This is an updated version of the post, Carried to The Shepherd.
I stood there watching my friend put my clothes on hangers. I had no energy, but attempted to “help.” I looked at her for any sign that there was still hope for me. She wouldn’t look me in the eyes when she said, “You’re a good Christian, BUT…” And then she spewed out a list of things I needed to do better. I replied sobbing, “I am NOT a good Christian. I am NOT a good steward of what the Lord has given me, and I have hurt so many people. I have to get my act together.” I don’t remember her response. I just remember retreating into my closet trying to hide the tears—a sign of weakness in her eyes.
I really should have been in a mental hospital. I had spent several months battling panic attacks, sleepless nights, loss of appetite, loss of concentration, and no energy. Our apartment was a disaster. I lost over 30 pounds in less than three months. I was sure I was going to lose my job. I couldn’t keep up with the bills. I spent hours on the phone with friends and family in hopes they could help me out of the deep despair that was invading my life. I was amazed I was still alive. I would have several panic attacks a day. I had tried several different anti-depressants with scary side effects. I wanted to die. I was convinced I had already ruined the lives of all the people who loved me, and the enemy further convinced me that I would continue doing more of the same. As I read the Bible, the verses that reminded me of how much I had failed as a Christian, and as a human, seemed to scream at me in the loudest decibel.
To read the rest of this story, please go to Liberate-My Liberating Journey Out of Darkness