With Each Stitch

I’ve broken my heart more than once.  In fact, I think if you could open my chest and get a real true picture of my heart you would see staples where each time someone lost my trust.  It would be wrapped in scotch tape from moments of unrequited love and held gingerly together by knots of twine in the places where the aches have leaked through.  We’ve all been in that place, crippled by broken hearts that seem to be barley beating.

Truth be told, I have found myself in that place more times that I’d like to admit.  I’ve been broken by boys, by things that may have never really been mine, and by ending in places I never hoped to find.  We have all been let down by loved ones and felt like someone was throwing us away with the garbage.  And in the moments of heaviness, where it’s a task to even swallow, I look down at the pieces that I’m sure will never be put back in place.

The first boy that broke my heart was the one who gave me my first kiss.  He first was my best friend and then I began wishing for something more.  It was my senior year of high school, a challenging year for me to say the least, and He was my best friend.  He was one year older and off to college for my final year at home, but he was still the last one I talked to at night before going to sleep and the first one I wanted to tell all about the details of my day.  When I began to harbor more than friendship feelings, we began to talk about becoming more.  Was it worth it, to risk such an amazing friendship?  Would it even work?  We pondered the thoughts and ended up with a decision to give it a shot. 

Now I had never been kissed and I had the mentality that I wanted it to be special.  I desired to spend it on someone worthwhile.  It was something that I respected myself for and equally found embarrassing.  There I was, age 18, about to graduate high school, and still without my first kiss.  While I wanted it to have meaning it wasn’t a fact I paraded around.  And then one weekend, while I was down visiting him at school, he took me to the beach and kissed me.  It was perhaps the single most awkward moment of my life.  I was nervous, okay terrified, and all in all it was a big fat fail.  Typical of me, I was over thinking the whole thing and to this day when I think of that moment I cringe and duck hoping that maybe it was just a bad dream.  Luckily, he was my best friend, we laughed, and vowed to try again, another day.

I returned home from the weekend and simultaneously stopped receiving any phone calls from him.  It was torturing and I wondered if my awkward kiss had scared him away.  Then on a Thursday night my phone rang.  All he had to say was that it was over.  Cut and dry, we were through.  Through?  But hadn’t we just started?  I felt cheated, robbed, and mostly betrayed.  My best friend was no longer my best friend but the boy who broke my heart.

That first night was the worse.  I cried, I cursed, and I begged for the pain to subside.  I gasped for air and when I caught a glimpse of my blotchy, tear stained face in the mirror, I cried again.  I thought that I would never be the same and believed I would never be whole again.

While that was the first boy who broke my heart, it wasn’t my first heartache.  Life has been filled with them.  Friendships have crumbled, dreams have been crushed, lives have been lost, and secrets have been told.  This world we live in is drenched with ways in which to break us.  Devastation lurks in the crevices of every day life.

They say that time heals everything and while the reality of that is overbearing, it is truth.  But I believe in a bit more.  I will take a stance and say that in time, it is He who heals all wounds.

In Psalm 147:3 it says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

He picks us off of the bathroom floor, wipes away the pool of tears and blood, and wraps our wounds.  In his arms, he swaddles our souls and kisses our foreheads.  Our God reminds us that His love heals and He bandages our skinned knees and bruised souls with grace and peace.  He makes space in time to bind our broken parts.


Life can happen to us.  It can knock us down, leave lumps in our throats, and drop us barefoot into a pile of our broken pieces.  But, we can take comfort and claim in faith that he will pick us up, remind us of our worth, and heal us of all of our ailments.  My heart may be battered but it is still beating. In the aftermath of every ache I can look down at the pieces and know that by His mercies He will make me whole.  Again and Again. With His skillful surgeon hands he stitches us back together, covering our incisions with His truth.   With each stitch, He heals our heartache.

Here and There

 I awoke this morning tired for what the day had in store.  I was already tired at the thought of fighting rush hour traffic to take Nate in to work and for the long conversation I would have with a new doctor about my complicated health history.  I took a shower and packed along God for the ride.  I wasn’t sure we’d talk much or if I’d get the chance for a proper prayer but I knew better than to leave home without him.

