Tessa’s birth story is my favorite thing I’ve ever written. To be able to capture the memory of her birth in this way for her to someday read is a true privilege, and I’m also excited to share her story with all of you. As some of you know, my husband Grant and I chose to have a completely natural birth with Tessa. This was an intimidating decision for me at first, but I had full faith throughout my pregnancy that this was the right route for us to take. Although I am a strong advocate for natural birth and I believe the decision to have a natural birth was a substantial reason for the beauty and ease of my labor, I want to clarify that I do not wish to minimize any birth story that differs from mine. One of the most amazing things about labor is that it is a truly personal and unique experience for every woman, and my hopes in sharing the story of Tessa’s birth is that you’re able to get a good glimpse of mine.
What’s miraculous to me is that I have almost no recollection of the pain of childbirth. In fact, I could not remember what my contractions even felt like minutes after Tessa was born. I know it was the most excruciating pain I have ever felt, yet no matter how hard I try, I still to this day can’t recall it. The only pain from my ten-hour labor that has remained in my memory is the feeling of her crowning as I was pushing, which was not nearly as painful as the contractions prior to that moment. I’m making a point to share this because I truly believe that my inability to remember the pain is an amazing blessing and design of God. There are several studies that conclude that having a positive, natural labor can allow women to overcome their experience and memory of labor pain, particularly due to the uninhibited hormones at play. How amazing is it that God designed us this way?
I cannot stop praising Him for the experience and outcome of my labor, which you will soon find as you read. You will also find that I cannot stop bragging on Grant, who played an extremely crucial role throughout the entire process. In preparation, we took a twelve-week childbirth course called the Bradley Method that focuses on natural, husband-coached labor. Grant was indeed my labor coach in every sense of the word and I could not have brought our daughter into the world without him.
To help with the flow of Tessa’s birth story, I broke her story up into several short chapters. I attempted to record as much detail as possible, but there is still so much left unsaid. It’s simply impossible to capture the entirety of such an incredible experience. I hope you enjoy reading about it as much as I enjoyed writing it. In my proud mama opinion, Tessa’s birth story is definitely one for the books.
Tessa’s due date had come and gone. We were now ten days overdue, desperately trying every natural induction method we knew of so we could finally meet our daughter. A few days prior, my grandmother told me that she heard God saying Wednesday would be the day. Well, it was now Wednesday, and Grant and I were still waiting. About mid-afternoon, I suggested to Grant that we go for a walk around our neighborhood. As we walked, I began having this gut feeling that it was time to take our dog to my mom’s house. I had not yet been having contractions, but the stirring in my soul made me believe the time was near. Lo and behold, as soon as we finished our walk and put the leash on our dog, I had my first real contraction.
I had often wondered if I would know when I was going into labor, especially considering how I hardly felt any Braxton-Hicks or “practice” contractions up until that point. There was definitely no guessing on these contractions. I immediately entered a more serious state of mind, requiring stillness and concentration with each one. When one began, I would motion for Grant to rub the center of my lower back in a circular motion due to the back pain that consistently peaked and fell with my contractions. Unfortunately for him, this was only the beginning of what would become a nine-hour back rub. Praise the Lord that his wrists did not give out on me!
For two hours, we timed my contractions at approximately one minute long and four minutes apart. Because I am a first-time mom, which often means a longer labor, and because we were committed to laboring naturally without medical intervention, we stayed home as long as we could. Surprisingly, this wasn’t very long at all. Less than four hours after I first began having labor pains, we called our family, notified our doctor, and headed to the hospital. It was approximately 7:00pm. Our baby girl was coming!
Upon arrival at the hospital, I was taken to triage where I was hooked up to an external monitor. I loathed being confined to the bed for that hour, especially as the severity of my contractions increased over time. I was slightly disheartened to hear that I was only two centimeters dilated and I feared that they would send us home, but I suppose the fact that I was ten days overdue and already having contractions so close together persuaded them to prepare a room for us.
When I was finally allowed to leave triage, I went to the waiting room to see our family members for the first and last time. I had already decided months earlier that I wanted my labor to be purely spent with Grant. For some time, I wrestled with guilt for wanting to keep my family away, but I see in hindsight that it was definitely the right decision for me. Grant was the only coach I needed and I required his undivided attention. Even hearing nurses talking to him during my contractions was enough to break my concentration and warrant a stern stare and angry groan.
We spent the next hour walking the halls, pausing about every four minutes for my contractions. Each time one began, I would wrap my arms around Grant’s neck and gently fall into him, allowing him to support some of my weight while simultaneously rubbing my lower back. I couldn’t speak during my labor pains, but the one noise I did make was an owl-like hoot with each exhale. This productive labor noise, as well as the stroking of my hands on Grant’s shirt or the bedsheets, were constants for me for the entirety of the labor.
I labored in various positions — on my side in the bed, walking through the halls, on my hands and knees, and even on my birth ball. The positions changed, but the method remained the same. Focus on Grant’s voice. Make productive noises. Stroke the sheets. Back rub. Another one of the most valuable tools we utilized for my labor was my worship playlist. For hours on end, I alternated between listening to Grant’s encouragement and coaching, concentrating on the songs of praise, and talking to myself in my head. You can do hard things, Jessie. This is not the worst pain in the world. Remember the plane crash episode of Grey’s Anatomy? See, at least you’re not popping your own bones back into place! At times, it felt as though I was willing myself to escape the present by entering into a more meditative zone. At other times, all I could think of was the excruciating pain and escape was not an option. By 12:30, my water had broken and I was nearing the hardest part — the transition stage.
While laboring on my side in bed with Grant still faithfully rubbing my back, my body began shaking all over. I couldn’t keep my arms and legs from shivering, and that’s when I knew I was entering into transition. I would now be dilating those last few centimeters before the pushing stage, and even though I had no way of knowing just how long I’d be in transition, I fervently hoped that the time to push would arrive soon.
This was when my pain was at its worst. A part of me believes that if a doctor had come in and offered an epidural at this point, I might’ve actually accepted. For this reason, I am thankful that I explicitly wrote in our birth plan, “please refrain from offering Jessie pain medications.” I’m also thankful that Grant did not leave my side. He would not have let me abandon our plan for a natural birth and I would not have wanted him to. We were on the same page from start to finish, in sync and working together to bring our daughter into this world.
When I look back on my labor, I see just how romantic it really was. Grant and I were engaging in an amazing act of love and intimacy. I had never been more vulnerable or dependent upon him, and he had never been more selfless and heroic than in those difficult ten hours. He wasn’t that partner merely holding my hand as we often see in movies; he was deep in the trenches with me. My love for him increased ten-fold that night, and it’s been increasing ever since as I watch the way he loves our little one.
Transition lasted about an hour, but it felt like an eternity as the contractions arrived one on top of the other and threatened to consume me. I frantically tried to hold onto Grant’s voice as he kept assuring me that I was nearing the end and we were close to meeting our baby. Almost every part of my body wanted to tense up and writhe in pain and I had to be consistently reminded to relax each part so that I would work with my contractions and not against. This was when I began to lose my productive labor noise and replace it with groans of pain. I had to be steered back on course many times. Relax your shoulders, baby. Relax your hands. Let it go. Let it go. Productive noise.
Every now and again, I would muster the strength and focus to whisper the name Jesus, and Grant would echo it with me. Never before had Romans 8:26 felt so real to me.
In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans (Romans 8:26).
I knew the pushing stage was coming soon when I began feeling the urge to empty my bowels with each contraction. I was told that I would lose my modesty at some point in labor, and I certainly did. By the time I was getting ready to push, I had shamelessly pooped in front of my husband and stripped off all of my clothes until I was laying completely naked on the delivery table. I felt like an Amazonian woman in all of her primal, natural glory. What I would give for a picture of this moment! After the midwife arrived and my bed was lowered, nurses came over to hold my legs up toward my chest. As soon as the midwife gave her approval, the pushing began.
