A Peek Inside An Anxious Mind

I’ve been seeing a counselor now for years, five to be exact. At the beginning it was once a week, and then as the tools in my mental tool belt increased, I was able to drop to once a month. Here’s the thing though, I am not cured of my depression. It goes into remission. Good habits and the power of a daily relationship with Jesus Christ keep it in check, but I live with the ability to be easily triggered. Much like an alcoholic is forever an alcoholic and makes lifelong choices to stay sober and not drink, a person who struggles with depression must daily make choices to stay in the light, choosing joy and peace rather than anxious or sad thoughts.

But I wish my drink of choice were more physical, staring me in the face with a physical temptation. Instead, my poison is thoughts—trains of thoughts, tirades of thoughts, spirals of thoughts—into deep, dark places. Thoughts that run rampant in the background of my subconscious where they do their damage unseen and unchecked for longer periods of time than I would like.

Let me see if I can explain….

In the summer my teenagers sleep late, I love this because I like to sleep late. It gives me a chance to really dive into my Bible study or get an early start on the chores of the day before the house gets loud with activity. If I get up and spend time in God’s Word, my thoughts are more ordered, more calm, more centered. So yesterday started off well!

By 11am everyone was up and moving, and we had a plan for an adventure exploring the Beltline in Atlanta on our bikes. On the drive down, I reminded my kids they didn’t need to be on their phones in the car, but in my brain, my thoughts were disappointed:

Why do they want to be on those stupid phones all the time? They just woke up! They know they’re not allowed to be on them in the car. I’m terrible at holding them accountable to that rule. That’s my fault.

Now that the kids are off their phones, the silence in the car overwhelms me.

Why can’t I think of anything to talk to them about? I’m terrible at conversation. This feels so awkward. They don’t want to talk to me about anything anyway. But you’re teaching them how to have conversation. You’re setting the example for them to follow. If they don’t know how to carry on a conversation in the car, that’s your fault.

We finally find our parking space and start our bike ride. It’s an overcast, slightly humid day, but I’m grateful the sun isn’t shining, or we’d be twice as hot. The ride is pretty in spots, full of lush underbrush overhanging the trail. We pass under bridges covered from head to toe in graffiti. I’m enjoying myself when it dawns on me:

This isn’t a very good way to interact with my kids. They’re basically up in front of me by themselves this whole time doing their own thing. How is this bonding us as a family? How does this open doors to conversations?

And so, the onslaught of thoughts continues ALL. DAY. In reflection, I continued to judge and criticize myself and my actions as a mother the remainder of the day. At lunch I was at a loss for communication again, by the afternoon we were all so tired from our adventure we came home and retired to our separate corners on our separate devices. Dinner was good because when my husband’s around, he’s better at getting us all to talk. He’s a better communicator. But when he and my son leave to head out of town, and I’m left alone with my daughter, again, she wants to text friends and watch movies, and I want to take a bath and watch movies, and so the day ends. All the while, I’m beating myself up in retrospect about how her and I have nothing in common to help us connect together. I end the day feeling like a waste of a human being, incapable of connecting with her own children, and beating myself up for hiding behind my screen instead of engaging in the life inside my house. I go to bed drunk on anxious, critical, depressing thoughts.

Jesus. Sweet Jesus.

I wake in the morning in need of lots of water to flush my system and my time with Jesus to flush my spirit.

It takes energy and commitment to let go of yesterday and all its failures, so I can try again today. Walk differently today. Make different choices with my thoughts and actions, but sometimes the day stretches before you like a barren wasteland of hopeless, unavoidable failures waiting to happen. I mean, that was what happened yesterday? Logically, it can happen again today as well.

Jesus! Help!

….

This is the life inside my head. One small peek. I can think like this on a myriad of topics throughout the day. On the worst days, it feels like I am being beaten constantly. Those are the days I don’t want to crawl out of bed because the thoughts can start that early, even in my dreams before I ever wake up. Those are the days I convince myself the world is better off if I don’t show my face today. There are plenty of people who do not face this struggle, who are never aware of their own thoughts, and if they are, their personalities allow them to “snap out of it” as so many of us are encouraged to do.