When I saw the sun, I thanked Him for a break from the rain.  While at the doctor’s I let Him quiet me in my fears during an intense exam and He helped me breathe when I received the tragic news.  I received a text informing me that someone in our best friend’s inner circle had committed suicide.  My heart was immediately heavy with their pain and their cries.  What horrific news to receive, on any day, at any time. 

Immediately, I began to pray.  Lord, be with my friends, comfort the family, do anything and everything to free them from such pain.  And almost instantaneously I was embarrassed.  Embarrassed that I so desperately call out to a God who is busy dealing with obviously much bigger things.  Then my prayer began again, “Don’t worry about me, Lord.  Please go and attend to much greater things.”

I prayed this same prayer a couple weeks ago.  It was late at night and I was up past my bedtime, watching the wreckage in Japan.  I saw footage of the debris left in the aftermath of the earthquake and I watched live as the tsunami uprooted and destroyed everything in its path.  Later that night, as I lay safe in my bed, I felt guilty that lives were being lost in mass, while I was simply falling asleep.  I prayed a prayer for the victims of Japan and then I laid in shame for my past pleas to God.

Have you ever felt like that?  Like life walks up, slaps you in the face, and your perspective is totally changed.  Who am I to bother God?  My depression, my pain- it’s all so insignificant compared to everything else.  But the beauty in our constantly broken world is that He is with us, all of us.  He is with you, here with me, and present among all of them.

In Matthew, Jesus says, “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Who am I to bother God?   Well, I am His child that He loves.  While other cries may be more prominent, we worship a God that is big enough and great enough to attend to it all.  He hears my silly grumbles and is still able to offer peace in the midst of tragedy.  With assurance and confidence He says, “Surely I am with you always.” Today, tomorrow, and forever, I am with you and I am upholding them.

It comes down to this.  God was busy today.  While I awoke this morning tired, fussed over what to wear, and worried about what to cook for dinner, He heard my grumbles and the cries of every other person on this planet.  He never wakes tired because He never rests and meal times don’t concern Him because He’s too busy for a bite to eat.  But, he is busy because He is there.  I don’t have to worry about leaving home without Him because He is everywhere.  He sat with me at the doctor’s office, was with you during your morning coffee, and accompanied many more on an afternoon run.  It was Him that held me in my frustration and pain, brought comfort to those devastated in Japan, and listened to the very last whispers, in the final moments, of that hurting man’s life.

He hears every cry and is present in every place.  The earth will tremble and the seas will roar and our God is with us.  I don’t have to wish Him away to be with those more battered than me because He is more than able.  God is capable of hearing my silly problems and attending to their wailing grief.  And He carries us all. 

Now I can pray, “Thank you for being here with me and there with them.  For loving me and listening to them.  I will rest in your presence while you hold them in their confusion and sorrow.  You are greater than any other.”  Surely He is with us.  Here and there.  Always.

Just the Same

As a little girl, I would sit on the stoop of our front porch and pretend to be a movie-star.  I’d sit with my heart-shaped sunglasses, my baby in a stroller, with a purse by my side and I would imagine life as a celebrity.  I would make-believe to my imaginary friends, the ins and outs of my famous life, and I’d dream of happy-ever-afters.  When I look back now, my adult-self recognizes that I had a desire to be known.  I still do.  In fact, I believe that each of us wants to be known.  We yearn for a life filled with reciprocal relationships and interactions and exchanges that make us more than just a number.  We want to be known.

Whether we admit it to ourselves or not, when someone knows more than just our frame, we feel valued.  It surprises my husband when I can pre-calculate his response to a certain situation.  He is always astonished exclaiming, “How did you know, I’d say that.”  And each time, I smile at him and say, “…because I know you.”  I know that according to him there is a right way and a wrong way for the toilet paper to roll off its dispenser.  I know he likes to whistle in the shower and that he likes to drink water from his cereal bowl when he is finished eating.  He is very adamant about how he washes his face and how he dries it off.  I know that his face lights up when he sees babies or little children and that he worries about blocked arteries and cholesterol more than most.  He may find it silly that I can recall to memory the little things that make him who he is but I know that when I recognize all his unique parts, he is made more aware of how much I love him.