Pushing out a baby was a little trickier than expected. I had been taught the proper positions and technique, but did not expect how counterintuitive it initially was for me. The midwife gave me instructions on when to take my big inhale and how long to hold my breath and push, but she had to repeat herself many times before I got it right. Instead of holding my breath, I would unintentionally let out air as I grunted. Instead of pulling my knees toward my chest, I would rely on the nurses to do the work for me. I only had to push for twenty minutes before Tessa was born, but it took me the first ten minutes to figure out what I was supposed to be doing.
Grant put on a scrub gown and gloves and stood at the end of the bed next to the midwife. This was the first time I was seeing his face in many hours. His job at this point was to help me focus on the instructions I was being given and to be prepared for catching our daughter. If I could go back in time, I would’ve also given him the task of taking pictures and videos. My one and only regret from my delivery is that I have no record of it. I wish I could play it all back like a movie, but all I have are my memories.
Pushing did not hurt nearly as much as I expected it to. I felt “the ring of fire” as Tessa’s head was crowning, but it was manageable. The thing about labor is that in most cases, it’s entirely manageable, particularly when there has been preparation beforehand. The keys to success are knowing how to relax, how to breathe, how to visualize and how to push. Grant and I had trained and practiced for this labor like a runner would for a marathon. For this reason, I found the pushing stage almost enjoyable. I was able to focus past the pain and envision my baby girl’s entrance into the world. I felt like I was finally about to receive the trophy at the end of a long race.
Tessa’s head came out first, followed by one arm and then the other. With another push, the rest of her body tumbled out into her daddy’s arms. It was October 13th at 1:37 in the morning, the most glorious moment of my life. Grant passed our daughter to me, placing her on my bare chest, and I was momentarily speechless and in disbelief. This beautiful baby was mine.
Because she had swallowed some amniotic fluid, nurses were patting her on the back and suctioning out her mouth as she laid on my chest. She cried and coughed and sputtered for a little over five minutes before they deemed her healthy enough to stop. For those five minutes, Grant and I laid hands on Tessa and fervently prayed. We declared favor and perfect health over her in Jesus’ name. We commanded the fluid to leave her lungs alone and to be completely expelled from her body. As we transitioned from praying into singing along with the worship that was still playing, I felt a deep unity with Grant like never before. This is by far my favorite part of Tessa’s birth story and one of the greatest privileges I’ve ever been given. From the moment she took her first breath, she was covered in prayer. God entrusted this little one to us and we were not going to forget that for one second.
Tessa and I laid skin-to-skin for an hour before we let our family come and meet her. When my mom and grandma entered into the room, I couldn’t help but beam with pride — not only because of how beautiful and perfect she was, but also because of my own accomplishment and victory in giving birth to her. I felt unstoppable, like I might never doubt my capability or strength ever again. In my mind, her and I would forever be a force to be reckoned with.
One of the things I make sure to tell people when they ask about my labor is that while the labor itself was incredibly beautiful and empowering, the postpartum period was not as picturesque as I had hoped for or imagined. I was very caught off guard by how little I felt for my child immediately after she was born and placed on my chest. I had always envisioned myself falling in love with my baby as soon as I laid eyes on her, being overcome with gratitude and unable to hold back tears of joy. But when I first laid there with her, I didn’t feel that way at all. I had a hard time accepting that she was really here and she was really mine. Holding her and touching her felt so foreign to me. I didn’t even shed a tear. This lack of emotion I felt eventually led to guilt and questioning. Was I already becoming a bad mother? Does postpartum depression hit that quickly? What if I never love my child?
After we were moved to our suite and able to settle in, I confessed to Grant what I was thinking and feeling. He reassured me that I was not heartless and I was perhaps still in shock from the pain I had just endured. Even with his reassurance, though, I feared that I would continue to feel a lack of connection with Tessa. A part of me was even angry at myself for not being more excited and joyful. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.
Breastfeeding for the first time did help me bond with her, as did continuing to have skin-to-skin contact. But the first time I felt a true overflow of emotion for her occurred hours after she was born as she laid on my chest in our suite and I rested my chin on her head. I couldn’t believe how soft her hair was. It was the softest thing I had ever felt in my entire life. With eyes closed, I began to gently stroke her head with my chin. And just like that, a flood of love rushed into my heart and I felt like I was floating on cloud nine. This was a magical moment, the one I had been waiting for. “She’s so beautiful,” I whispered to Grant before beginning to sob. I was forever changed from that moment on.
Our two-day hospital stay consisted of many beautiful moments like this, as well as frustrating and emotionally draining ones. A lot of frustration and sadness was because of how difficult breastfeeding was for me. I thought it would come naturally, but it was something both Tessa and I had to learn. Hearing her cries of hunger broke my heart at times because I felt like I couldn’t give her what she needed. I later was informed by a nurse that part of the reason for our difficulty in getting a good latch was most likely because I didn’t give myself enough skin-to-skin time with her in the first 24 hours. I was so happy to show her off to all of our visitors that I didn’t mind having her frequently passed around and held by others. If I had known better, I would’ve been more jealous for her and fought for our right to exclusively bond as mother and daughter.
Besides enjoying passing Tessa around, I loved sharing details about the labor with all of our visitors. I especially couldn’t brag on Grant enough. I made sure the whole world knew that he was the most amazing husband and labor coach I could’ve ever asked for. I could have a hundred babies as long as he’s by my side.
Tessa’s birth story is so special to me, not only because she is my firstborn but also because it felt like a coming-out party for us both. She was the star of the show with her grand appearance, but this was also a time that I was able to truly shine, as well. All of my life, I have struggled with taking the hard path and being willing to put in hard work. A lot of things were just handed to me. Shortcuts, compromises, and the easy way out were my forte. But with Tessa’s birth, I did what I would’ve once told myself I could never do, which is have a completely natural labor. No shortcuts. No compromises. No easy way out. I praise God that I made it to the finish line having met my goal and I carry around this accomplishment as a reminder that He makes me strong. My motto now is, I can do hard things.
It’s been almost a month since we’ve come home from the hospital. I don’t get a ton of sleep and breastfeeding is still new to us both, but I’m bonding with my daughter more and more each day. The most challenging part of parenthood so far has been getting used to being her everything. I’m not only her source of food, but also where she finds security and comfort. Grant is a huge help in so many ways, but there are simply some burdens that I have to bear on my own. For this reason I’m having to pray often for the strength and patience to be the mom she needs me to be. Despite its challenges, it is an incredible gift to be Tessa Grace’s mother. I am forever changed and thankful.
I haven’t written a blog post in what feels like a very long time. I’ve thought about it and have even saved some drafts, but something has stopped me from hitting the “publish” button. And I know that’s because I’ve changed as a person in many ways, all of which I am thankful for.
I used to dream of making a difference in this world. And I thought that writing was a calling given to me by God, that this was the platform through which I’d reach others and change lives. All around me, I saw women struggling with the same things I struggled with, and I thought it was my job to bring those things to light. I strived to use my voice to make things better. And if I’m being truly honest, I also used my voice to make myself feel better. Because along with my dream of making a difference in this world, I also dreamt of being recognized and gaining the admiration of others.
I still do sometimes dream of making a difference in this world through writing or some other form of expression. But I’ve stopped claiming this dream to be God’s dream. I’ve stopped assuming that my gift of writing is a sign of his divine calling; I’ve stopped assuming that what I have to say is automatically blessed by him and always worth saying. And I’ve acquired a new dream as I’ve learned to humbly surrender this one — simply to be obedient to God.
And here’s what I’ve learned about being obedient to God. It’s often quiet. It doesn’t require applause. It isn’t broadcasted to the world or even to all of your friends. It’s a collection of small decisions and some big ones, all of which bring you closer to doing the two things that Jesus said matter most: love God with everything you’ve got, and then love the people around you as you love yourself.
