Above All

“I think we should bake cookies and watch Halloween movies with the kids tonight!” I said to Madison, excitedly.

I envisioned us all warm and cuddled together on the couch, while outside it poured, and in the oven baked little sugar cookies with pumpkins printed on them.

And that is when I realized that today, I don’t feel depressed.

For the first day in months, I feel like myself.

Yesterday, I wrote this in my journal:

“Sometimes you have to stand right in the middle of the mess of your life–right in the middle of the fear and doubt and depression and grief–and you have to spread your arms open wide and say over all of it, ‘Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.'”

Right in the midst of my never-ending mental battle over all that I’m afraid of and sad about, something in my spirit yesterday had enough. Something inside of me was unraveling, breaking loose, and it needed to be allowed the time to properly unfurl. So I opened my mouth and I spoke about God’s holiness until the fuel behind the words lessened, and I found inside of me instead a glowing ember of something like joy.

And I realized yesterday, with a sense of peace that I can take no credit for, that no matter what the future holds, no matter if it’s okay (as defined by me) or not, God will still be God in that moment. He will still be God, He will still be good, and He will still be orchestrating events in my life according to His plan for me. In this moment, I am held. And I will be held in every single moment, good or bad, in which I find myself in the future.

I surrender my fear, I surrender my idea of what my life “has” to look like, and I surrender my rigid belief that almost certainly the me of the future is not going to be okay.

And, of course, I still pray for provision and protection and blessing. But when I say “amen,” I do so, not with this white-knuckled grip on my life, but with a sense of surrender. A sense of peace. The future I am praying for is even more important to God than it is to me. He cares even more than I do. So I can trust Him with it.

Is that why today I didn’t feel depressed, because some deeper-than-my-consciousness part of me yesterday chose worship? I don’t know. Will I still feel like myself when I wake up tomorrow? I don’t know that either. But I do suspect there is a process happening in me that is going to lead me to deeper health and freedom than I’ve known in a long, long time. And I am encouraged.

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Father’s Day

I was minding my own business.

I was sitting during worship, nursing a cup of tea, feeling just fine.

And then I started weeping.

It started with this line: “Then bursting forth in glorious Day…”

I’ve heard it a million times, but there, as I sat completely unsuspecting of what was to come, suddenly something inside of me felt that light- the light of His overcoming death, the light of His being with us, the light of Him calling me His own.

And I wept.

And when I asked myself what was behind the tears, I found this sentence repeating itself in my head: “No one will ever love me like You do.”

And for once, that thought didn’t feel terrifying and lonely; I felt grateful. Held and safe and in awe of the God who promises to never leave me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever cried from a place of wonder at how He loves me. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried with gratitude.

Oh, how it hurts, this life.

Oh, how held I am in the midst of it.

And so, after I prayed over my heart during our first song: “Bless the Lord, O my soul…”,
after I came to Him honest and broken and admitting I don’t love Him the way I should,
after I asked Him to help me love Him,
after I sang about how He rose from the grave,
after I felt the lightness of Him invade my soul and fill me up with a sense of being deeply loved,
after I wondered at the tears pouring down my face…

After all of that, I realized, it’s Father’s Day.

And I’m still Someone’s little girl.

The Act Of Living

When I was a kid, I used to watch the cartoon version of Narnia, and my favorite scene was when Aslan breathed on the statues and they came back to life. Hopes restored. Lives restores. Dreams restored.

All it takes is His breath.

Dead things come back to life all the time.

*

“Bless the Lord, O, my soul…”

I place my hand firm over my heart and pray that over myself. Oh, Lord. Teach me to live from that place- from a place of worship. Teach me to wonder at and be in awe over the majesty and mystery and miracle of You.

*

I laugh with people I love. We make eye contact and gently touch each other’s arms and we laugh and it is good. It is so, so good.

I sit quiet on the couch, not alone. There is comfortable silence and books and Mumford and Sons.

Arlow goes to his basket, digging through for the perfect toy. He brings it to me, presents it excitedly- an offering.

The sun surrounds us and the air is cold, but the sun is warm and it’s glowing like an embrace.

The kids and I sit, hip to hip, on the couch. Legs entwined. There is comfort. And I hope that when they look in my eyes, they see Jesus loving them through me.

