Wreck My Life Read online

  What happened to giving God the glory and the blessings raining down? What happened to the mountaintop? To giving praise and, in turn, receiving protection? To glorifying God and, in response, finding His favor? This wasn’t what my life was supposed to look like. This wasn’t how it was supposed to all play out. This couldn’t come from a good God. Because if God was good, if He was holy, how could He let this disaster happen? I knew no hope, I knew no joy, I knew no happily ever after.

  I ran, next, from hope. From any trust in God’s truth.

  A good God?

  A loving God?

  I didn’t know if I believed that God was true.

  I felt a hole so deep and so painful in my heart that it burned in my chest. I felt numb to any kindness or compassion shown to me, convinced that absolutely nobody knew what I was feeling. Convinced that nobody could relate to my situation or totally grasp how wrecked my world was. The further I ran, the more I found myself convinced that I would never know normal again. While I had people all around me constantly reminding me of God’s goodness and His sovereignty, I felt nothing. Nothing but pain and anguish and suffering. Every mention of a God who loved me only left me more resentful of the God who I felt had left me—who seemed nowhere to be found in my time of need.

  Because in my mind, I didn’t feel God. I didn’t feel anything outside of confusion and suffering. If I couldn’t feel God then I didn’t want God—this God whom I believed had left me scorned and wandering.

  The Masks We Hide Behind

  Next I ran into depression and anxiety. It was hard for me to grasp how I could be so wrapped in love and surrounded by support yet still feel so unbelievably alone. I guess I understood how my father had felt.

  My grief manifested itself physically. Rashes formed and hair fell out and skin peeled off in sheets. One week I would have a cold, and the next strep throat. The next week it would be pinkeye or some other inexplicable condition brought on by the stress on my anxious heart. Noise increasingly began to irritate me. People talking, music blaring, the sound of crunching or smacking or eating. It was all too much—the noises were overwhelming. I’d find myself in a fit of rage—with my blood pressure spiking and sudden difficulty breathing and my skin becoming hot and flushed—whenever sound agitated me. I needed silence. I needed space to think. To process. To breathe.

  But I never felt like there was time. There was no escaping reality. The world was continuing to turn and people were moving on. I felt, oftentimes, like I was supposed to be further along in processing everything than my numb and aching heart allowed me to be. I was on autopilot. Unable to work through so many emotions as quickly as society seemingly demanded. I felt guilty for how long it was taking me to wrap my head around everything. In many ways, I felt like everyone was starting to move forward without me, and if I didn’t compensate somehow then I’d inevitably become forgotten or go unseen.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that if I was going to keep up with my carefully built world and maintain my well-crafted appearance of poise and strength, I was going to have to take up the art of acting. We should all win Academy Awards, really. For how skilled we are at faking “fine.” For how talented we are at hiding our pain in order to play the game. Like so many of us do when our pain is greater than our purpose, I quickly adopted a “fake-it-till-you-make-it” mentality.

  The masks we hide behind are well crafted, aren’t they? They’re intricate and detailed and comforting. Are you wearing one right now? We’re chameleons of identity—our masks hide our weaknesses and our vulnerable places and our scars. Maybe we find it freeing to know we can be anyone we want to be. The problem is that behind the masks we can’t ever actually be who we were created to be. In fact, we can’t ever even be. Not when we’re always hiding.

  In the public eye and to my family, I was strong. A woman of character and grace. I found it easier to wear my mask and pretend like I was healing. It seemed like I was thriving in my lifeless, vacant walk of faith. I forced smiles, gave memorized praises to the King I publicly claimed, and spoke of the Word of God to anyone who asked how my heart was recovering. I crawled through my hidden wreckage talking the talk, but most days my heart bled bankrupt, numb and unwilling to walk the walk.

  Behind closed doors and in my spirit, I was dark. I was self-absorbed in my own grief and increasingly desperate for that gaping hole in my heart to be filled. I was a lost little girl. With powerful spiritual warfare ripping me at my seams, I started living recklessly, leaving a trail of destruction behind me. Inside, my depression owned me. Desperation consumed me. Pain so deeply overwhelmed me that I became willing to compromise anything for some relief.

  Each sin seemed so tempting. Any pleasure a moment could offer seemed so appealing. Even if it was temporary—it was an escape. Escape was all I ever looked for when I was running. The hole in my heart was gaping and all I wanted was to fill the emptiness inside of me—with anything.

  So I ran from my inhibitions. From my discernment, my principles.

  That’s the next place my constant running steered me.

  There was so much I could get away with in the darkness. I had dabbled in college temptations early in my freshman year, so finding my way back to those things was easy. The partying and the drinking—they were great distractions. They invited me in and convinced me I was accepted and welcomed me into an escape where, even if just for a night, I wouldn’t have to remember or hurt or feel anything. I indulged in all that lifestyle had to offer. It was easy to be adopted into. In fact, giving in to that scene felt rewarding. And accepting. And good to me.

  The truth of the matter is that my running led me right into the thick of all that those around me seemed to care about and revel in and enjoy. In the midst of the masses nobody could see I was hurting because my depressed indulgences perfectly disguised me as “just another college kid.” I looked average. I blended—for once, I just blended. So the alcohol flowed and every ounce of me relished the sins that distracted others from my scars that I was sure still showed.