I can sit at this keyboard and type eloquent messages for others to be inspired by, but if I’m not loving God with all I’ve got outside of this domain, what’s the point? How can I justify my ambition to gain followers when he’s the only one worth following? Why would I want women to model themselves after me when I’m not even doing all I can to model myself after Christ?
And how can I say that I am loving my neighbor when I spend more time thinking about how to maintain the approval of others than actually serving the people around me? What’s the point of trying to change the world when I can’t even put effort into changing the lives of those I see on a daily basis? Writing about God is easy; being the hands and feet of God around your immediate family, your skeptical friends, that co-worker who gets on your nerves, or even your spouse is what’s hard.
Many months ago, I began to ask myself these questions. Where was my obedience? Where was my faithfulness? Or even simpler, where was my faith? Because if I truly believed in the Word and in God’s worthiness above all else, then I would be living his commands out. And nowhere in Scripture does it say that I am commanded to draw attention to my writing or gain a following on social media or expand my brand. Rather, I am commanded to do the opposite.
… make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody (1 Thessalonians 4:11-12).
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others (Philippians 2:3-4).
My life looks so different now than it did last year and it’s because I’ve learned how to stop chasing after my dreams for my life and start chasing after God’s dreams for my life. In doing so, I’ve actually discovered that many of my dreams are in fact his dreams and also rightfully align with his Word, and thankfully he’s been able to weed out the dreams and ambitions that never really should have been mine to begin with.
And even though I don’t know where I’ll be in a year from now or how my heart may change, I feel confident when I say that writing is not a dream that I want to chase after anymore. I have learned how to put down my microphone and the selfish ambitions I once clung to. And I prefer my life this way because I find that the life I now live requires more faith than anything else I have ever done. And it’s faith that really matters, more so than your gifts or your position or what you think might be your calling.
And without faith it is impossible to please God… (Hebrews 11:6).
For so long, I had been trying to please God in all the wrong ways, trying to use my gifts for his glory with a hidden motive of vain conceit. And I couldn’t quite understand why nothing ever felt good enough — for me, for him, for anybody.
It was only when I started to do things with faith — I mean, the kind of faith that Abraham had when he blindly trekked to an unrevealed place and the soldiers had when they faithfully marched around Jericho — that I began to see and truly believe that God is who he says he is and that I am who he says I am.
It’s because of this faith that I have this beautiful baby girl inside of me. It’s because of this faith that my husband and I have taken so many fruitful risks this past year in our finances, careers, and relationships. And it’s because of this faith that I am finally free — free from my need to gain the approval of others… and free to see that I really do have the approval of my Heavenly Father.
I wrote this post because by declaring these things, I feel like I am rightfully closing a chapter that, though great in some ways, just couldn’t measure up to the story that God has been writing since.
I also wrote this post to answer some questions, such as, “hey, weren’t you working on a book?” and “will you be blogging again soon?” I wrote this post so that the people around me can understand why I am no longer writing and why I no longer have a desire to. It took some time — months, actually — for this decision to make sense to even my own husband, so I don’t expect it to make sense to everybody. It’s alright if it doesn’t make sense to anybody.
I may write again in the future if I feel led to. I’m not shutting down my blog or swearing off all means of verbal expression. I still believe that God uses writers to reach others and that it is a divine calling that many people have. I’m just not one of those people, at least not right now. And to those who believe that I ought to not give up on my writing and I’m being too quick to abandon my gift, my only response is this: I feel led by the Spirit to not write right now, and if you feel led otherwise on my behalf, then I suppose you should take that up with the King.
The last thing I want to say is that I am really, really happy right now, and I’m also excited to meet my daughter. Our little family is the most beautiful thing I could have ever asked for. And one day I’ll be proud to show my children this blog and to tell them how much writing has meant to me. I’ll encourage them to discover their own passions and gifts, to find their voice and to use it for God. If I’m being honest, I would love to see them become writers, but I can only imagine what God has in store for them. So I suppose the best thing I could tell them would be this:
Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as your reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving (Colossians 3:23-24).
This is my hope for them — and for everyone, really. This life we’ve been given is so beautiful and precious because each day is filled with opportunities to serve and worship our God. No matter the gifts you’ve been given or the position you are in, I encourage you to do two things: love the Lord your God with all you’ve got and love your neighbor as yourself. Doing so is more fulfilling than any amount of approval or applause that this world has to offer. And living by faith rather than by fear is the grandest adventure you could ever embark on.
I’m still only at the beginning of this journey and I can’t wait to see where God takes me next.
Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything (Ephesians 5:22-24).
I’ve heard a lot of opinions on the passage in Ephesians 5 about being a submissive wife. I’ve heard it described as outdated and sexist. Many women protest the idea of having to submit themselves to any man, even their husband. Some point out that submission should be completely mutual, that Paul was implying that husbands and wives ought to be subservient to each other. On the other hand, I have also heard that it’s a beautiful, even essential component of marriage and it’s a specific calling for wives.
I’m writing this post to share what I have learned over the past year and specifically these past few months on what it means for a wife to submit to her husband. I’m not sharing this to point fingers or make women feel like they’re doing a bad job at fulfilling Ephesians 5. I’m also not sharing this so that my definition of submission can be fully adopted by others. What I desire is an honest dialogue on the struggle of figuring out what submission means in the twenty-first century, particularly when every marriage looks so different and every woman is unique.
But I suppose I have to start by sharing how I began to figure out what submission looks like for me.
. . . . .
This past summer my husband crashed and totaled his car. It was his fault. And shortly before this happened, he had changed his car insurance to where he was no longer covered like he should be for incidences such as these. So as a result, he had to spend thousands of dollars, the money that him and I had been saving for us to have after we got married, on a new car. A clunky, dirty Ford Taurus. I hate the Taurus.
And for that week that we hunted for a new car, I almost hated Grant. Because here I was, having to drive him to dealership after dealership to help him find a car. Here I was, having to say goodbye to the money that we had put aside for OUR future just so we could pay for HIS mistake. I remember complaining about Grant and his irresponsibility to all of my friends and family. I could not believe that he allowed this to happen. I was so, so angry and let down.
And then we bought that Ford Taurus. And we were fine again. Life went back to normal. Except Grant didn’t go back to normal.
I saw guilt slowly eating away at him. The harsh words I had spoken were still piercing his heart. He felt like he had lost his dignity and my trust. To this day, when we speak of that car crash, I see the fallen look on his face and the regret in his eyes. He carries that time with him, and as a result, so do I.
I now know that the men in our lives will always do stupid things. But we are often guilty of doing stupid things in response to them, too.
Beating him up for this, along with all the other mistakes that he had made over the years, always seemed like the right thing to do at the time. There should be consequences for his actions, right? Why should he be let off the hook? Why should I show him the same amount of love and respect and trust after he makes these irresponsible, immature decisions? He needs to learn his lesson, I always reasoned with myself.
But my punishments for him always ended up being punishments for myself, too. Because I was turning into a woman that no man should want to marry. My efforts to control the situation only made me feel more out-of-control. I couldn’t stop my anger from being unleashed. I couldn’t hold back my tongue from swearing and yelling and saying things I didn’t mean. And that’s a pretty bad place to be in.
How did I let myself break all of my promises to not become the monster I once was? It was always a joke among my friends in high school that I was the meanest, most demanding girlfriend, but it all of a sudden wasn’t funny anymore. Not when this man who was so good to me was carrying around so much guilt that he wasn’t even capable of forgiving himself.
My efforts to be in control, my desire to punish and yell at Grant for his actions, are what I consider to be the stupidest things I have done. And it’s these stupid things that I myself carry around with me. And when it comes up in conversation, it’s what makes my face fall and my eyes fill with regret. We both have felt deep shame of our pasts, of the things we’ve done that have affected and hurt one another.
And it was only when I finally saw this damage inflicted on our hearts did I realize that maybe showing him some respect, regardless of whether it’s well-deserved, could do a lot more for us than being in control.
