katie rose writes

“I don’t know how to love Jesus without this church.” —her voice came static-y through the marco polo message. And I sat up straighter; tears came to my eyes; she called it more feeling than truth but I felt the truth in it, the truth of it. Because I’ve known it too. I’ve just said it differently: “I don’t know how to follow Jesus without a place to follow him to.” "I don't know how to follow Jesus without India." *** When I was in India, and all hell broke loose, I felt lost. I felt troubled. I was crying all the time. And writing all. the. time. Because writing was my escape, my place to go when the feelings were too much and I needed them out of my head and into words that I didn’t necessarily have to understand or share with someone else. Writing was my safe place. And most of my writing happened outside, on a balcony where I could physically get out of myself.  When I started to feel disconnected, when I started to cry about everything, when I thought

Last week, I wrestled with anxiety. All week long. Day after day it was haunting me, trying to squash hopes and dreams, keeping me distracted and dismayed. Until a friend heard this phrase on repeat, “I am a crazy person!” And she asked me, with a knowing, slightly sly smile,  “What does God want you to rename that?” So I did what any self-respecting writer does. As my computer was being worked on by our IT department, I grabbed some post-it notes and started writing. Here’s the transcript: “I am a crazy person.”  What is God calling you to rename that?  (i.e.— dramatic => depth; desperation => hope) Crazy => unique     processing “I am processing.” It may feel crazy, but it’s not. Reality = processing through the feels.  Reality = you are an emotional, uniquely so, being who can and does often  THRIVE IN THIS EXACT SPOT ROOTS GO DEEPER IN THE PROCESS HOPE GROWS STRONGER FAITH GRIPS TIGHTER, fuller IN THIS PLACE IN THIS E

“The emotional pain from the last chapter was also something brewing for a couple of years. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t know exactly what I was dealing with. I discerned that something wasn’t right, but discernment doesn’t always give details. Once the truth surfaced, the pain was so intense I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I had to do something about it. I needed God’s help. And God longs to help us. God longs to help me.” —pg 42, It’s not supposed to be this way by Lysa Terkeurst As I read and re-read this paragraph, tears pooled in my eyes as I reconciled the memory of India with the anxiety of yesterday, today, this week—   I’m so afraid of being disappointed again. Of being led to something that “doesn’t work out.” Of finding a trap-door underneath my feet, exactly where I think that I’m supposed to be standing. Honestly, I didn’t think that this was still haunting me. That the emotional pain of that season remains an undercurrent of my day-to-day