I watch them play, and listen to them talk about their future. It’s all laughter and dreams with kids. They have so much to teach me. I have so much to unlearn.

Lord, teach me again that life is a gift.

Where Hope And Exhaustion Meet

Every day feels like a series of hard and/or scary things that I have to do alone.

And what do I get at the end of the day as a reward? Just the satisfaction of having to do it all over again tomorrow.

And I pray, constantly, to see God in my day.

And I do. I see Him when I reflexively reach out and place my hand on my client’s unwashed head after she bumps it getting into my car. “Are you okay?!” I ask. And I know that simple love and concern for her is less me than it is Jesus.

I see Him in the sheer awe I feel at the way the mountain looks as the sun is coming up in the morning.

I see Him in how I can’t help but cry during worship, watching my church family, arms raised towards heaven, proclaiming over their pain that our God is GOOD.

And I feel Him, like electricity, running through my veins. It’s like being hugged from the inside.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough.

I told my new therapist all of that this week.

Yes, I have a new therapist. Because the last one fired me. Which seems like the opposite of therapeutic when my primary source of pain is that everyone gives up on me and walks out of my life.

I had poured my heart out to my former therapist, and yes, in her defense, I’ll admit I’m a mess, but isn’t that sort of to be expected when someone comes into therapy because they can’t make themselves want to be alive?

And this former therapist of mine looked me in the eyes, bi-weekly, and made me feel secure and safe with her…

Only to decide that actually, she was going to contribute to that theme of abandonment in my life.

This new therapist of mine met me for the first time last week. I sat down on her couch, pointed at myself, and said after a brief introduction, “So, good luck with this one.”

We talked and she look at me, expressionless. Then she said she isn’t sure what to do with me. She said she feels like I’m doing everything right.

I’m practicing coping skills and reaching out and guarding my thoughts and trying to pave a future for myself that feels like hope. I can list twenty reasons I’m grateful, and at least half as many times today that I felt joy.

And I can still say, I’d rather be dead.

I can look forward to things, I can laugh, and I am still, every single second, having to battle the constant thought, and resulting emotion sitting heavy on my chest, that this life isn’t worth it.

“Why can’t I make myself want to be alive?!” I asked her. “What am I doing wrong?” And then: “I’m so, so tired.” And then I wept.

She said she doesn’t think I’m doing anything wrong, and that it’s a mystery to her why I can’t feel any desire to live.

“I think,” she said, “this has more to do with how your brain has tried to cope with all the trauma. I don’t think this has anything to do with you not trying hard enough, or being ‘weak’, or ‘not having enough faith’. I think this is about your brain.”

I don’t know if that feels like hope to me or not, but it does help me feel compassionate with myself.

I told Camilla, who asked me that same question, that I wasn’t sure I felt more hope, but that I felt more compelled to give everyone the middle finger every time they look at me with judgment or harbor the belief that, if there wasn’t something wrong with me, something I could control, then I wouldn’t feel this way.

“The human desire to survive is very, very strong,” my new therapist said. “And if you truly can’t feel that, then something is wrong. And I don’t think it’s your fault.”

I’ve been trying to think of a metaphor for what it’s like to live this way, and all I can come up with is that it’s kind of like when you have a cough- not a deep cough that earns sympathy and maybe time off of work and a doctor’s prescription, but a constant tickle in your throat.

And you know everyone around you is annoyed because you can’t stop coughing, and you’re annoyed with yourself too. So you try to tell yourself you don’t need to cough. And all day long, you are fighting against what your body naturally wants to do. All day long, you’re trying not to cough, and the pressure in your head just keeps building from the never-abating tickle, which endlessly reminds you that something isn’t right.

All day long, I am fighting against what my body naturally wants to do- die. All day long, I am battling a part of myself that I have no real control over.

I wonder how much of this is spiritual.

“Look for reasons to laugh!” I tell myself.
“Look for Jesus!”
“Smile at strangers!”
“Don’t let yourself, even for a minute, think hopeless thoughts!”
And so I do.

Last week, on two separate days, I almost left work without telling anyone. I almost just drove away from the building, picked Arlow up, and went home.

And what would I do when I got home? I wasn’t sure. Would I kill myself? Run away? Did it matter?

It scares me to see myself so close to doing something that would so completely derail my life.

