My black long-sleeved, long-panted bodysuit leotard encapsulated
my bony six-year-old legs as I seemed to be the encapsulated essence of motion.
I couldn’t stop. And I sure didn’t want to.
Two things captured my heart as a child. Okay, maybe four. 1)
Penning tiny cursive e’s onto any scrap of paper I could find. I told my mom I
was writing books, of course 2) Any sound of “worship Jesus” music. It could be
the swell of the bongos and acoustic guitar at the light-dirt colored brick
church or the sound-waved vibration spewing from the pink Hello Kitty CD player my sister and I maintained joint-custody over
3) My mom. The bond is special, ya know. 4) Chocolate milk, drank with a straw,
blown into to make a cup-internal avalanche of bubbles.
My young heart truly had a lot in its life to love. And my
affectionate passion for worship didn’t stop in my heart but compelled my feet
to dance.
I look back, now, ay the home videos my parents recorded during those
worship compelled motion days. It amazes me. Little Deborah’s feet would twirl for
hours to songs like Joy William’s “Falling on my Knees.”
Hungry
I come to You, for I know You satisfy // I am empty, but I know Your love does
not run dry // So I wait, for You // So I wait, for You // I’m falling on my
knees // Offering all of me // Jesus, You’re all this heart is living for
With time, worship remained a thread, but its strong part in the
OG four-strand chord became buried. Just as my consumption of dairy-filled dark
milk subsided, so did some of music’s passionate pull towards me. I decided
that response to worship should no longer involve pink glittery headbands,
leotards, and dramatic living room knee-falling reenactments. And I was
probably right about that. But worship is more than just the posture of our
feet and arms.
My mom fueled another thread-addition: the Bible. She’d have her brown-leathered
Key Word study Bible, spine down, pages sprawling alongside her faux-suede red and
black colored pencil carrier. She’d be studying. Deborah, we need to renew our minds (Romans 12:2). Deborah, we need to
take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5).
Deborah, only think about what’s pure and worthy of praise (Philippians 4:8).
My “mind battle”—or “Deborah’s crazy brain” as it later became endearingly
referred to—was intense. Imagine an eleven-year-old who would tip-toe down the
hard, cold staircase to her parent’s dark-green sleeping space. “Mom, I ate part
of this sandwich my friend had already eaten at lunch today, and I know she’s
feeling kind of sick, but she really wanted me to try it, and everyone was
watching, and I didn’t want to not look cool or to make her feel bad, so I ate
it, and now do you think I’m probably going to get sick, because we’re going to
Minnesota this week, and I don’t want to be sick because I want to go to the
State Fair and don’t want to ruin everyone else’s time, but now I probably will
because I just was selfish and did something I shouldn’t have just because I
didn’t want to look dumb, do you think maybe I’m going to die?”
Not even kidding. These types of pre-sleep induced frantic
feet-motioned descents were bringing me down more than just physically. They
were wearing on my mental peace. They were bringing me down into guilt that I’d
done everything wrong and would hurt everyone I loved. They were ushering me
into hyper-consciousness of everything around me instead of enjoyment of
everything around me. They were making it feel as it wasn’t even safe inside
myself.
As the years rolled on, I realized that just as chocolate milk had
to become a habit that no longer had a home in me, this habit of
checking-everything-with-mom couldn’t last. Somehow, I developed more or less
of a kill-switch and attention-diverting options to try and get me under
control.
My feet had danced to music. My feet had descended to paranoia. My
mind and heart were moving towards disconnect.
I was so paranoid in my mind partially because I so wanted, in my
heart, to live a life that pleased God. And I just had to check the shallow is-the-door-locked with my mom and the
deep here’s-my-sin-oh-no-what-now with
her, too. I needed the reassurance that it was all okay. But what wasn’t okay
is that I took her answers of “Dad locked the door” and “There’s mercy and
grace at the cross” and confined them to the corners of my mind, analyzing her
analysis of my analysis, letting the fear-driven heart-pang of not wanting to disappoint
God remain ruling, untouched in my heart but touching and coloring much of what
I touched.
Eventually this separation of my mind and heart surfaced in other
ways. I went from the music-dancing, flag-waving at church child to the cynical
college student, more than knee-deep in a theology major, studying each Greek
letter like it was vital to survival, internally scoffing at the healing
prayers and “Holy Spirit” charismatic corner of the chapel space—even while
songs in that same chapel moved even scoffing me to tears and made my feet want
to remember their free, heart-engaged dancing days. I learned to live from my
head because my heart held fear I didn’t want to acknowledge. I couldn’t trust
others with it, clearly, but I also couldn’t trust myself. So headspace.
Always. Disconnect the head from the heart.
Fast forward more years, and post-college Deborah is sitting in
the therapist’s office. Alyssa’s fiercely kind eyes and incredible strong
softness prodded with a gentle firmness. What
would it look like if you learned to tap back into some of that deep care
again?
My initial response was easy. It
would crush me. My crazy brain hadn’t gone away. I’d been a little
neglected, sometimes cared for, but generally turned off or turned on to run
wild. If I cared, I’d collapse. If I reopened not only my mind but also my
heart, I’d teeter back to the precipice of depression where I’d be strapped with
all the ways I’m not helping others and the burden that I felt I was being to
everyone and myself. I didn’t know how, I wanted to, I didn’t want to, I needed
to, I should, I shouldn’t say should, I could, I might, I might not.
The feet that danced. The feet that descended. The head and heart
that grew apart. The little girl who wanted to hope again. The hope who wanted
the freedom of mature childlikeness once more. The one who wondered frantically
wanting to turn back into wondering wonderously.
This
is my desire // To follow You // Lord with all my heart, I worship You // All I
have within me // I give You praise // And all that I adore // Is in You //
Lord, I give you my heart // I give You my soul // I live for You alone //
Every step that I take // Every moment I’m awake // Lord, have Your way in me
I started waking up, two hours before work took me, desperate to
take myself back to the intentional presence of Jesus. And it didn’t take long.
Worship. A space the Lord inhabits is
the praise of His people (Psalm 22:3). And maybe it’s the key to reconnect. The
words reached my mind, but they seemed to know a secret way to trickle down and
sit quietly on near my heart, edging closer and closer with each beat
When I my mind can’t understand fully understand or justify what’s
happening in and around me, I can still adore His unchanging goodness.
When my heart doesn’t seem like it can find the love for what and
who is in my life, I can praise Him for Himself.
When I falter to reconnect my head and heart, I can trustingly
worship Him to faithfully lead me there.
Always.
There is no fear, my heart, in loving the One who loves you beyond
what your mind can grasp (Ephesians 3:18-19).
There is pure hope, my heart, in praising the One who can be
trusted to lead you into all the places your mind can’t seem to discern to go.
There is a cure, my heart, for the restless brain frantics in
worshipping the One who is above all.
And maybe this is the first and greatest step towards obedience. Worshipfully
moving towards love again, with all our hearts, souls, mind, and strength (Mark
12:30 – 31). Any maybe one day my feet will remember how to dance.
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I definitely don't want this to be a monologue. What are your thoughts? Questions? Ideas?