And that was what I was always after, really: control.
Isn’t that part of the reason for why the idea of submission sounds so horrifying to some? Women, especially the ones who have grand dreams for their future and perhaps have been hardened by their past, just want some sense of control in their life. And if that means controlling their man, so be it. Anything to keep the attention and affection on them. Anything to have those large holes in their heart filled. Like the wicked queen from Once Upon a Time, we destroy anyone and anything in our path to what we think will finally make us happy. But happiness never comes.
I’m so thankful that I was finally able to open my eyes to just how little reward there is for gaining or maintaining control. There has been no gain to justify the hurt and anger that accompanies it. Respect between Grant and I, on the other hand, has gone a long way over time. It has even begun repairing some of the damage from that car wreck.
And the way I show respect to Grant is by submitting to him — small, daily acts of surrender. And God has used my small, daily acts of surrender to transform me into a woman who not only is able to submit to her husband, but is actually joyful to do it.
My small, daily acts of surrender may not look like much from the outside, but I know they mean a lot to Grant. They have meant a lot to our marriage. Submission has not always been convenient or easy for me, but it has been worth it.
I submit to Grant by bringing our household responsibilities before him and laying them at his feet. I maintain some control by handling most, if not all, of the budget, the groceries, the errands, and the housework (yes, I am that housewife), but I still give him a voice. I show respect for him by asking for his input on our finances and delegating responsibilities to him that I could just as easily do on my own. I trust him to provide for us instead of constantly pointing out where our money is falling short. I thank him for the things he does around the house, regardless of whether the tasks were completed in my desired time-table. Believe it or not, I even trust him to handle the insurance. Grant has given me the power to do all things for our household on our own. But out of respect and honor for him, I allow us to share the power.
I submit to Grant by holding back from making decisions without first asking him. All questions such as whether I’ll look for another job after graduation or if I’ll focus on my writing or if we’ll stay in our one-bedroom apartment or if we’ll save money for a vacation are answered through a dialogue between my husband and I. It sounds silly to bring all of these decisions to him when I could so easily make them myself. After all, wouldn’t he want me to be happy? Of course, he will encourage me to chase after my dreams and be wise with our finances. But that’s not the point. The point of bringing these things to Grant is not so that I’ll gain his approval of them, but rather so that he knows his opinions matter.
I submit to Grant by putting him first, like when I wake up at 4:00 AM on the weekend, on the mornings that I could otherwise spend sleeping in, to help him get ready for work and make him breakfast. I learned this from my mother, who does the same for my dad, and I remember many friends not understanding why my mom willingly does this. Now those same friends don’t understand why I do, too. Even Grant questions why we like to subject ourselves to cold, dark mornings for the sake of our husbands. He feels selfish for letting me cook him eggs and toast when I could still be in bed, but he lets me do it because I tell him that it fulfills something in me that was never fulfilled before.
My heart was so self-centered for so long that I felt empty and unloved the moment that Grant chose himself over me. But now that I’ve allowed myself to be more husband-centered instead, I feel whole and loved the moment that I choose Grant over myself.
In a way, I am using the control that I have to relinquish control to Grant. And this, to me, is submission.
I think that submission sounds like a dirty word to some women because they think that it implies a lack of power. Like women are weaklings who are only designed to serve their men in whatever capacity their men see fit.
But what I have experienced is that submission IS power. It gives me the power to let go of the meaningless things that I clung to for security and happiness. It gives me the power to become a woman who is modeled after Christ in the way she loves and serves. It gives me the power to choose a calling — the calling of a wife as a helper and family-builder — that is greater than my selfish ambitions.
The more I give to Grant, the more free I become — free from selfishness, greed, laziness, unwholesome thoughts, bitterness, and anger.
I remember when I always expected Grant to cater to me. Before we were married, I would complain when he’d leave for work because I knew that it meant I’d be alone. I would expect him to always be on his A game, planning the loveliest dates and surprising me with thoughtful actions. I made him feel immature and foolish for the way he spent his money and his time. I scolded him and yelled at him for decisions he made without consulting me. I put burdens on his shoulders that he shouldn’t have had to carry. I was not willing to relinquish control by any means. And all of this was just my way of seeking fulfillment and happiness, which never worked.
Submission, instead of control, is how I now pursue my fulfillment. And it does fulfill me. Because I get to watch my husband feel loved and respected. I get to play a part in the restoration of his dignity. And in return, I also reap the benefits of a fulfilled husband, one who is free to respond with love for me, just like the vision of the husband and wife I had always read of in Ephesians 5.
When I submit to my husband, I am sending him the message that he is capable and smart, that his thoughts and opinions do matter, that his mistakes are not unforgivable. And I realize through this that my mistakes can be forgiven, as well.
I am not perfect. I am no saint. But I am a woman who is committed to loving and respecting my husband, even when that means relinquishing parts of my life that my flesh would rather keep under my control or use for selfish purposes. I am a woman who, though she might fail to choose love and surrender in the moment, is willing to eventually put down her pride and guilt and try again.
Our marriage counselor once asked Grant and I, “What hill are you willing to die on?” And I remember realizing in that moment that I pick a lot of foolish hills to camp out on, fully prepared to give up what is most valuable for something that is hardly worth it.
I now know that I shouldn’t be picking battles with my husband. I should be picking battles with satan, the real enemy. And I bet that he hates what I’m now doing to Grant: letting him come first, letting his voice matter, letting him feel loved, letting our marriage honor God.
I have a piece of paper taped to our bathroom mirror that I look at and read every day. At first, I was embarrassed to tape it there because I knew that many people would see it and would perhaps question it or judge it. It’s a glimpse into our personal struggles, the things that many wives, including myself, would probably want people to think are under control and totally fine in their marriage. Regardless of the fear I felt, I taped it up anyway. And I’ve allowed it to encourage me on a daily basis to be the woman I know God has ordained for me to be.
It reads as follows:
I am on my husband’s/wife’s team and he/she is on mine.
I will fight for my husband/wife every day of our lives together.
I will pursue peace with my husband/wife.
I will protect my husband’s/wife’s dignity.
I will bear my husband’s/wife’s burdens.
I submit myself to my husband/wife.
I will release all anger and bitterness toward my husband/wife.
I will believe in my husband/wife.
This is my personal motto and vision for our marriage. I don’t live by it all the time, but I so badly want to. And maybe you want to live by it, too. Maybe you, like me, are tired of seeing your husband’s fallen face and feeling your own regret. Maybe you have experienced enough “control” to know that it does nothing but cause hurt in relationships. Maybe you want to be the woman that submits to her husband, even if you aren’t fully sure of what that means just yet.
Submission will probably look differently for a lot of wives, but I believe that is one of the reasons for why it is so beautiful. It is a personal, intimate act between husband and wife that will mean something special and unique to the both of you. It doesn’t have to be explained or meet others’ expectations. It just has to do its job of forging love within your marriage. And it will.
My call to other wives, and even women who are not yet wives, is to pursue what submission means for you. How can you lay down your life for your husband or your future husband? How can you relinquish some of the control that you have fought to hold onto? How can you choose service over selfishness, love over laziness, and purposeful submission over power?
It will not always be an easy decision. There will be choices that don’t seem quite so black-and-white. But I challenge you to bring even those choices to your husband and let him join you on this journey. We don’t have to fend for ourselves or be left to our own devices when it comes to figuring out how to be the wife God wants us to be. We can lift each other up — husbands and wives, women and friends, mentors and mentees — as we pursue both our personal and universal callings.
Submission matters. I needed a car wreck to open my eyes to this truth, but you don’t.
I wrote this over a year ago, but stumbled across it today. Here’s a piece of my heart for you to read. This is why I stay, even as everybody around me goes.
. . . . .