I drive across the bridge my client jumped off and I have to tell my brain to STOP. I have to force myself not to think.

I hear in a training about the most deadly combination of pills and alcohol. I hear how alcohol thins your blood and makes you bleed out faster. And I have to yell at my brain to STOP.

I hug the ones I love and look into their eyes and tell myself, “They need you.”

I text Camilla every single night something true. Like, “God has a good plan for my life. This fight is worth it. I have so much to be grateful for.”

I mentally make a list of goals, (getting my LICSW, finding a place to live in Gig Harbor…), and things to look forward to, (Madison coming over, spending Thanksgiving with the Sarnos…).

I count down the days until I can see my therapist again, not because I think she’ll be able to help me, as we’ve both confessed not knowing what to do with me, but because it gives me an hour in which I can stop fighting my brain. An hour of rest. I can lay all my cards out before her and weep over the confusion I feel- all the loss; the so, so much good in my present; the desire to die.

I laugh. I reach out to people and tell them I love them. I force myself to stay present with my clients, letting them know I see them, I hear them, I care.

And I beg God to show up. To supernaturally get me from 6:30 a.m. until I finally pull into my driveway at the end of the day.

And at the end of the day, I arrive home. I take a long shower. I cuddle Arlow. And I crawl into bed.

“This moment is good,” I think.

“I like my job,” I think.

And yet why, if both of those things are true, do I feel so compelled to give up on living?

And so I lay in bed, and breathe deeply, and think of things that are good, even when my emotions don’t recognize them as such. I try to talk myself into looking forward to tomorrow. But it doesn’t work. I just feel panic.

So instead, I soothe myself with all the good in this moment: my snoring dog, his head underneath my chin; being warm in my bed; the gentle hum of the heater.

And I try not to think about the fact that tomorrow is coming.

Stream-Of-Consciousness

The sky looks like gold and fluff and the sun is setting over the water. And I watch. And I take out my phone to get a picture. And I plead with my soul or mind or heart or whatever within me might be listening, “Let this matter to you.”

And Arlow thinks, if I’d just let him off the leash, he could for sure catch the motorcycles that drive by us. And he breaks into a run, only to be pulled back by the fraying fabric connecting us, and he bites at it and growls and refuses to move, and I pull him along saying “no” as firmly as I can, but I smile because he is his own little being and I love that he is himself and not just an extension of me. And people stop and tell me how beautiful he is, and sometimes he’s good and sometimes he jumps on them or pees on their shoes, and I say, “I’m sorry, we’re still working on manners.” And at night he curls up beside me and I watch his breath fog up the screen on my phone, and I pray that someday I won’t feel so disconnected from a life worth living. And I thank God for the ways He’s sustaining me, even when it doesn’t feel like enough.

And I read about the woman who lives with depression, and something in me turns to fire and I want to run, but I can’t, because the fire is me. And I beg God, with all the hope I have left, to not let that be my story. I can’t live my entire life wishing I wasn’t alive.

And I watch people do their lives. The barista at Starbucks, the man in the truck beside me, the baseball coach. And I think, “How?” And: “Why?” And: “What do you know that I’ve forgotten?”

And I hold babies and love people fiercely and want for them life and love and laughter and happiness. And I would protect them, if I could, from anything that would try to steal that. And I value life. I value their lives. And so why can’t I feel any sort of connection to my own?

And I’m scared.

And I dream I’m sick. Physically sick. And I’m not scared then, I’m relieved. Because no one will expect me to fix myself. No one will blame me for being sick. No one will say it’s because I’m not strong enough or don’t trust God enough. I can rest. No one will lock me away and take away my rights. They won’t withdraw. They will come near. Because it’s not my fault if I’m sick. It’s not my fault. And there’s more compassion and understanding when a high fever or broken bone are involved than when we can’t make ourselves remember that it’s a gift to be alive.

And I read: “I waffled between becoming an animal in a howl and pulling myself together into a tight numbness.” And I get it.

And the doctor calls out of duty to check on me. And no one can fix it.

And I can’t understand this God who supposedly leaves the flock of sheep for the one. And I need Him to do that for me.