If you were being physically beaten, would you want someone to walk up to you and tell you to snap out of it? (Just offering some perspective.) What would you want them to do? Step in. Offer help to block the attacker. Offer you a safe space. A way out. People who commit suicide are looking for a way out. They are tired of being beaten. Like most diseases or conditions, depression exists on a scale of 1-10 or stages like cancer. If you suffer from stage 4 depression, suicide is one of your treatment options. That’s the level of mental beating that person has taken.

And much like cancer, you don’t need to experience it to have compassion for those who suffer. You don’t even need to understand how or why their brain thinks the way it does, to be able to come alongside and offer support and a safe space. The stigma surrounding mental illness must end. I am as passionate about that statement as I am about treatment.

I have Jesus. He is literally my daily Savior. He is my first line of treatment. (1 Timothy 1:15, Acts 4:10, 1 Timothy 4:10)

I know I need His power and presence in every breath I take just to be able to take thoughts captive and gain victory over the darkness (Job 33:4, 2 Corinthians 10:5). The more mature in my faith I grow to be, the less energy this requires, but I’m not great at it yet. His Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path (Psalm 119:105). I literally have His promises plastered all over my house. I like to think I’ve done that for my kids, but I read them all, every day, at every turn in my home (Deuteronomy 6:9, 11:20). On my best days, I’m blasting praise and worship music into the silence of my home, drowning the sound of my own thoughts with truth. My counselor is right. The way I think about myself, judge, criticize, evaluate, analyze myself has to stop. It has to change.

I have Jesus, a supportive husband, Prozac, friends who gently hold me accountable and encourage along the way, a family who loves me unconditionally, and insurance that covers mental health 100%. I have everything a person needs to fight and overcome depression, and it is STILL a daily battle. The wins outnumber the losses little by little as the Lord continues to do His work of sanctification through my life, but the losses are heavy and hard.

Someone you know doesn’t have the same support and privileges I have been afforded in my fight with depression. Someone you know doesn’t have any of these supports at all, not even Jesus. It’s why giving this world Jesus is the most compassionate and life-saving effort a person can devote their lives to (2 Corinthians 5:20). Jesus is enough. Even without all the other supports, He would be enough to sustain, to keep me from wanting to leave this earth because He breathes life into His children (Acts 17:25, Job 34:14-15).

I struggle because as a believer who has been afforded the privileges of all my supports, I think I should only need Jesus too. I shouldn’t have to rely on medicine, counseling, etc. But the reality and truth is… this is the journey God has ordained for me and my life. The woman struggling with depression in Africa may only be given Jesus at some point in time, and He will be all she needs, and that’s all she’ll ever be given, and He will be enough.

He is enough for me too. Period. I know this. There have been seasons when He was all I had, and He was enough. Yet, He is also the Father who gives good gifts. Why some are afforded certain good gifts and others are not is one of the great mysteries of being God. He knows me best; therefore, He knows what’s best for me.

My Jesus knows humility is essential to real life. He was the humblest of us all (Philippians 2:5-8). Medicine and counseling keep me humble. Without it, my pride, my own natural strengths, and my own intellect power me through my days. Humility is a necessary piece of the puzzle. We cannot be fully dependent on the Lord if pride is present at all (James 4:10).

It has been my observation of God’s kingdom that all of His children are given something to humble them—a thorn in the flesh as Paul puts it (2 Corinthians 12:7-10). For some it is their marriage, their life circumstances, their health, their finances, their station, their job, their friendships, their family, their children, their losses—the list is unending as to what God can use and how He can give the gift of humility to His children. These are all crosses we bear for the sake of Christ. We take them up and we follow Him regardless, dying to ourselves every day (Luke 9:23, 14:27). This is what it means to be a Christian, a child of God—grateful surrender to the cross that keeps us humble, knowing it’s a good gift from a Good Father who’s saving us from ourselves. Every day. Our pride is sin, and our sin is death (Romans 6:23). There’s no other answer to pride, but humility.