We desire to be heard, to go noticed, and to be known.  As much as we are frightened by vulnerability, we desire to share our secrets rather than live an anonymous life.  However, it is common that we want people to see our good, just not the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I know that for me, I want people in my life to know me, but probably only to a certain extent.  I would hate for them to see my ugly thoughts, my angry grunts, and my judging ways.

We’d be okay if being known meant that people had a photo-shopped image of us and were barred access to any paparazzi photograph that catches us in our imperfections.  It would be less stressful if we could arrange bouquets of words to describe ourselves and send them out in brilliant press releases.  Yet, the truth is to be known by someone means that they recognize your good and extend grace on your faults.  Few of us ever bask in the gift it is to be truly known because we are afraid to bring light to our dark spots.

In Psalm 139:1-4 it says, “O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.  You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.  Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, oh Lord.”

My God knows me.  All of me, in fact.  He knows my thoughts and is familiar with my life.  The God of the entire universe knows me and in more ways than I can could ever even conceive.  He and I are on more than just a first name basis.  He knows my thoughts before they are even my own and He loves me still.  My God knows me completely.  He is aware of my jealousy, my impatience, and my frustrations and He cares about all of it.

Can you even imagine?  This God knows it all.  That’s enough to send me into a frantic sweat.  But the verses go on to say that there is nowhere we can hide from Him.  No place where we need to hide because even from the far ends of the earth He will guide us and hold us.  We are truly known by a God that loves us.  There isn’t a need to conceal the bad and the ugly because He already is aware and still has chosen to love us and call our names.

On a brave day, I let Nate in on one of my “keep it to myself” thoughts.  I start by stating that it will be very unattractive, I word vomit my blood boiling secret, and then I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath.  It’s like I am waiting for him to look at me in disgust, break his vows to love me, and walk away.  Instead, he finds a way to encourage me in my imperfections and loves me just the same.  Nate, like God, knows me and even still loves me.

My little girl dreams were built on being a celebrity.  I wanted my name in lights and for people to think that I was beautiful.  Those dreams have since faded and my desire now is to simply be known in the hopes of being loved.  I am blessed to have a man, a family, and friends who do just that.  But, the one who knows the whole truth- every treacherous thought and twisted logic, lifts my head from being hung in shame and reminds me that no matter where or what, He has searched me and loves me just the same.

One Stumbling Step

 I like to have my ducks all lined in a row.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love a spontaneous adventure, but find comfort in knowing things will work out just fine.  Unfortunately, life isn’t about guarantees. Often the roads we travel, to the places we end up, make absolute no sense at all.  If there is one thing we can be certain of it’s that the end results we see come about out of changed plans, rerouted directions, curveballs, and the aftershocks of being thrown for a loop.

Towards the end of my Master’s program, my studies took me overseas to study abroad in Asia.  The trip was set to include time in Hong Kong, Mainland China, Korea, and Taiwan.  Every few days we would change locations, lugging our books and baggage to another ancient land.  My closest friends on the trip were all boys, a few who had become my lifelines throughout my grad school days, but I formed an instant connection with a girl named Sara.

           

I knew who Sara was, prior to the trip, but we had never officially been introduced.  Our first stop on our journey was Hong Kong and Sara and I immediately bonded over a fear for our culinary options and while shopping in the crowded, humid, street markets of that international city. 

The trip was enjoyable for the first four days and then my world was tipped upside down.  We were staying at a university in Korea and one afternoon, we Americans, thought it would be fun to challenge some of the local students to a basketball game.  Quite a crowd gathered around to watch us play and we were off to an early lead.  While defending my opponent, who had possession of the ball, my leg buckled underneath me and before I had any time to react I had fallen onto the ground with my entire body weight landing on my right arm and wrist.  I quickly got back up and new immediately that my arm was broken.

Now breaking your arm stateside is one thing, but breaking a limb where western medicine is not quite up to par is a whole other.  I received a ride to the hospital on a bumpy, windy back road while trying to stabilize my mangled arm.  When we arrived at the hospital, I watched large bugs scurry across the floor as we attempted to translate our needs.  The doctors offered me their best pain reducing meds, something very similar to ibuprofen, to quiet the pain.  Suffice to say, it did not do the trick.  After a few rounds of x-rays we discovered that my wrist, hand, and arm were all broken in several places.  As the doctors went about the task of resetting my arm, they managed to dislocate my elbow and tear a few ligaments and tendons along the way.  I was put in a splint until the swelling reduced and a few days later in Taiwan was fit for a cast. 