I want to be a stay-at-home mom. And I don’t mean that being a stay-at-home mom is my back-up career for when I’m done working in the office or traveling the world or pursuing my dreams. No, being a stay-at-home is my dream. It’s not my back-up plan; it’s my plan A. And not only do I want to be a stay-at-home mom, but I also want to be a stay-at-home mom who stays.
Unlike the adventurous-types who pack their bags for Europe after finishing college and have a bucket list consisting of thirty-nine countries to see before they die, I don’t want to go anywhere. I have no post-graduation traveling plans. I don’t have a long list of places to see and things to do. I’m getting ready to plan a wedding with the man I love in the city I love, and we want to build our home here even while knowing many around us are getting ready to leave.
Honestly, a part of me does want to see the world, but not as much as I want to make roots. I know this desire of mine isn’t glamorous or popular, particularly within this young generation that is busy planning study abroad trips, road trips, and mission trips. But this desire of mine… is mine.
When you’re the one who stays while everyone else goes, they’ll make it seem like you’re missing out on a grand adventure. But sometimes making roots in one place is where you feel led, and that is a grand adventure, too.
Traveling is scary and freeing and breathtaking, but sometimes so is waving everyone goodbye as you keep your feet on the ground and return to the home you’re building. Following your dreams can be the journey that changes everything, but sometimes so is letting God move through you and around you in one place and under one roof.
What a humbling act staying can be, to sit back and watch others fight lines at the airport while you fight battles within the home. You know your life won’t be as popular on Instagram as the cups of tea in India and the chapels in Italy. You’ll be buying diapers and insurance as your friends buy tickets and handwoven scarves. Staying is a humbling act that often comes with doubt and heartache when you know you won’t get the same cheers and encouragement for chasing your dreams as they do.
But when you want to make those roots as I do, you still make those roots because you know in your heart where you belong. And when the world tells you that you’re wrong and there are things waiting to be discovered, you will fight to hold on to the peace that comes from knowing you have a home too good to leave. It’d just be waiting for you to come back. You will fight to remind yourself that they might have a calling to go, but it doesn’t mean you don’t have a calling to stay.
Faithfulness to who you are is a beautiful adventure, no matter where it takes (or doesn’t take) you. You are still on a mission, an arduous journey that is filled with bumps and bruises and beautiful blessings.
For those who want to leave, you have my blessing. I understand the deep longing to see and taste the world. I know that as you step foot in foreign lands and breathe in foreign air, you may very well find a second home that brings tears to your eyes when you know you have to leave. You’ll meet people you will never forget and your heart will ache every time you remember. You’ll come home and tell the ones who stayed all about the trip and you’ll feel like they just can’t relate or don’t really care. You’ll plan to leave again and count down the days until you do, yearning for that adventure just as you yearn to live.
For those who want to stay, you have my blessing. I understand the deep longing to settle down and make roots where you are. I know that as you build a routine and pass the same sights, you may very well discover a feeling of belonging that brings tears to your eyes when you think about leaving. You’ll form relationships with people you will never forget and hopefully keep them through the years through tears and trials and pain. The ones who left will come home and you’ll tell them about your family and your fulfilling job and you’ll feel like they just can’t relate or don’t really care. But you’ll plan to stay and count all the sweet memories you’re making at home, continuing to yearn for the adventure you wake up to each day just as you yearn to live.
As many of you know, I’ve been married for almost a month. I now live with a man who I so dearly love (and our sweet puppy). And let me tell you, there are both blessings and challenges from this.
First, I adore sleeping next to my husband, but I’ve discovered that snuggling and spooning lasts for less than an hour because we are both so desperate to get a good night’s sleep when we have to wake up in the early hours of the morning. Also, he sometimes sweats profusely when he gets too hot and I insist on using my own blanket so we don’t fight for covers when I get too cold. Bedtime is almost like a game. We have to run through a list of questions: Should we keep the AC on? Whose phone are we setting the wake-up alarms on? Which side of the bed is Buddy sleeping on? By the way, it’s a horrible thing to realize that your dog would rather sleep next to this guy he’s known for like two years versus sleeping next to you who he’s known ALL HIS LIFE. It’s just not fair and I pout about this regularly.
Second, I love spending time with my husband, but I’ve realized that this can quickly turn into suffocation. HE’S ALWAYS THERE. Yes, he does have work and I do have class, but for the most part, he never leaves my side. There are days when him and I are not separated for longer than an hour. And that’s probably not healthy, but it’s the way things are right now. Especially since it seems as though friends are avoiding us like the plague, thinking the newlyweds need tons of space and time for adjustment. Just so you know, I MISS MY FRIENDS. AND I SO DESPERATELY NEED A PLACE TO ESCAPE TO. SAVE ME. There’s only so long I can hint to Grant that he should make plans with somebody or go to the gym before I violently kick him out of the house so I can watch Grey’s Anatomy.
Third, I highly enjoy being served by my husband, but I’ve noticed how my independence and self-sufficiency is slowly dwindling. When he doesn’t have work in the morning, he gives me a ride to class. He makes me breakfast almost every day. He makes my coffee before I even get a chance to think about it (just wait, there’s more). He gets me out of bed when I’m feeling lazy. He sets alarms for me when I need to wake up. He always minces the garlic (which explains why I didn’t know how to peel the cloves for the longest time). He cleans my makeup brushes while I get ready in the morning (yes, ladies, keep swooning). When we run errands, he always drives. I know acts of service is his love language, but is this normal? To be served this much?? I may actually be forgetting how to drive myself places. It’s nice to be doted on, but I’m eventually going to need it to stop. And right now, he’s giving me a shoulder massage. I just can’t.
Lastly, I feel highly fulfilled as I live life with my husband, but there is a deep longing for more. And what I mean by that is that we both have a vision for our marriage that far exceeds where we are right now. We’ve only been married for a very short amount of time, yet we are already dreaming of houses and babies and promotions and new opportunities. And this makes it hard to stay put. We want what’s next. Grant and I are struggling to find contentment — not with each other, but with this place that we are in. And we wonder if other newlyweds experience this, too. The good news is that Grant’s old, homebody soul matches mine real well, which means that this deep desire for a home, family, and stability is not an isolating experience for either of us. God knew what he was doing when he placed us together. And he knows what he’s doing by bringing us through the simple steps before we reach the big, difficult ones. Even still, we long for answers to our soul’s cries for more.
My prayer is that we find a way to hold onto contentment and peace right now even amidst these strong dreams and desires for our future. I also am praying that God gives us discernment through the Spirit as we decide the right opportunities to accept and the right changes to embrace. We’re slowly finding our place in this world — both individually and as a unit — but there’s still so much left to unearth and discover.
This post is personal and maybe not the most relevant to everybody who is reading it. However, I wanted to share these things because I believe it is important to talk from reality instead of wishful thinking. I don’t want to put up a front that gives people the idea of us having a perfect marriage and a grand old time. I want people to know that the initial stages of marriage are both fun and difficult for us for various reasons. I want people to know that even though Grant and I are thrilled to be each other’s husband and wife, we are still ignorant on how to balance our time together, we still have fights and issues, and we still don’t fully know what a God-glorifying marriage means for us.
Most of all, I want people to know that we, just like everybody else, are not entirely content. There are beautiful parts to this marriage, but there are also many areas we wish to improve and grow. Our prayers of desperation reflect that regularly. We just got married and it seems as though this should be the greatest and most joyous time of our lives, yet there is still a lot of junk and confusion we are both dealing with. We have a structured routine and it is pretty great, but stability on the outside doesn’t necessarily mean our minds and hearts are in stable places. Him and I are still learning how to battle the real enemy while continuing to mistakenly battle each other. And this doesn’t take me by surprise because I learned long ago that Hollywood and social media tells us a lot of lies about the way our marriage and our lives should look. I knew the journey to the altar would be a hard one and the road after it wouldn’t be any easier.