  I wonder how many others around me were in my same boat, trying to fill a God-sized hole with sin-sized pieces and simply “blending” with the brokenness of the masses in the meantime. I wonder how many were hurting. I wonder if anyone knew I was in pain. But then again, that’s the problem with the masks we hide behind—they work well. Too well. We’re rarely aware of the cries for help that are masked in the sin-filled “good times.”

  But it was never enough. The hole in my heart just couldn’t be filled. The temporary pleasures always faded and the next morning’s hangover was always escorted by the emotional pain of what was real. You’d think that realizing numbing the wounds would never actually help them for longer than just a little while would have been enough to help me snap into reality and handle my pain appropriately and move forward in hope. But, for whatever reason, the pieces struggled to click into place. I never seemed to learn from what I’d been told. My curiosity just had to hold the experience. I found new ways to keep numbing my pain and I rationalized logic away as my wrecked and foolish heart continued to indulge.

  Eventually, when my lips found their way around a bottle every weekend, my body began to find its way to any other temporary pleasure it could find. In desperate need for some temporary high, I found myself struggling more and more with pornography, masturbation, and promiscuity that I rationalized as normal and fine.

  My mind rationalized that I was still technically a virgin, and as long as I didn’t go all the way then there was no harm in pushing the envelope. It was all so easy, so accessible. Even when I woke up nauseous and half-naked the next morning, my mind would rationalize that the gaping hole in my heart had been filled for a night. In my desperation, I’d sometimes convince myself that was enough. I rationalized it was my body and they were my choices and I could do what I wanted. I gave pieces of myself to any boy who could satiate my desire to temporarily feel loved. I recklessly pursued empty relationships and misguided l
ust. I gave and gave and gave. And in return, I was left even emptier and void of trust.

  I was a modern-day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, polished and poised on the surface but with everything to hide.

  My sophomore soccer season wasn’t easy—unfamiliar, even, without my dad in the stands. Somehow I broke records, yet again, and helped anchor a defensive unit that was unrivaled in the SEC. I helped my team win an SEC West Championship, and place second overall in the conference. But the truth was that the energy I mustered on game day was about all the energy there was in me. I was exhausted, worn thin from a year of searching for sin-sized pieces to fill the God-sized hole within me.

  It had been a year of running. At the breaking point of each broken day, I understood why my dad did what he did. Even amid the highs of a dominant season, at times I saw it as a viable option. Suicide. How easy it would have been to end it all. It was tempting, at times, to give in to the rationale of genetics—as much as I resembled my mom, I was my father’s daughter. If he was capable of such a bold act, maybe I was capable of it too. Bound for it, even.

  I was shattered. I could feel the tightening grip of Satan’s cold fingers and the sting of his hot breath down my spine. He was gaining power, gaining strength from my emotional vulnerability. Sucking my innocence, my ambition, my light from me. Capitalizing on my weakness and catering to my darkest emotions. Reveling in my running. I didn’t even try to fight.

  While the fall semester of soccer had been fine, I was aching and exhausted and dying to get home to my mom and my sister for Thanksgiving to unwind. Little did I know that God was preparing to draw me closer to the death I sometimes desired in order to save the life He had planned for me. As I headed home to Atlanta on that cool November night, I never could have guessed God was going to wreck my life.

  7

  Revelation in the Wreckage

  I’m not sure how long I hung unconscious in the wreckage of my Jeep before I finally came to. I could feel the seatbelt cutting into the skin on my neck as I realized I was hanging limp and heavy like a bruised ragdoll. Warm blood drained from my mouth and seeped into my nose, choking me and causing me to gag. With each cough, I could feel more blood boil up from deep in my chest and a hot iron taste roll up behind my teeth. Desperate for breath, I squirmed and writhed, trying to relieve the pressure on my lungs. But I was pinned, strung from my seatbelt and unable to wrap my head around the balance of a world turned upside down. Every move caused more pain, so at last I stopped and hung stationary, confused even further by the exhaustion that overwhelmed me.

  There was nothing echoing through the rubble but silence—a deep, peaceful silence interrupted only by the coarse and rasping breaths wheezing from me. The air was still and calm but my mind was fogged and burning. I couldn’t see but I could feel. My head was pulsing and the back of my eyes were throbbing and my side was aching as I fought to breathe. I focused on what I could in my disoriented state, starting at my toes and moving each body part slowly and methodically. Ankles. Knees. Fingers. Wrists. One by one I moved each limb, blindly making sure I was all in one piece, taking a halfhearted inventory to discover the things that were hurting me. I was genuinely shocked when I realized nothing felt broken beyond repair—that my brain and my body were somehow still able to work in sync. A part of me expected to be paralyzed and I knew the intensity of the wreck should have had its way with my body. I should have been far worse off than it seemed I was. The power and force of the moments before could have so easily ended my life. For a moment I hung there in disbelief.

