A vulnerable confession

I'm going to be really vulnerable with y'all. This hard stuff to talk about, but important stuff to talk about.

I have been in the grip of depression for the past two months. Through a confluence of events -- isolation because Charlie's scared to leave the house, fracturing of relationships, loss of community we never thought we'd lose -- I've let myself slip into this pit of loneliness and grief.

This past 12 to 18 months has rocked the foundation of my being. My faith in God has never wavered; I believe in his sovereignty and his faithfulness to the depths of my soul. He's called me again and again to step out in faith and again and again, he's been there when I've needed him.

But my the places I call my home -- the church, my friendships, my whiteness --  have been unseated.

My faith has been questioned.

My intentions have been picked apart.

My commitment to children with special needs, including my own, has been doubted.

And it's left me wondering, where do I belong anymore?

Throughout the past two months, I've found myself with an abundance of quiet and solitude and I've wrestled with this question. I've grieved over this question.

If the church, or my friendships, or my own skin aren't where I belong, then where do I belong? And the answer hit me: Jesus.

I belong with Jesus.

Friend, I want to tell you now, if you are hurting, if you are struggling too... there is more to this than our broken, human selves; our broken, human institutions; our broken, human relationships.

There is Jesus. Bigger than our hurt, than the four walls of your church, than racial division, than political parties. He is everything.

As I wrestle, I keep hearing him whispering to me... "Though you do not feel at home yet, you will." There is hope. There is hope because of Him.

As I wrestle, these words from Isaiah 43:19 continue to come to mind:

I am ready, Lord. Use me as you see fit.