And so I pray and worship and beg and sit silent under the fading sun and call everything Him. I let it all be a hug from Him. And I’m tired. I’m so tired. Because it isn’t like actually being hugged. It’s not rest or peace for my soul. It’s effort. It’s grasping and clawing and fighting tooth and nail to do this life and believe it to be beautiful and Him to  be near.

And my therapist and I discuss my life, and I can’t remember a time in the last eight years where I felt at rest. Taken care of. I’m always powering through on my own strength. Alone. Except for the God who feels no nearer than my deceased mom. And it’s not enough. It’s not. enough. But I fight not to let myself believe that. Because our God is a God of abundance and not depravity, right? And so I’m always trying to be okay and call life beautiful and tell myself that what my insides are screaming for is safe in the hands of the God who promises to provide for us.

And the medication and sleep and going through the motions and asking for prayer? I’m sure they help. But it doesn’t feel like provision. It feels like effort. Just another way I’m emptying myself out in the fight for life.

And I don’t see a solution.

And I’m so scared of being left. I’m scared of them leaving, of being unlovable. And I’m scared of leaving myself, of becoming a hollow shell of a person just waiting for God to do what He’s promised to do. And they’ll blame me. Because He doesn’t fail us.

And I wonder if I’ve been believing God to be good, while simultaneously believing He is mean. Because what might be good eternally can feel really mean to us today, right? At least that’s how I’m making sense of where I am and this life I’ve been given. He is good, even when He feels mean.

And that is terrifying. Because what hope do I have then? What hope do I have of a life that is full and rich if I believe the gifts He gives might feel like pain? What hope do I have of a life that, through tears and laughter, I can feel connected to and can say, “I choose you. I choose you through it all. Because this is the life I’ve been given and it’s a gift and God is near and I’m so, so blessed. And the hard? It can’t steal the beautiful. And, my God, is this life beautiful.”

And I want to be able to look hopeless people in the eyes, and hold their face between my hands, and I want to tell them not to listen to the people who want to make sure they don’t forget that life is hard. And I want to say, “You’re not weak for struggling. And yes, life is hard. But nothing you ever face will be as hard as where you are right now. This is as bad as it gets. And there’s better for you up ahead. I promise. I know because I’ve lived this same story- the story of hopelessness and a brain that is trying to kill you. I know how tired you are.”

And then I’ll take my hand and place it over their heart, and I will speak these words over them, and pray them at the same time: “It WILL be okay. Our God is good. He is GOOD. And He loves you fiercely. And this fight you’re enduring right now? He and I are so proud of you. You are not alone, and this won’t be forever.”

And then I’ll whisper to them, as God has done to me many times through another’s words or embrace or the fluffy baby ducks on the water: “Hear me, child. There. Is. Hope.”

Worship

I believe in beauty. I believe in beauty in the midst of sorrow, and beauty overriding sorrow, and beauty coming at us endlessly from the God who says, “This suffering is necessary for where I’m taking you, but I am here. I am here. I am here.”

And even when He doesn’t take away what we want Him to, or give what we want Him to, He floods our lives with beauty. If only we have the eyes to see.

I believe that.

Where’s the beauty in fighting for life? Real life. Fullness of life. The life abundant promised to us, as opposed to emptiness and aching and simply powering through because there’s no other option.

Maybe it’s in refusing to accept that this is all there is. Maybe it’s in saying, “It hurts because there’s a massive gap between what I’m living and what I know the Lord has for me. And it’s supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to hurt because it’s NOT RIGHT.”

And maybe it’s in giving up.

I can’t make myself be excited about life.
I can’t make my job treat me with fairness.
I can’t ensure I won’t get fired.
I can’t make myself be important to people.
I can’t even put on a brave face all the time.

And that has to be okay.

Yesterday I left work fifteen minutes into it and I called the doctor and said, “I need to see someone today. I don’t care who. Anyone.”

And then I sat in the hallway, waiting two hours for my appointment- shaking, freezing, curled into a ball, my chest tight and my heart physically aching. And my eyelids grew heavier each minute. My body wasn’t my own. I had no control over any of it. Everything in me was screaming: “It’s too much!” My body was done, choosing sleep as a way of preserving itself.

But I didn’t fall asleep. Because I had an appointment to make. Instead, I sat there. I wrapped my coat around myself and stared at the carpet for two hours. And people walked by. And I know I looked crazy. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t care.

And that’s okay.