So today I will be grateful for the cross I bear. The depression I battle. I will reframe it with new purpose and lean into my Jesus and His good gifts—the gift of medicine, the gift of counseling, the gift of gratefulness, the gift of humility, the gift of His presence, the gift of salvation. Today He will be enough. That is my choice.

Who do you know struggling with anxiety? Depression? Who feels overwhelmed by life? You do not have to understand the cross they carry to be able to cheer them on along their path. Send that encouraging text. Mail that gift. Don’t be afraid to place a hand on their shoulder. To drop off that meal. Show up. Be present. Be available. Cover them in the protection of your prayers. Bend the Father’s ear to their plight with your incessant interceding on their behalf. Don’t throw your hands up in the air because the enemy has paralyzed you with lack of understanding or empathy. Seek understanding (Proverbs 2:2-5).

My daughter asked me the other day why I struggle with depression. I didn’t have a good answer for her because I live a blessed life. I could only tell her the condemning voices inside my head are loud and constant, and I need help to silence them. When the condemning voices are silenced, I hear the Voice of the Spirit clearly Who is the source of my joy, creativity, sensitivity, empathy, compassion, and purpose. Hearing voices is both one of my greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses. It’s how God put me together. It’s my cross to bear. By God’s grace, these condemning voices are not my daughter’s struggle, but maybe I can teach her how to show love to someone who struggles differently than her. Maybe teaching that alone to one more person in this world is a far-reaching ripple in the ocean of eternity.

What I do want her to know is Jesus is my Rock, my Answer, my Support. Following His lead is my best treatment plan. Healing and wholeness can only be realized through His power alone.

“Thank You, Father, for the gift of humility that enables me to fully rely on You. Thank You for the gift of humility that protects me from my own pride and the death and destruction it causes not just for me, but for those I love (Proverbs 11:2). Thank You for using the struggles we inevitably face for our good and Your glory—that no cross we bear is meaningless or carried alone. Thank You for glimpses of You.”

Have Courage: Lessons with Littles

It was August of 2014.  I had just spent six weeks apartment living for the first time in my entire life of 34 years. Throw a dog and two kids into that apartment, and it was, shall we say, adventurous, but trying. Now our rental house had finally become available. The movers had come and gone, and the boxes were everywhere. I had just moved from east coast to west coast, and it was time to make a home again.

To say I was stressed and exhausted--mentally, emotionally, physically--would have been an understatement.  But if I was anything, I was calm. I was taking one bite of life at a time. I was controlled--or so I thought.

That first week in our new neighborhood, our family took a stroll down to the playground/green park field that most neighborhoods in California like to incorporate. It was a quiet, peaceful, late afternoon with the sun beginning to set, when we turned to walk our family of four and our dog Samson back to our new home.

Samson was trotting along at the end of his leash, all ten years of his contented dachshund self happy to be pulling at the end of eight feet of leash, trying to keep up with the kids skipping ahead.  When it happened.

Out of nowhere an Irish Setter, attached to a leash NOT attached to an owner, rushed my little dog, blind siding him. A rolling mass of red hair and leash began to tumble across the sidewalk in front of me, with yipping, yelping, snarling, and growling coming from within the ball of fur.

My husband quickly entered the red hair flurry, pulling the Irish Setter out by its owner-less leash.

I, on the other hand, had snapped. Something inside of me broke and for the (maybe) fifth? time in my entire life, I had an out of body experience where I was outside of my body viewing my life like a camera man panning a scene. Some of the scenes were close ups of the woman's face who had appeared on the scene as the owner of the Irish Setter. She was older, sixties, slow, confused, befuddled. A look of bewilderment smeared across her face.  Pan up, and from above, looking down, I am 12-15 inches from her face. Screaming.

I mean screaming. To this day, I do not remember what I said to her. Something about dogs needing to be on a leash. Something about her dog attacking mine. Something about what the heck was she thinking. I don't know. I just know I was red-faced and spit was flying from the corners of my mouth. Pan to the side, and my arms were flailing wildly like it was all I could do to keep from grabbing this woman and shaking her.