The cast I received in Taiwan was a complete laughing matter.  The size of the cast, once wrapped around my hand, wrist and upper and lower arm, was larger than my upper thigh.  It took around 4 days to dry and ended up weighing between 15 and 20 pounds.  As a right-handed patron, life, let alone traveling were my arch nemeses.  Lucky, for me Sara was there to help me laugh through this awful reality.  She helped me tie my hair, put on deodorant, and change in and out of clothes.  In fact, she literally became my right hand man.  There we were, two brand new friends, thrown into a comical situation that required her to extend grace to me and I had to allow myself to become vulnerable in front of her. The two of us superficially found common ground for the first four days of the trip and then we became sisters.

I enjoyed Sara’s company and had fun shopping with her but I never imagined having to ask her to help me complete such intimate tasks.  It’s odd to have to ask some to button your pants or tie your shoes at the age of twenty-four.  I, myself, was equally embarrassed and humbled while Sara was willing and able.  God often brings us to places of complete dependence in order to show us His paths.

In Proverbs 16:9 it says, “We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.”

I had a plan to travel to Asia, finish my degree, and have a little fun along the way.  No disasters, no casualties, and no life-changing relationships.  But, the Lord had a different plan.  He didn’t want me to just experience Asia and walk away with a completed Master’s diploma.  He planned that I would walk away with a best friend.  Sure, traveling would have been less hectic, I may have been able to enjoy a few more things with the use of all my limbs, but God wanted me to learn more than just international business and chopstick fluency on this journey.  His plan was to humble me and simultaneously provide for me.  I believe that Sara and I would probably still be friends to this day without a broken arm but I’m not sure what it would look like.

We, as humans, like to take control.  I am guilty of desiring the ability to make a way for myself.  Yet, God’s way always seems to be better than our own.  It definitely throws our ducks out of order and may appear to make no sense at all but in the end, we are stronger and blessed by His provisions.  Life isn’t about guarantees but with Him guiding our steps we can be certain that He knows what He is doing.  God has already made a way for us.  It may seem terrifying and dizzying but when we submit ourselves to His plans and the steps He has for us we can rest assured that He has our best interest at heart.  No matter what, He promises that He will determine our steps.  We can try and make our own plans and map out our own ways but He leads us on journeys far better than our own.

With one stumbling step, that I didn’t have planned, I broke my arm and gained a best friend.  Traveling to a foreign land always forges a thousand memories.  But for me, Asia provided more than just things to be remembered.  I found Sara, my lifelong friend.  She has seen me through heartache and pain. She has listened to me cry and done her best to make me stronger.  Sara was the first friend I introduced my future husband to and she knew he was the one for me.  We have shared dreams and disappointments.  On her wedding day, I stood beside her as her Maid of Honor and on mine; she stood there with me just the same.  Today we share a long distance friendship that covers many miles but I know she is always just a phone call away.  God’s plan included me breaking an arm in order that I might find depth with a new friend.  His plan was better than mine.  While my right arm may never function the same, the Lord led me to a friend, who changed my life for the good.

Faithful Provisions

Currently, I dread when the conversation turns to me.  I am afraid when people ask what my life looks like because I am embarrassed of the successes I have as defined by the outside world.  While my parents paid for me to receive an education at a private university and I delved into a life of student loans to fund my graduate endeavors, I sit here with nothing to show for it.  The diplomas are proof of a well achieved academic life and the student loan statements provide the undeniable evidence that it was I who earned a Master's degree.  Yet I am unemployed and not by choice.  I have spent a few years applying, interviewing, and desperately longing for a 9-5.  I've lost track of how many applications and cover letters I fill out and send.  And after each interview that I think I have nailed, I sit on the couch in my own disappointment, with tears burning my eyes, as I receive the news of yet another rejection letter.

I want to know about my friends lives and I don't want to be sparred the details.  I desire to encourage them and cheer them on and then I hope for the conversation to end.  Not because I don't enjoy the company of their phone calls but because I don't want to have to tell them that I think I've failed.  For a girl who lived as an over achiever, I get panic stricken when I don't have any successes within my grasp.  While I know I am the luckiest girl alive to call my husband "mine," I wonder what comes after the white dress. 

