach me to build on the Rock, the Fortress who would not be moved.
He is strong and sure, a deep well that never runs dry, unafraid to wrestle with our questions, and full of mercy for those who doubt.
Maybe from the outside, the faith of my college years and immediate post grad looks stronger. It was loud and boisterous and posted a lot more Instagram stories. But it was flimsy. It was dependent on the right worship song to hear the Spirit, and when I couldn’t hear? Devastating.
God himself tore down the old in order to build something new. But it’s not new. It is the faith of the centuries, full of tradition and history. Rooted in the Scripture, the liturgy, the faith of those giants who have gone before me. Those who were not naive to the pain and suffering of the broken creation - those who knew loss, sickness, and devastation - but who also knew the Redeemer, the Restorer, the Comforter.
He is the firm foundation on which I’ve built, and in every new stage of life, he remains steadfast and solid.
Since I moved home, I’ve become a wife, an aunt, and a mother. So little of my life is the same as it was then, so little of me is the same as I was then. I’m grateful for both.
Anyway, what am I doing here? Why am I writing this? I don’t really know. But words have always been the way I’ve processed the world and my life, and now that I have a baby, it feels important that I keep writing, keep thinking, keep dwelling. And frankly, this is faster than paper.
I don’t really love the idea of sharing what I write. It’s like sharing a secret. It’s intimate and vulnerable, and I’m terrible at both those things. But I think it matters. I think the words and experiences of others give us hope, give us encouragement, give us strength. So I hope you read this, and all the other things I may or may not share, and know that God is not afraid of your sorrow, your questions, or your pain. He knows them deeply, and he has lived them with you.
I hope this is a place where you can discover that all that is good and true and beautiful is found in Him alone.
This is beautiful, Amber! Thanks for sharing! ❤️