I remember taking a breath. She looked at me incredulously and said, "Why are you screaming at me?" And it was in that unapologetic remark, I found my second wind and began to scream again. Was that all she had to say for herself? My dog could be seriously injured. He has bad hips and a bad back, etc. etc. etc. Why would you let your dog run around the park while you sit on a bench? The screaming continued, and I realized another neighbor had entered onto the scene and swiftly inserted himself and his dog in between me and this woman, slowly creating distance between us. I must have looked like a mad woman, at least that's how I imagine it.

I turn to look to my husband for some support, some back-up. He has Samson in his arms and is already fifty yards away, back turned to me, telling the kids to head home, now. Red-faced and heaving from the exertion, I enter back inside my body and turn reluctantly to follow him home.

In the hours that follow, I fumed over the arrogance of this woman who never once apologized or even acknowledged that her dog had done something wrong. But once the fuming began to fade, I began to realize also the error of my own ways.  In the retelling of the story to people in the next few months, I openly acknowledged I owed that woman an apology. She became teasingly known as "my friend," and both my husband and my children liked to point out when we drove by the park that "my friend" was out, or she's in front of her house, or she's over there with her dog.

Six months passed and the lookout for "my friend" had not faded. Neither my husband nor my kids would let me forget I owed this lady an apology. My plan to let things die down, hoping they would forget about the incident wasn't working. Their constant reminders began to rub my pride the wrong way.  I know I was in the wrong, but so was "my friend." She started it by not tending to her dog properly. She should be the one to apologize first, especially since she hadn't apologized in the heat of the moment.  All of these arguments and reasonings and conversations played around inside my head for months.

And every time, I heard the voice of the Lord, softly and gently elbow nudge my spirit, "You know you need to apologize. It's the right thing to do." And never more than that. He wasn't nagging like the voices of my children, or slightly condescending like my husband. He wasn't making me have to do anything. But in His kindness and softness, I felt myself begin to give. I knew He was right. I knew they were all right.  I just plain didn't.want.to.do.it..

Bottom line. I didn't want to. It would require I swallow huge lumps of pride in the back of my throat. It would require an embarrassing conversation that I could foresee no good way of beginning. Apologizing to a woman who didn't even know my name, and I didn't even know hers. It was too embarrassing, too awkward of a situation. Time would pass. This would be forgotten in the long run.

Then one day in May, we were driving past her house with her car in the driveway and her Irish setter behind the fence like we had had to do every day since August to get out of our neighborhood, and my daughter pipes up very calmly from the back seat, "Mom. You just need to have courage and apologize."

Have courage. My stomach sinks, and if there was an ounce of pride left in me, it oozed out onto the floor of the car. I sighed, and gently replied, "You're right, darling. I do need to have courage."

And I began to pray that very moment, right then and there, that the Lord would provide the perfect opportunity for me to apologize. I prayed it would be on a day we weren't in a hurry trying to get somewhere on time. I prayed my kids would be in the car with me, so they could see me apologize. I prayed that the woman would be alone in the park, mostly to cut down on my own embarrassment.  I began to pray for these things every time, every day, we had to drive past that green space and her house.

And to be honest, there were days we were in a hurry, and she was in the park. I told the kids we didn't have time to stop. Excuses. There were days I saw her out in the park with other dogs and neighbors. I told the kids she looked busy. Excuses. There were days I saw her alone, but the kids weren't in the car, so I drove right on by. Excuses.

Let me tell you, living a life full of excuses is unpleasant, and every time I passed that park, I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. It dawned on me that living a life of excuses was just as uncomfortable as the conversation I knew I needed to have to make the apology. It was really a simple matter of will I keep making the wrong choice or do the hard thing and follow through with the right choice. Both seemed equally uncomfortable at this point.