The last thing I want is for my marriage to do to others what Hollywood and social media has done to me. I know the way those lies have harmed me — making me loathe myself for wasteful purchases because I thought I was supposed to be a coupon-savvy wife, making me beat Grant and I up for forgetting to have our time with God because I wanted to be the perfect spiritual couple, making me buy new clothes and get a new haircut because I thought I needed to play the part of “sophisticated housewife.” I want to be absolutely done with believing lies about the way my marriage should look. They have done nothing but place unnecessary pressure and guilt on us. And I definitely don’t want to allow myself to be a conduit of these lies either.
For this reason, I am striving to not give off a perception of perfection. I think I may have failed at this many times over the years, and I am sorry. I want to make it my goal to continue sharing truth and reality with people, even if I have to write less eloquent blog posts, share uglier photos on Instagram, and admit to having a fight with Grant before walking into a friend’s house or Bible study. I don’t believe it is wise to broadcast all of our deep struggles and issues to the world, but I want to be a person who is willing to talk about hard things, especially when other women are asking the same questions as me or other couples are dealing with the same issues. Today’s post was only a snapshot of a few things on my mind. I promise there’s a lot more underneath it all, but there’s a time and place for such discussion.
I also want to ask you to take some time to pray for Grant and I — for our everyday battles and the long, arduous road to contentment that we are still trekking on. It might sound selfish and vain to ask that of you, but I know it’s not. This is the way God designed us to be — lovingly truthful and vulnerable. It is out of love for my husband that I ask for other prayer warriors to pray for our marriage. It is out of love for God that I admit our failings and desperate need for his strength and peace in our lives. And it is out of love for you that I’d rather give you an honest picture of our marriage and our need for prayer than let you think for one minute that we have it all together. And in return, I want to bear your burdens and lift up your prayers, too. There’s no reason for us to walk through life alone.
Grant and I are so, so new to this whole marriage thing, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have encouragement or some wisdom to give. We have found that there is value in listening to honest novices, just as there is value in listening to the experienced. Both of these acts open our hearts to each other and give us more opportunities to learn, relate, and love. I am not ashamed to admit that much of the wisdom I feel as though I have on the subject of relationships and marriage has just been passed down to me from my amazing parents and grandparents. Some conclusions I have come to on my own, but I have always welcomed help and advice from those who have come before me. I am a better woman and wife for it. You would be a better woman and wife for it, too. Find those people who will be honest with you and provide you real pictures of marriage and life. It will help you battle the lies that we all end up having to face.
I love getting to share my life with my husband, but I also love getting to share my life with other women. Thank you for allowing me to do so and for also extending grace when I am not doing so well. In a way, I get the best of both worlds — a man who has come alongside me and women to encourage me to stay there (all laughs aside, this statement rings quite true). Don’t be a stranger, my friends. We could all use some friendship these days, including this one newlywed right here.
I first want to preface this post by explaining that I am a firm believer that God is the one who truly transforms hearts. No amount of therapy could compare to the life-changing work that my Savior has done in my life. Even still, I know that God has blessed me through my willingness to undergo weekly therapy for the past ten months.
Prior to seeing Tanya, my amazing counselor who I refer to throughout this post, I did not believe that counseling could be effective in my case. I believed that what I was battling — sadness, hopelessness, apathy, anger at others — were solely versions of spiritual attack. I believed that resorting to seeing a therapist was synonymous with not believing in God’s ability to heal me and fight for me. To some, this belief is understandable. To others, it sounds silly. Regardless of which party you fall into, I want you to know that I did not want to begin therapy when I did. I was doubtful of its ability to help me and I only went because my mom asked me to (and I now thank God that she did). I hope this piece of knowledge helps shed even more light on what I’m about to share about the effect therapy has had on my life and my relationship with Grant over the past year.
I also want to note that I interchange the word therapy for counseling quite frequently because they are one and the same. One word sounds more clinical while the other sounds more comfortable. I use both because I want to express how therapy is both clinical and comfortable at the same time. It’s not cold and frightening, but it’s also not solely filled with warm, fuzzy feelings. It’s a place where a professional can help you see the effects of the things going on inside your mind (such as emotions, fears, and memories) while also providing guidance and counsel on how to work through and even thrive with them.
How Therapy Saved My Relationship
Rewind to November 2014. My first counseling session. I was intimidated and afraid of judgment while also slightly excited. I didn’t want to be labeled as sick or depressed, yet I still had hope that this woman might have the answers that God seemed to be withholding from me. If prayer wasn’t working, maybe pills would, I told myself.
Of course, I was very mistaken in my perception of therapy. Just because you go to a professional doesn’t mean you should expect to be diagnosed with an illness and thus prescribed some medication. I ended up finding healing without medication. God used therapy to heal my soul so that my body and mind could be made well, too. This does not mean that I am better than those who do take medication. It simply means that God can now use me to bring hope to those afraid of counseling just as he uses others to bring hope to those afraid of medication. We all have different journeys of healing, thus we all have different roles to play.
After my first few sessions with Tanya, I was diagnosed with DSM-IV 309.28, which is a fancy way of saying I had “Adjustment Disorder with Mixed Anxiety and Depressed Mood.” I was later re-diagnosed as having DSM-IV 300.02, which is “Generalized Anxiety Disorder.” Long story short, the focus of many of my sessions with Tanya have centered around the role that anxiety has played in my life. After becoming engaged to Grant in December 2014, we began to zero in on the role that anxiety has played and would continue to play in my relationship with Grant.
At the time of getting engaged, Grant and I were fighting all the time. That’s not something most people expect or want to hear. As I have assumed about others, people most likely assumed that Grant and I got engaged because we were so head over heels in love and terribly happy. The being in love part was true, but the being terribly happy part was not. We had been together for a year and we had reached a point where all our cards were laid out on the table. Our cards were not the hand we would have liked to be dealt. While my cards consisted of control issues, bitterness, and fear, his consisted of passivity and carelessness.
I want to say this once and for all for everyone who has even just one of these cards in their own hand: YOU are NOT your card. You have what many like to call “baggage” or “issues.” But they are not the true you, the person you were designed to be. You may think otherwise because these things are coming out of you, but these are things that have most likely been thrust upon you and nurtured in you from some past experience, maybe as far back as your early childhood.
You have baggage, my dear friend. But you are not defined by it. You are just lugging it around and need some help unloading it all.
What Tanya did for me was help me unload my baggage. It was a long and hard process. And I will tell you that for the first few months, I did not see much change in my life. She would remind me of the progress that I was making at every session, but I felt too defeated too many times to even believe her. This, of course, led to frustration and even more hopelessness as Grant and I continued to move closer to our wedding date with little resolution in sight. If this sounds terrifying to you, let me tell you that it most definitely was. And with every decision about the wedding that was made came more anxiety as I began to feel increasingly trapped. No one wants to be the runaway bride, but neither does anyone want to be the unhappy wife.
What’s a girl to do when she’s accepted a proposal with hope and excitement only to be hit with the reality of just how hard having a successful marriage really is? Some would say to give up and run away. In fact, I will not deny that there were friends who warned me somewhere along this journey that I did not seem to be ready for this commitment I was making. They asked me to consider delaying the wedding so that I could be absolutely certain that Grant and I should be moving forward. I will also add to this disclosure that I fortunately have had an extremely supportive family who have been able to speak truth into my life, as well. If it weren’t for them, I might actually have listened to those few friends and would not be getting ready to marry the love of my life less than two months from now.
Just a word of advice: if your twenty-year-old unmarried friends are saying something different than your forty-year-old married parents and sixty-year old married grandparents, you might want to consider what wise counsel in this situation really means. Just think about it.
Some of the things that Tanya and I discovered about myself in our sessions together shed a huge light on what was causing so many of the fights and unhappiness between Grant and I. However, when those things were first uncovered, I was not mature enough to actually implement any resolution. This, I realize now, is normal. With any major wounds, healing takes time and also continual treatment. You don’t just identify it, slap on a bandage, and expect it to go away. You have to change out the bandages and continue applying the right ointments. Otherwise, it might never properly heal. Likewise, you can’t expect your baggage to go away just because you can now identify it and want to slap a bandage on it. You have to continue to work towards healing and resolution. This is why I believe that if you go to a therapist for a couple of months and don’t think that you’re any better, I suggest that you consider sticking with it unless there is a compatibility issue between you and the therapist.