I am filled with envy when friends plan trips, make plans to buy new cars, and post pictures of new fashion ensembles.  I wish that that was our life, our dream vacation, and our shiny new car.  I believe those things aren't ours because of me.  I don't believe they are the definition of happiness but I resent myself for not being able to supplement my husband some well-deserved fun.  And so each week I wrestle with myself, my purpose, and my failed attempt at success through unemployment.

I wonder what my friends think of me.  Do they think I'm lazy, unmotivated?  Do they believe I lack drive?  My family reminds me it does not matter what they think because we know the truth.  I know my circumstances and I know that a full-time job would wreak havoc on my fragile body.  I spend my time volunteering and looking for ways to still feel alive.  And I cry.  Angry tears because this is not how I pictured my professional life.  And tears of sorrow and shame because I don't know if things will ever change.

That's just it.  I don't know if things will ever look different than right here and right now.  Sure we may one day have more than one car and a one bedroom apartment but will I always be embarrassed of my tiny list of professional achievements?

In the bible it says, "Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands." Deuteronomy 7:9

Faithful?  My God?  I will admit I don't always understand His definitions of what it means to be faithful.  Sometimes His extensions of faithfulness, the olive branches He brings, seem like just the contrary.

But my God, He is God.  And today, I have to believe that there is faithfulness in the unemployment.  That His covenant of love for me is even present in this situation.  There is a reason for where I am at.  While financially we may hunt for more, Nate and I know that there is faithfulness in keeping me unemployed.  Only God knows what my body can withstand.  He is the only one who knows the amount of pain I am in and so He keeps me here.  Worldly successes aside, He is faithful and knows what we need in every season.  His covenant of love is apparent in the faithfulness He has provided in a loving husband, a roof over my head, and food to nourish me.  My God is a shelter in the storm.

No matter our circumstances, we must remember that God is God and He is faithful,  every day.  In unemployment and in pain, His promises are kept.  Life's aim is not to be happy or to have things to show off to the world.  Life is about loving and recognizing the blessings of His faithfulness in our insecurities.

I still cringe at times when the conversation turns to me, but He knows what is best.  And while God's faithfulness does not always look like what we might dream up on our own, it still remains.  Perhaps he hasn't left me here, in a state of unemployment.  Yet instead, He has been faithful in giving me the right conditions for my body and health in this place.  Call me crazy, but hey, He is faithful.  It's up to us to realize his provisions right in the middle of our believed to be problems.

Author's Note

The following series is about a very personal, raw part of my life.  I am unable to convey through words the experience in its entirety.  This is my first attempt to write about it.  I realize the sentences may be jumbled, the words may not always flow, but I ask for grace, from you, the reader.  I was unable to capture the whole experience in words but it was important for me to share what I could on this day.

Half Past March- Part III

 His first attempt to save me came in the form of gags.  I clenched fist full after fist full of pills, some little and some big, and with each swig of water I gagged.  My body shook as I tried to swallow down my escape.  I fought back the urge to vomit while panic seized my body.  I answered my phone for one last conversation with my mom.

I told her it was too late.  I relayed to her that I had taken, at the very least, 300 pills, and now it was only a matter of time.  I stayed on the phone with her as things began to get hazy.  I cried and asked her why God didn’t care.  I wanted to know what I had done wrong and why I had no strength to go on.  She listened as I recounted events from my childhood.  And then I began to get very sleepy, minutes would go by and I would not say a word.  I would wake back up to the screaming of my name.  She yelled to me, begging to wake me from my trance.  Through her fear and mine, she reminded me and kept telling me that even though I could not feel it and even though He seemed so far off- God was with me in that moment.  She begged me to cling to Him and I told her I was trying.

The truth was that I really was trying.  I was hanging onto the side of a cliff and I was still holding on.  My intelligence told me that He was there.  But, my heart- my poor heart could not feel His presence.  I was consumed by a lie, fed to me from the enemy, that my God, my Savior had forgotten me.  I believed that I was not worth it to Him.  I cried for His strength because I was emptied of my own.  As I lay my head on the steering wheel I begged for Him to hold me.