And I began to contemplate my daughter's rather insightful perception at the age of seven, that to apologize, to confess my wrong behavior--without the expectation of an apology in return!--that act really would and does embody the definition of courage. Wikipedia defines courage as "the choice and willingness to confront agony, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation. Physical courage is courage in the face of physical pain, hardship, death or threat of death, while moral courage is the ability to act rightly in the face of popular opposition, shame, scandal or discouragement."

Have courage. All the circumstances surrounding why I had acted the way I had acted really didn't matter. The fact that the other party involved had no reaction or an inappropriate reaction really didn't matter. Courage is a personal choice. And in the case of a child of God, it is an act of obedience, a personal choice that God calls me to make out of obedience to Him and His hand on my life. And while to that woman, my choice would not look like courage to her, it would be the poster illustration of courage to my watching children.

And my children were watching. I had asked them to have courage for almost a year now. Placing them in new surroundings, new schools, new church classes, new routines, new after-school activities, new everything.  I had thrown them in and preached courage to them. Praised them for their bravery and fortitude and good attitudes. It was time to practice what I preached.

So almost a year later, one day in July, the Lord answered every one of my specific prayers, and once again in my pride, I was going to drive past that park, fingers crossed, hoping the kids didn't see the Irish Setter running around. Nope. "Moooommm!! There she is! When are you going to apologize?"

My pride oozed out onto the floor of my car once more. U-turned at the stop sign. Parked in front of the park. Walked hesitantly up to the woman, introduced myself with a hand shake, and apologized for my behavior almost a year ago. She had the same befuddled look on her face. She began to make excuses for her dog, something about how her dog thought smaller dogs were rabbits? I bit my tongue and simply apologized again for my inappropriate behavior. She smiled briefly and said, "Well, it must not have been too bad if I don't remember it." Shaking my hand again, she told me again her name was Freida, I said mine was Jennifer, wished her a great day, and returned to my car.

Both kids were smiling ear to ear and giving me their thumbs up. Something in me felt lighter, less burdened. Free.

I didn't even know I had been imprisoned.  Bothered, yes. Troubled, maybe. But imprisoned? No, the freedom I have felt driving past Freida's house every day since definitely points to the fact I had been imprisoned by the sin of my pride in this matter.

And it makes me wonder how many other little things, small sins, little bothers, small troubles are actually keeping me in chains, are keeping me from being able to live life with a freedom most people only dream of. For how many years have these sins--supposedly forgotten, supposedly in my past, supposedly swept under the rug--for how many years have some of them held my life captive? In what other ways am I living a life of cowardice instead of courage in the eyes of my children? 

I realized that to willingly humble oneself is the most courageous human act. (Philippians 2: 3-11) My children even recognized this. My ability to admit my mistakes, confess when I was wrong, willingly own my failures--this was courage. This was how my children would learn to be courageous.

I also realized that sins of the past don't have an expiration date. They wouldn't expire until they were confessed and forgiven. Sometimes that means asking forgiveness of others if those others are still available to ask, but I find that more often it means asking forgiveness for myself and recognizing that all those little supposedly insignificant sins add up to a lifetime of living excuses in one area or another. Jesus always knows how to forgive perfectly. I just had to ask.

Suddenly conviction became a beautiful gift. I wanted to confess every sin. I wanted to apologize every chance I got. I was overwhelmed by just how easy it could be to be truly free, truly unencumbered. I just had to let go of me and grab hold of Jesus instead. Once again, His way, His path, led directly to freedom. 

Have courage. Let go of you and grab hold of Jesus instead. Huh....easier typed than lived.  After all, it took me almost a year just to make one apology. I'm praying next time I can at least cut that time frame in half;)

JOURNAL FOUND!!!:How to Eat Humble Pie

So, exactly thirteen days ago, at around 1am in the morning, after a whirlwind of a house-hunting trip in California, I went to finally turn the light out on my nightstand after a day of unpacking, laundering and re-packing for our much needed lake getaway in just a few more hours.  In that moment, I realized my journal was not in its normal bedside location.  In that moment, I had a terrifying, paralyzing realization that I had left my journal in the seat pocket in front of me on our flight to California the previous Saturday.