I now am at the point where I am implementing resolutions and seeing real results in both my personal life and my relationship with Grant. If I had given up on therapy this past spring because it had been six months since my first session and I was still at Grant’s throat, I would have been an absolute idiot.
I would have missed out on one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me: actual healing and transformation, true happiness and peace with my soon-to-be-husband.
. . . . .
For eight months, I saw Tanya every week. Now I see her every other week. This is because Grant and I are also seeing a professional marriage counselor together. I was skeptical when we first began seeing Jason, our marriage counselor, because I was so used to being with Tanya. In fact, I cried the entire car ride home after our first session with Jason because it was just so difficult to imagine him actually helping us. What could this man possibly do for Grant and I? I’m already knee-deep in therapy with Tanya. Now I need this stranger pointing out all the things I’m still failing at?
I now enjoy seeing Jason with Grant because he has proven himself to be a helpful source of guidance in our relationship. Tanya was right when she first suggested that we see him; there are some things that need to be worked out as a team. Despite the progress I was making with her, Grant was missing out on the experience. He would sometimes come to my sessions, but we were only able to scratch the surface there. Seeing Jason gives him more opportunities to unload his own baggage. If you ask Grant, he would say that he has learned a lot about himself since our first session together. And this newfound knowledge he has enables him to better love me as he works through his own issues and I continue working through mine.
Today Grant and I are thriving more than ever before. We are happier than we were when we first began dating. He loves me more deeply than I thought he could ever love me, and I can also say the same about myself. We have been humbled in a major way. For the first time in my life, I am able to both forgive and apologize freely; the desire for control and perfection no longer dominates me. For the first time in his life, Grant is able to be sacrificial in the way he loves and run full force in his pursuit of me; passivity no longer holds him back. This summer has been the best summer I have ever had because all of the hard work we put into this relationship and our continual pursuit of healing have finally paid off. We are not perfect and we never will be, but we are infinitely more ready for this marriage than we ever thought we could be.
I don’t want you to miss this or take this lightly: Grant and I owe so much to therapy.
Tears stream down my face when I think about where we were when we first signed up for this marriage thing and where we are now. I know without a shadow of a doubt that Tanya and Jason have played a vital role in our relationship. It needed to happen. And the best part is that it doesn’t stop there. Yes, therapy has done so much for us, but we now see when we look back that it’s been Jesus doing the work all along. Tanya and Jason were equipped by him to supply us with the wisdom and hope that we needed to keep going. And Grant and I have been equipped by him to put in the hard work and love each other despite our difficulties. Jesus has healed and softened both of our hearts, and he used counseling in a big way to do it. An instant fix wouldn’t have been as praise-worthy in this situation. I know this to be true because God has given me instant fixes before and I continually forget them and neglect to thank him for them.
This journey of healing between Grant and I that has required so much time, so much effort, so much heartache and praying and desperation is worth more than anything I’ve ever been given apart from salvation.
. . . . .
So to answer the question that many people have in the back of their minds but are either too skeptical or afraid to ask: Yes, therapy is worth every penny and minute of your day. Especially when you have a personal relationship with Jesus and he is guiding you the whole way.
If you are a Christian and have areas in your life that require healing, I implore you to begin praying that God gives you clarity on whether therapy is the next step for you to take. And if you aren’t seeming to get an answer, I then ask you to have faith, be brave, and try it anyway. When I first began counseling, I did not want to go. I did not believe it could fix me. And I was right. It didn’t fix me. God just used it as a tool to heal me. And he can do the same for you.
Both Tanya and Jason are believers. This has proven to be tremendously helpful because a lot of healing that needed to occur in my life was very much, if not entirely, related to my spiritual life. I suggest that you find somebody whose faith aligns with yours. I don’t know if it is absolutely essential, but I know it is most likely important. God can use anybody, but the journey to healing is probably easier when you’re being counseled by somebody who has similar values and beliefs as you.
The last thing and maybe the most important thing I want to mention about therapy is the financial cost. When I talk to my friends about seeing a therapist, the biggest reason they give me for not going is money-related. They say that they just can’t afford it. And they might be right. In that case, they might benefit from finding a therapist who works with their insurance or, if they’re a college student, seeing a professional who provides free services at their school. There are also most likely programs or ministries at their church that offer similar services, although they might not be offered by trained, licensed professionals. There is nothing wrong with receiving help from these sources versus receiving help from trained, licensed professionals if they are able to give the necessary amount of support.
To give you a picture of what my therapy has cost my family, I will tell you that every session of therapy I go to is $100. If it was compatible with my insurance, it would be less, but it’s not. Because I see Tanya by myself twice a month and also go with Grant to see Jason twice a month, my mom and dad pay $400 for therapy each month. At one point, my parents were also going to therapy, as well. You can imagine how expensive our cumulative therapy bill was.
You probably think that that is an absurd amount to be spending, and I respect that opinion because I know that different people place different worth on different things. I, however, would have been willing to pay even more than $400 if I knew that God was going to do this work in my life. If my mom were to tell me that she couldn’t help me pay for therapy any longer, I would’ve gotten a second job. I would’ve given up my nicest clothes, date nights with Grant, Starbucks coffee, textbooks, manicures, unlimited data plans, and vacations. I would have found a way to keep going. Thankfully, I am at the point where I feel comfortable with not seeing Tanya or Jason every week and I could see them less if money needed to be conserved. This could not have been the case just a few months ago. At the beginning of summer, Grant and I were on the brink of revelation, of uncovering this amazing place of peace we are now living in. If we had quit too early in order to conserve time, energy, or money, it would’ve been a true shame. It’s true that God could have continued healing us anyway, but what we’ve gained through therapy is just too valuable to imagine giving back.
If you are on the fence about whether or not to begin seeing a counselor because you are afraid of it being expensive, my words of advice are to find a way. If you are serious about your healing, you should take the time to assess how money can be allocated towards it rather than being allocated towards non-essentials. Going out with friends every week is a non-essential. Buying nice, new clothes is a non-essential. Using your gas to go to Atlanta every weekend for fun is non-essential. Manicures and tans are non-essential. The latest pieces of technology are non-essentials. And in many cases, proving your independence by refusing to ask your family for support in affording something that is good and perhaps vital for your health is non-essential.
I cannot stress this enough: your wellbeing is far too important for you to delay doing something about it.
It might not be so important to you right now, but I know it is very important to God. He has entrusted you with this beautiful life. And if you are not living as you are called to live because baggage or wounds or illness is holding you back, you are doing both yourself and God a disservice. Some might argue I am being too harsh; I argue that people are not harsh enough.
My prayer for everybody reading this post is that you take the time to pray and think through the decision of going to therapy. Some people reading this truly just don’t need it or are already receiving it, and I think that is great. Other people reading this probably do need it and are holding themselves back, and I think that is sad. I don’t want anybody to hold themselves back from what God has in store for them. And if you are not allowing yourself to receive help in your process of healing, or if you are not even striving towards healing, that’s exactly what you are doing. Counseling is not for everybody; sometimes prayer and continual pursuit of God is enough. But sometimes in your pursuit of God, you are led to other sources of help. Don’t do yourself a disservice by resisting them.
Believe that God has trained up an army of counselors and helpers who are designed to love you, counsel you, and encourage you in your darkest times of need. Therapy is far from worthless or a waste of money. You can ask Grant and I after years of marriage and even ask our future children down the road if we are glad that we made the decision to receive help. I am positive that we will give you a resounding yes.
Are you that positive that you won’t look back on your life and wish you did the same sooner?