It’s okay to be a mess. It’s okay to sit on the floor in public and shake. It’s okay because I can’t control it, I’m not choosing this, and I am still here. That’s all that He asks of us, right? Don’t abandon the truth. Stand firm. Stay alive.

He doesn’t ask us to pull it together or move on or suck it up or to present ourselves only in ways that our appearance-oriented society will deem appropriate.

He asks us to stand. To cling.

And so I do. I stand (or sit) and I wait on the Lord.

And I don’t know if it will ever get better. It’s hard to believe it will. But I’m not giving up on life. I’m still here and I am saying, even when my body and mind feel like not my own and I don’t know how to be okay, “I love You. I love You. I love You.”

I can’t control what people think of me.
I can’t make people validate my pain or understand or not blame me.

I can’t make counselors be helpful.

I can’t take in their advice about “coping skills” and “acceptance” and not want to punch them because I’ve been doing that. I’ve done that and I’m still here at this place where I am waking up and trying to love the simple things in my day and I’m doing my best to keep on going, believing in a better tomorrow, but I am not okay. And no amount of fresh air or positive thinking of furbaby cuddles is the solution. It’s not enough.

I’ve done that–acceptance, gratitude, trusting the Lord, embracing the good in today–for so long, but I feel like one by one, things crumble. They walk out of my life by choice or become rubble around me, and I don’t know when this pattern will end. Nothing ever gets rebuilt. Things just keep falling apart.

And at what point is it okay for me to accept that everything around me is rubble and there’s not a single corner of my life that feels safe and secure and stable and reliable?

At what point can I say, “I AM NOT OKAY! And I don’t care that the rubble–the lack in my life–makes it easier to watch the sun set. I don’t care that there are birds and flowers and sunny days. It’s not enough. It’s not enough! And I know You are God and I know You love me and I trust You, I do, but I am NOT OKAY and I need something more. More You. More love. More medication. SOMETHING. This life isn’t sustainable. I can’t keep going on with rubble under my feet and my hands grasping at a God I can’t touch. HELP ME.”

Not being okay doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t indicate a lack of trust.

My being here, my going on in spite of the fact that I don’t want to, that’s trust.

In fact, it’s worship.

And I believe that He smiles. Even while I’m barely human as I speak to a counselor, and I can’t stop shaking, and refuse to make eye contact because I’m pissed off and done trying to pretend like she is helping just to avoid hurting her feelings, and I just want to lay down while she’s talking at me and fall asleep. Even then, even while He hurts for me, I believe He smiles. Because it’s worship. It’s trust.

And it’s not beautiful by typical standards. It’s not newborn baby, warm embrace, tulips in bloom, beautiful. It’s bloody and raw and tear-stained.

And it’s worship.

And it’s not weakness. It’s not something I’m choosing by dwelling or refusing to embrace the God of hope.

It’s not shameful.

Let me say it again: DEPRESSION IS NOT WEAKNESS. IT IS NOT SIN.

It’s the opposite! Going forward when everything in you is tired beyond what sleep can cure? That’s strength! Knowing He’s good, even while you’re not sure when, if ever, it’s going to get better? That is worship.

You can accept and surrender and trust and be grateful… and still not be okay.

You can believe God is good and only has the best for you, and you can still weep because it hurts.

I believe that too.

 

It Is Well With My Soul

“Our own limitations should never inhibit our expectation of God…”

It doesn’t depend on us…

If I want to do well, if I desire to follow Him, that’s enough. I can look forward in hope and anticipation of what’s to come.

Hallelujah.

*

I’ve come to this place in my relationship with God where I say things to Him like, “Fine. I surrender. I give you x, y, z. But if I’m not going to have those things in my life, then I NEED MORE OF YOU.”

And then I read my Bible and pray and worship.

And I don’t feel more of Him.

Nor are X, Y, or Z marching (or even, from my perspective, crawling) into my life.

And so I get frustrated. And I say, “Fine, if I fall to my knees and don’t feel You, if I pray and things don’t get better, then it’s Your own fault if I stop seeking You first. Because You’re not enough. You’re not here and You don’t care and You see that I’m hurting and WHERE ARE YOU?”

And I blame Him. I blame Him for being absent.

But we know He never is.

I base SO much on how I feel.