Mind you, I saw the journal in the seat back pocket in front of me.  The picture was there in my mind. Right there in seat 23B on flight 1251, sandwiched between a pile of magazines and other reading entertainment for the five hour flight from Atlanta.  That is visually, in my mind's eye, the last place I remembered seeing my journal, the last place I remembered touching it to put it in the seat-back pocket.

The next 96 hours of house-hunting are a blur.  So many tough decisions in such a short period of time. But at 1am, five days later, I knew I had left my journal on that airplane, and the gasp of realizing I had just absent-mindedly forgotten seven years of letters to my children almost took the oxygen out of the room and scared my husband to death.  I was nauseated thinking that journal might be lost.  I wanted to call everyone, someone, anyone on that plane!  But it was 1am, and so I had to file my first lost and found claim #243324, and try to sleep.  All I could think was, "Dear God please give me back my journal." Over and over and over, over the next three days, this is the only prayer I could think to pray.

I was desperate. Frantic, fearful, and yet oddly hopeful all at the same time.

I wrote a letter that I not only posted on Facebook for the whole world to see and share, but I then mailed and faxed hard copies of that letter to every person and entity within Delta and local news stations as well.  I contacted cleaning crew companies with which Delta contracts.  I Facebook messaged with over 30 strangers in regards to accessing information about my flight and where it had been and gone.  I emailed with probably 30 additional strangers over the past 13 days, piecing together the puzzle of the path my journal must have taken.

I was a VERY squeaky wheel, and I made quite an online ruckus.  I even had a reporter in Australia publish the story in an online news magazine!  Australia of all places!!  That published article prompted a personal phone call from a Delta higher-up assuring me that Delta was doing everything in their power to find my journal.

Well, I found my journal.  I should say the Holy Spirit found my journal.

About four days ago, I had this nudging in my spirit, "Why don't you call the hotel where you stayed?"

What?  Why don't I call the hotel where I stayed?  That's silly.  I vividly remember seeing that journal in the back seat pocket of the plane.  I have a visual memory of it.  I have no memories whatsoever of ever putting my hands on that journal after that moment.

"But it was a very emotional, very busy, very in-and-out-on-the-go trip.  You even switched rooms after the first night in the hotel." The Voice in my spirit wouldn't let up.

No way.  There's no way that journal is in the hotel.  But what if it is?  What if I just made a giant fool of myself in front of the entire Delta community?  What if I just caused a big, gigantic hoopla for Delta over nothing?  All those wonderful people who helped.  All those employees who have felt bad for not seeing it or not knowing, who I hope didn't, but may have caught some flack for this?  If it's at that hotel, how do I eat crow in front of what I've been told is THOUSANDS of people at this point in time?

My pride almost never made the call.  I was almost willing to lose my journal over a matter of pride.  If the hotel had my journal, I didn't want to humble myself in front of thousands of people and apologize for making your lives more difficult, more frustrating, more annoying in any way.

But I wanted to find my journal more.

So I texted my husband, who was on a business trip in California this week, and told him, just on a whim to check with the hotel we stayed at.  It was a whim.  NOT.  I should have known.  You'd think after almost 30 years of walking with the Lord I'd recognize His voice by now.  Nope.  Silly me, blinded by pride and fear, it took me four days of hearing His still small voice to finally ask my husband to just check with the hotel to be sure.

And there it was.  My journal!!!!!  Safe and sound and in the hands of my husband, heading back home to me in just a few short days!

And in a space in time when I should have felt ecstatic, relieved, over-the-top happy, I suddenly felt very, very ashamed and stupid and impetuous for involving the whole, wide world before thinking to check everywhere I'd been and not just the airplane.  All feelings that I very rarely feel because I'm not typically this frantic, bothered, panicked or thoughtless.  Not typically brave enough to ask for help or draw this much attention to myself either. (So many lessons learned....)

Why did we never check with the hotel to begin with?  Because I faultily, vividly remembered leaving it on the plane.

