And I Love You

I don't think it is too much of an exaggeration to say that when Sergey and I moved to this house in Spring, we came to it the way wounded animals crawl into a burrow to lick their wounds. Within a year of our marriage, we each endured a blow that exploded our respective frameworks of how the world works. Recovery was long, arduous, and we were grateful to have each other through it.

I think, for most of the time we have been here, we have chased repair and recovery for both this house and ourselves. Sergey would say I took charge of most of it, calling and politely harassing contractors, but he forgets to take credit for working through how to make the garage motor work when it stops once or twice a year, and the deep YouTube dives he did to fix running toilets. Not to mention the many dozens of huge cockroaches he whacked for me while I cowered up on a stool.

Together we slowly turned this neglected wreck into a home. We filled it with the smell of good food, tweaking recipes we wanted to perfect until we had them just right. We've come to somewhat of a balance with neighbors who would prefer we keep our lawn pristine, while we prefer to stay indoors forever. There's at least two handmade blankets on every nappable surface. The decor gives guests a sense of whimsy, and there is a general vibe of rest and relaxation throughout the house.

I think the first step out of recovery, for me, was leaving social media. It was a baby step, comparatively, but it shunted me in the right direction. The next series of steps all centered on working on my novel, The Remara Phenomenon.

And then I read Defeating Dark Angels and I Give You Authority. As I did, I realized two exhilarating things.

First, I think I'm out the other side. This isn't recovery anymore, this is taking back ground that was lost. This is eating into enemy territory. This is stepping into the place I was always supposed to occupy in life. I'm out of the little burrow and bounding up into the sunlight again. There might be a few more scars on my hide, but these days I only limp when the weather is rough.

My second point is long, so bear with me. I finally came to a small sliver of personal understanding about who Father God and Jesus are. All my life I knew I was supposed to love Him for what He'd done, but it's difficult for me to understand the weight of Jesus dying on the cross for me. Many people who come to the Lord as an adult report a before and after feeling, but I grew up swimming in Christian soup. I have no before and after picture once I accepted Jesus, not one I can remember at any rate. What Jesus did for me was something I accepted with gratitude, but no real understanding of how it impacts me, today, driving down the '45 and dodging tailgaters on my way to pick up lunch or drop off a load of library books.

From time to time, the reality of Jesus would break through to me. There were moments scattered like breadcrumbs throughout my life where I would know, without a shadow of the doubt that cloaks my every waking moment, that He is real and that He does love me and wants my good--which sometimes means an immediate pain as I shed things that harm me. Because of these breadcrumbs and the way He looked after my parents, I could not walk away. There was truth here, but it seemed like it was mostly for my parents and only extended over me as an umbrella because of them. Even so, I craved closeness with Him. I wanted the intimacy with Jesus and the Father that I saw others had.

But I didn't love Him. I didn't even know how. I wanted to, but how do you love someone you can't see? Someone you feel like you only hear sporadically?

I spent years bound in lengths of anchor chain to depression. I learned all the right tools and I changed my lifestyle and worked hard on this for years, and when I thought I had mostly broken free of it, I turned to find that I'd always been linked to an equally thick chain of anxiety, and all my tools were only for depression.

Then I was given a copy of Defeating Dark Angels, and suddenly several things became real to me.

• Prayer has real effects, both spoken aloud and offered silently.
• What Jesus did in his life on earth was a model for us to follow because He did them as a man, laying aside his divinity in part so he could show us how we could live.
• What Jesus did in his death was not only redeem us, but replace us in our rightful tier of authority in the spiritual realm. Which leads back to the first point.

As Sergey and I prayed for each other and felt things break off that we had assumed we would have to live with all our lives, something began to change for me. I can only describe it as the assurance and confidence of a lightweight who has had two glasses of wine on a full stomach. You're not drunk, but there's a sort of freedom you feel to step into your decisions, your personality, and your emotions in full.

I have that for most of every day now, minus the alcohol.

Recently as I sat at the kitchen island thinking about this, something finally clicked for me.

Oh. You are the God who breaks the chains. You are the God who just set me free, and You are continuing to work at setting me free from the rest of it. And You've been working toward this my whole life. I think... I think I love You.

I couldn't love God the way that is often spoken of because it wasn't real to me. Freedom hadn't happened for me, only for those around me. But as it did happen for me, and as it happened in exactly the perfect timing, the story He's writing started to slide into place and everything in me cried out in gratitude and joy in that moment.

I still do not understand much of the Bible, even when I read portions of it over and over. I still do not hear Him as often as I would like. But He is real, and the effect of prayer is real, and this freedom is both real and something I could not have done this quickly myself.

Thank You, Father, for teaching me to begin to love You. Please keep my heart close, as I am prone to straying. Help me learn all I need to learn in this time period. My legs are healing, show me the new path.