The funny thing is that I have hardly any memories of Skip and I after that day. We went to the same elementary school, middle school, and high school, yet my memories are confined to such a short period of time because I know that we fell into different crowds and didn’t care to remain friends. All I remember of him from high school was that he dated the same girl for years on end and I kept thinking to myself every time I saw them holding hands in the halls that I don’t know anyone else my age who is as faithful in a relationship as him.
One of the things I did know about him regardless of whether or not we lost touch was that he loved God very well. I also remember that he loved this country and the idea of fighting for it, and after we graduated in the same class from Sprayberry High School in 2012, I wasn’t surprised to find out that he wanted to be a Marine.
Fast forward a few years and I’m sitting alone in my house with tears streaming down my face and wondering why Skip had to die. And as I’m wondering this, I’m also fervently praying for his mother and family because I couldn’t bear the thought of what it must be like for them to hear the news that their Skip is gone. How do you get through the loss of your son? I remember thinking to myself. No mother should have to outlive her child, I also said with anger to God.
But I wasn’t angry at God that day. I was angry at the world. I was angry at the shooter. I was angry at terrorism. And also scared. Because I could no longer deny that evil isn’t lurking around the corner. Skip knew that more than I did. And knowing such evil and doing whatever possible to stop it from harming others is an act of heroic bravery. Unlike me, Skip had that heroic bravery about him.
Like me, most people these days like to pretend that such evil things don’t exist or aren’t happening all around them.
On the day Skip died, he wasn’t given the option of pretending. Skip was a brave and honorable man. He was one of the rare few in this world willing to lay down his life.
I wasn’t planning on going to his funeral today. Even though I was there when the coffin containing Skip’s body arrived at the funeral home last Thursday afternoon and I was also there when that same coffin was leaving the funeral home to be transported to the actual funeral this morning, I didn’t want to go to the funeral. The very scared part of me just wanted to be a witness, a bystander. I didn’t want to be a part of the mourning because then that would require doing something as terrifying as going to a funeral, which I had never done and never wanted to do.
But as I watched the hearse drive by me, I realized that I was already wearing an all-black dress. I had already completely filled my gas tank. I had already bought food to tide me over for a few hours. I was already unscheduled to do anything this afternoon. And lo and behold, I had just enough time to make it to the funeral. So I went. Alone. Unexpectedly. Slightly frightened of what I’d find.
Do you want to know what I found? That I was mourning. I was mourning for Skip, but also for his mother and also for myself. I can’t possibly compare my life to Skip’s life, let alone any experience of mine to Skip’s death. There’s no justice in that. But when I say that I was mourning for myself, I am indicating that something was lost in my life this past week: innocence. I not only became acquainted with the reality of evil more than ever before, but I also became more angry at evil more than ever before. I couldn’t claim naiveness anymore. And I HATED that man for what he had done to a godly man like Skip.
This past semester, I took a class on terrorism and I sat through the whole semester in that class without batting an eye. I even described the terrorists I was learning about as “interesting” and “intriguing.” I contemplated their motives, somehow had natural empathy for them, and would come home to Grant and talk about how fascinating the whole subject was.
But there was not a single fascinating thing about what transpired in Chattanooga less than two weeks ago. Not a single thing. What transpired in Chattanooga was sickening. Disgusting. Horrifying. And heartbreaking.
And I hated that man. Which, if you know me, you would say is absolutely out of my character. Jessie loves everybody!
Except it’s not out of my character. Hate is not out of any of our characters.
You know what’s out of our characters? To love despite complete loss and heartache. To keep going despite losing all that is most precious to you on this earth. To allow yourself to be put in harm’s way and even killed for the sake of so many Americans who forsake both patriotism and respect for servicemen.
That kind of behavior, that kind of love and strength, is not of this world. It is of God.
Skip had that kind of love and strength in him. It WAS of his character — because his character was molded and transformed through his personal relationship with Jesus Christ.
I’m sure Skip hated evil. We can all hate evil (if we choose to finally see it). But you know what else Skip did that I think is pretty uncommon? He loved what is good.
Many of us are in the in-between. We are indifferent to both extremes. We are touched momentarily by a sweet, selfless act and temporarily in shock from a terrorist attack, but we carry on with our ordinary, everyday lives. Skip wasn’t willing to carry on with his ordinary, everyday life. That’s why he joined the Marines. And I know Skip’s mother won’t carry on with her ordinary, everyday life. She will be forever changed by what happened to her son.
We aren’t designed to experience joy and pain only to carry on with our ordinary, everyday lives. That’s the pattern so many of us choose, but it’s not the calling God has for our lives. He wants us to be impacted and touched. Furious for the sake of justice. Jealous for righteousness. And as brokenhearted as he is for the hurting and lost in this world.
We all need wake-up calls. We are all on our way to the grave. Although eternal life will be waiting for many of us on the other side, we still have a life left to live here on this earth. And some of us, like Skip, will be leaving this earth way too soon.
What I loved about Skip’s funeral was that it wasn’t just a celebration of Skip’s life, but it was also a celebration of God’s gift of eternal life. We know that Skip is in the presence of God in Heaven, able to freely rejoice and escape the numbness that this world has to offer us at the cost of our innocence.
I love that at the end of the funeral, the pastor got up on stage and was able to give an invitation to all of those attending. It was an invitation to that same eternal life Skip now calls his home. And I pray that people decided to begin a relationship with God and accept the offer of eternal life in God’s Kingdom as a result of mourning with Skip’s family and friends today. Even the people who were mostly there to get good videos and pictures on their iPhones, the people who disrespectfully made Skip’s funeral look like a spectacle. If they saw the love and life of God through the lens of their camera, then I suppose it would all be worth it.
I guess I’m sharing all of this because I’m mourning in my own way, along with many others. I’m wrestling with how much hate versus love is in my heart as a result of such tragedy and evil happening around me. I’m praying for Skip’s family while also secretly and desperately pleading with God to never let me experience the loss of a child. I’m striving to let myself be changed by this instead of snap back to the naive, ignorant life I often choose to live. And I’m wondering how God is getting the glory through Skip’s life and death (although I have no doubt that he is).
My last thoughts on Skip Wells for today are that I knew him as a boy, when we were young and innocent and mostly unafraid. Now Skip is gone and so is that innocent, courageous youth we both once knew.
He became a man without me noticing and he was going to go off and do great things probably without me noticing, too. But now nothing about Skip can go unnoticed. And I’m left with the choice of whether I’m going to keep noticing — not just Skip, but all other important, even senseless things happening around me, both good and evil — or if I’m going to shut my eyes and choose ignorance.
You have that same choice to make. If you knew Skip, then you also have now known death. And evil. And pain. And loss. You might not feel it all right now, but you can’t say you don’t know that it’s there. So what are you going to do with it?
Are you going to let the evil and pain drive you into the arms of God and purposeful living, as it did for Skip? Or are you going to let it create a wall of bitterness, indifference, or apathy in your heart?
Skip doesn’t have to make that choice any longer. He is with his Creator in a place more beautiful and perfect than we could ever imagine. But you and I are still here. We do have that choice to make. And if we choose right, we may get to scratch the surface of that beauty and perfection, at least enough to get us through each heartbreaking day and tragic night until we get to be face-to-face with our great God, too. And if we choose wrong, we’ll only miss out. We might spare ourselves from some pain right now, but not in the long run.
Skip might have been afraid of death, but he was still willing to risk his life. What are you and I afraid of? And looking at Skip’s bravery and faithfulness, how can we maybe borrow some of that bravery and faithfulness to make sure we also live a life and die a death that is as far from wasted and purposeless as the east is from the west? I’ll give you a hint: even good and honorable Skip knew he needed a Savior. What makes any of us think we don’t desperately need one, too?
Lance Cpl. Skip Wells, we will miss you and we honor you. Thank you for being an example to others around you. I will see you in Heaven someday so please save a perfect peach for me.