I checked with everyone else on the face of the planet, why not the hotel just to be sure?  I don't have an answer for that one.  Other than I thought I was right.  I thought my memory was right.  Turns out I was very, VERY wrong. (And my husband is now doing a little happy jig somewhere because that is something I hardly never admit to--being wrong.)

But this time I was wrong.  VERY wrong.  And in being wrong, because of social media, I effected more lives in probably a negative way than I intended.  I tried to stay gracious and understanding and grateful to everyone, so I pray that no one was offended, and when you read this, I pray you try not to roll your eyes too hard into the back of your heads.  But let's be honest, if it was me, I'd be shaking my head and saying, "Geez. This lady is out of it."  A good ole' southern "bless her heart" is definitely appropriate here.

I hope that none of you think, 'Well that's the last time I ever take something like this seriously again!' Please don't!  It was an honest mistake on my part, and people, your encouraging words and all the help all of you provided in every way is what kept me from sinking into a bigger pit than I was already starting to dig for myself.

I would be about to cry and a complete stranger would send a Facebook message to me saying they were still praying my journal would be found.  I would be about to throw in the towel and give up hope, when I'd get a follow up email from someone I don't even know who cared enough to check in because they were still hoping I'd find the journal.  And it was strangers who kept reminding me that my hope is rooted in a big God who loves ALL of us, who died for ALL of us, who has the power to return that journal to me.

Just your encouraging words and willingness to do the little things you could to help made a HUGE impact in my life.  It left an impression.

So the next time a desperate cry for anything comes across your Facebook page, please don't look the other way.  Please don't become cynical and uncaring because this Mama made a horribly annoying mistake.  Just clicking the 'Share' button is enough to pay it forward, to have a small ripple effect in the life of one person who feels a little lost in that particular moment of their life.

If social media is ironically beginning to isolate us from each other, this is one way to use it to try and truly connect in a meaningful way.

So here I am, eating a giant slice of humble pie, asking for your forgiveness for any bother I've caused in your lives, and hoping you'll agree we all do stupid things sometimes.

So a BIG THANK YOU goes out to the Delta airlines community.  A HUGE, GIGANTIC round of applause.  Once my message broke the automated wall, the people inside were understanding, considerate, empathetic, helpful, and proactive.  Every email was professional.  Every person was encouraging and spoke very highly of their colleagues.  Different employees throughout the company assured me that the cleaners, airline attendants, and gate agents were all very capable and more than willing to do a thorough job of trying to find my journal.  They all spoke so highly of each other, never bad mouthing anyone from within the company, never being discouraging in any way.  They all truly thought they could help me find the journal in their own ways.  Even Roger Salz, a higher-up from within the Atlanta Delta system, was very kind to call me personally and assure me that they had found all kinds of items for passengers in the past, and he would notify everyone he could to make sure this item was found as well.

Delta, thank you.  Thank you for your time and energy.  Forgive me for being what has turned out to be a nuisance with my online plea.  It's safe to say, you have a customer for life, and I will throw as much grace your way in my future travels as you have thrown at me over this whole journal debacle.  I really can't say thank you enough.

Thank you to everyone.  To each of you that prayed.  To each of you that encouraged.  To each of you that spared a moment to help a little.  Thank you.

Ultimately, it was God who found my journal.  Who prompted me to swallow my pride and make the call to the hotel.  Why He didn't give me that idea 13 days ago I cannot answer, but it was definitely His voice that made that thought take root.  Not one person had ever suggested I try calling the hotel we stayed in.  Not one.  Only Him.  Only my Jesus who knew exactly where it was the whole time, Who just needed me to experience some massive online humbling for some reason He has in His plan and His purpose for my life.  Time will tell.

But for now, I am grateful for many people I do not know.  Grateful for people who still pray for strangers.  Grateful that not all big, monster corporations are uncaring, inefficient, and unresponsive. Grateful for a God who saw fit to let me see all these people--the crowd of the unknown--in a different light. Grateful He used His presence, His Word (Micah 7:7), and the people in this world He created to never let me give up hope, even when I was tempted the most to do so.

Grateful to have my journal back, home safe--with a new label of my contact information freshly printed on the inside cover.