And because I know He could swoop into my life in some big way and turn all my emotions around, I fault Him for not doing that.

And when I say, “FINE! All I want is You then!” and nothing changes, my heart still hurts, I fault Him even more. Because isn’t that the golden prayer? For more of Him? Him above all else? His face versus His hand?

…But if I’m basing my answer to my prayer for more of Him on what I feel, then it isn’t really His face I’m seeking, is it?

I am asking for Him, but the underlying request is that He prove Himself. “Prove it to me that You’re present. Prove to me that You care about my heart. Prove to me that You heard my prayer.”

…Because if I don’t feel it, then it isn’t happening, right? And, while we’re on the subject of how I’d like to see my prayers being answered, I don’t want to wait either. Because why should I have to?! If He’s here now, then BE. HERE. NOW!

…It’s insanely bold of me!

And also just insane.

Because His ways aren’t our ways.
His timing is perfect.
He is present.
And He cares, deeply, about my heart.

I know all that. But I am so quick to become a toddler before Him, begging my Father to pick me up, to carry me, to let me hide my face against His shoulder. And for all of that to happen in a way that doesn’t require, for just a few minutes, that I “walk by faith”.

I don’t understand. Oh, Lord, I don’t understand.

Scripture says David strengthened Himself in the Lord. It didn’t say, “David despaired and then God gave Him strength.” Although that, too, is true. But there’s a middle part to that equation: David chose to trust God. He chose to cling. Even when what He felt was despair, He chose to hold tight to the truth of who God is. And then, in doing that, God gave Him strength.

Very rarely, I’m coming to learn, is living a godly life a natural reflex for us fallible humans. Almost always, we have to choose– to be consciously aware of what is true and then be deliberate to live out of that truth.

No matter what I feel, I have to choose to keep falling to my knees and raising my hands in worship and praying wordless, tear-filled prayers. Because I KNOW they matter. Each time I run to Him, even when I don’t sense Him standing before me with arms outstretched, I know the spiritual realm takes notice.

I have to live my life with eyes open wide in holy anticipation of what’s to come. BECAUSE HE PROMISES IT WILL BE GOOD. And He has never broken a promise.

I can’t fall to my knees, press my head to the carpet, kneel before Him, and then despair because flame and wind and His voice didn’t fill the room. I can’t rise from the ground and furrow my brow and look up at the ceiling and say, “Don’t You see what I just did!? Man, You really missed an opportunity to win my heart over and speak to me!”

I can’t give up.

And I have to choose to rise from my knees in a room that still feels empty, with my heart that still screams with ache, and say, “You are still what I want above all else. I know that You alone can fill this ache within me. I know that the best, safest place for my heart is here, at Your side. And I know that, regardless of how I feel, I can smile and hope because You are good.”

Because I KNOW it matters. He bends to earth when we pray. EVEN WHEN WE DON’T FEEL IT. And how miraculous is that? How incredible that He do desires for us to speak to Him!?

Will I choose to stay, to say He is good, that what I have in Him is more than enough, even when I feel empty and alone, and He isn’t flooding my emptiness with Himself in a way that I can perceive?

Will I trust that when I open my arms up wide, when tears stream down my face and I need a shoulder to rest my head on, when all that is within me is screaming for relief from the pain, for more–more love, family, belonging, joy, hope, HIM–, will I trust that He comes running?

Will I throw my questions and anger and sorrow at Him, and then still say, “I choose You”?

Yes. Yes, I will.

Because HE IS GOOD- not just when my life reflects His goodness in the ways I want it to, or when I feel His goodness, but always. He is unarguably, unchangeably, unwaveringly, steadily, forever good.

And so I will choose, over and over and over again, to stick this journey out- eyes open in expectation for the wonders He promises to do.

And when nothing else makes sense, I can find comfort in what I know. I can tilt my head towards heaven and say, “You are good.”

And I can know that His eyes meet mine.
And He smiles a gentle smile.
And He says, “Yes, baby. I am.”

I will choose to ENDURE and let the face of Living Hope shine down on me.

I will cling to the One who is I Am.

*

“There is no way to peace along the way of safety. Peace is the opposite of security. To demand guarantees is to want to protect oneself. Peace means giving oneself completely to God’s commandment, wanting no security, but in faith and obedience laying…destiny…in the hand of Almighty God.”