  Wreckage. It suddenly and radically meant something new and different to me. In a moment of complete and total vulnerability—surrounded by twisted steel and fractured glass—I had never felt more at ease. In a moment that should have warranted raw, unbridled fear I felt completely at peace. A peace that met my rebellious heart and suddenly surpassed all understanding. There my body hung, with tangled and messy destruction surrounding me, sustained by something far greater than my own strength. In that moment, I was given a parallel vision of my past and my circumstances—my past just as tangled and messy as the destruction currently around me, yet my life sustained by Someone who had far greater plans and purpose for me.

  That moment of perspective left my mind spinning and my heart pounding and my soul open to receive. One year prior I had been emotionally wrecked by the sudden loss of my dad. Now I dangled, physically wrecked, broken to a place of true surrender and need. It wasn’t just the rush of relief to discover I was alive that began to deeply redefine things; it was the fact that in the midst of the chaos and the brokenness I heard something very odd. A still, small voice met my heart and simply breathed, Be still, and know that I am God (see Ps. 46:10).

  Your Life, or Me?

  I later learned that after losing control of my vehicle I’d hit an embankment and flipped my Jeep three and a half times, narrowly avoiding a steel signpost and instead slamming mid-roll into the base of a tree on the edge of a muddy hill. The impact of the crash ripped the front portion of my Jeep off and just about stripped the engine from the vehicle, leaving a mass of twisted steel and automotive debris. The Jeep came to a crashing halt on its roof, with my body trapped inside. At one thirty in the morning I hung there alone, just a few short miles from the Alabama-Georgia state line.

  I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew I was on the ceiling of my car. I still don’t know how I had been able to squirm from my tangled seatbelt, but I found myself sprawled atop a field of rubble and glass that littered the roof. I heard my phone’s muted dings, but was too disoriented to figure out where the sounds were coming from. I sat up and realized I could see, dimly, only through my left eye. I couldn’t figure out why my sight was so limited or why my right eye was throbbing, so I tried making noise in hopes that someone might see the wreck and hear me. But in my attempt to scream for help, I instead spewed hot blood. I choked and felt my throat strain and tighten. I tried to draw a deep breath in, but couldn’t muster any power from my lungs.

  Feeling gagged and muffled, unable to make much audible sound, I finally laid back down. It was in that rest that my mind found its way back to a place of surrender, and I immediately felt overwhelmed by a presence that was as crushing as it was cradling, as terrifying as it was all-encompassing, and as heavy as it was healing.

  The presence of the Holy Spirit flowed into that wreckage mightily. And in that broken moment God chose to reveal Himself to me. The still, small voice that had whispered to my heart became an overwhelming flood of revelation as the Spirit reached deep into my calloused heart and downloaded the depth of the gospel of Jesus Christ into me.

  I. Love. You.

  I have plans for you.

  I have hope and purpose and life for you.

  I created you. I sustain you. I will save you.

  I died for you, My daughter. You are forgiven and free.

  So choose now for yourself.

  Your life, or Me?

  I felt peace wash over me and the arms of the King wrap around me, and not one ounce of me could make sense of why a mighty God, whom I had so carelessly sought and run from before, was dwelling in the presence of a wandering rebel like me. My mind replayed the times I had denied Him. My heart shrunk away from the thoughts of how I’d forsaken Him. My shame trembled at the doubt I had in Him and the blame I cast on Him and the hypocrisy I carried out in His name. But in the same gasping breath I felt the grace of His presence flood me. I felt forgiveness and freedom and an unrelenting peace. I saw a vision of the cross and the man who hung at Calvary. Jesus! In bloodied glory. Because of my sins He had hung on the cross, and because of His love He chose to die for me.

  The depth of the gospel penetrated me. Humility pierced through me. A sense of security overwhelmed me. Life breathed through my story. Those moments in that car—they were glory. Life-saving, heart-changing, illogical glory.

  It was just the Spirit of the King and I. And even though I’d heard the gospel a thousan
d times over and moved through confirmation and “prayed the prayer of salvation” more times than I could count, in that moment my works were irrelevant. His works were heaven-sent. My slate was wiped clean and my story turned to a new page. My name was called out by a King who knew my stubborn heart needed the isolation of a personal encounter I couldn’t mute or rationalize. It was as if God knew my soul needed His undivided attention and His unbridled comfort and His personalized truth. It was as if He had willingly wrecked my life in order to save my life, and save my eternal story.

  God is beautiful.

  Those were the only three words I could process as I was pounded by the waves of His glory. His presence was crushing. His grace was unrelenting. Before I could process everything, I felt the gaping hole in my heart that longed for my earthly father filled by the love of my heavenly Father who called me His daughter and mended shut my bleeding grief with a whisper. I felt an overwhelming authenticity that required me to strip myself of all the masks and the falsehoods and the control. I felt a worth overwhelm me that fully empowered me and etched the word beloved deep into my soul. I also felt a boldness called from me that demanded vulnerability, and a great purpose was placed inside of me.

  I felt God. I felt Jesus. I felt the Holy Spirit stifle any ounce of doubt that remained in me. And as quickly as this surge of revelation began, I also felt a calm and clarity that quieted my thoughts.

  Your life, or Me?