I’m not sure how much time passed before I heard their yells.  I heard my name being yelled and he sounded angry. I was collapsed over the steering wheel of my white Jeep Grand Cherokee Dream car and I was wracked with fear. “Kathryn Elizabeth Scudder,” he yelled.  He knows me?  The people pleaser in me jumped to attention.  I struggled to lift my head and there they were.  With rocks in hand, they begged for me to open the car.  I was afraid to let them down and so I think I leaned over and hit the unlock button.

They rushed me to their guardian angel mini-van.  Alan, a long time family friend, received a call from my dad who had asked him to pray.  My dad was getting on a flight to come to me but he was asking Alan, a trusted friend who was already in southern California, to help in any way he could, while my dad waited to board a plane that would take him to that same place.  After hanging up with my dad, as I am told, Alan got in his car and drove the hour to get to my university.  In the parking lot of my university, he ran into Daniel.  Daniel, the kindest of men, had heard the news of my disappearance and Alan urged him to get in his car.  Alan told Daniel that he would drive and Daniel would navigate where they were to go.  And so they drove.  They prayed that God would direct their car to me and He led them thirty miles, down freeways, up mountains, and around the final turn where they spotted the white Jeep.

Alan asked Daniel for the nearest hospital and Daniel relayed the directions and we began a bumpy ride down the mountain.  Alan took charge in the front and Daniel held me in the back.  His hands cupped my face just inches from his own and he begged for me to speak to him.  I remember being self-conscious of my breath as he asked me questions about my family. We talked about how my dad would make a good president, we shared our love for the San Francisco Giants, and then I gave him my final instructions.  I told him the name of each of the girls in my small group and I made him promise to look after them.  I told him what they needed prayer for and I think I cried because I knew I was letting them and my family down.

We arrived at the hospital and I remember very little from there on.  I vaguely recall doctors feeding me charcoal to absorb the poisons in my tummy and I know that I flat-lined more than once in that emergency room.  The doctors were not sure of my chances and I know I stumbled out of my coma to the sound of my brother’s and sister’s voices a day or so later (but that is a story for another day).

What I do know is this:  I called and He came to my rescue.  He sent his angels up that mountain so I would not have to make the journey down alone.  I am also sure that our faith is not a faith of feelings.  In my darkest hour, I not only felt that God was absent but I believed that He no longer cared for me.  I thought I was a disappointment to Him.  The truth is that He loved me all along.  He delivered me from the depths that I pray no other man has to see.  The Lord quieted my tears.  And when I cried out to Him, He answered me.

In my pain and exhaustion I was blinded to the truth.  My attempt to take my own life was not because I thought life would be better for the ones I loved without me around.  It was the answer to the lie that my God no longer wanted to hold me, that His strength was no longer available to me.

In the scriptures it says, “ The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” Psalm 18:4

I take my stance behind Him.  He is my rock, the fortress in which I reside.  My God delivers me and is where I find refuge.  My power, my strength, comes from Him. 

We must believe in His promises.  They must connect from our head to our heart.  The promises He has made are true.  I must rely on the words that are written.

My attempt to reach death before His timing is a part of my story.  You can call me crazy (but it will hurt my feelings) and you can say I am a fool.  I wonder at times why I had to go so far into the depths, but that is not as important as the real message of this story.

The truth is He saved me.  He sent two angels (to whom words will never do justice) to carry me to Him.  And He held me.  In fact, He was holding me all along.  God chose to extend grace to me by sparing my life. 

Six years ago today I tried to take my own life.  I lost my way because my feelings failed me.  Our faith is more than feelings.  We must stand upon a foundation of His promises whether we “feel” them or not.  It is my prayer that part of my story will remind others that God does care, even when we are sold the lies and led to believe otherwise by the evil one.

Waking up from that coma may have been the hardest moment of my life.  My brain’s first thoughts were four letter expletives and then I began the long and hard journey back to living.  Back to not only the belief, but to the foundation of truth that He loves me.  He is my rock, my power, strength, and fortress.  He has redeemed me.

I was born in December, but every year at half past March, I celebrate the chance He gave me to live again.  My faith is more than a feeling.  I will remain in His promises and each year I will crawl further and further from the wreckage of a lie that so horribly deceived me.  Whether I feel His presence or not, I shall remember through His promises that He is there.