I remember when I was nice. Do you remember a time before boundaries became barriers? Is it just me? Anyone else feel that life has hardened them and like you’re waking up decades later and you’re a shadow of who you once were? I’ve been contemplating how awfully grumpy I’ve become. Getting older has been a wild ride. Stuff that never bothered me before can now set me off faster than the speed of light. When did I get a temper as hot as the fires of Mordor? Who is this person? Who have I become? Is this me? The real me? Is the hormonal change among me? This early? Is this normal? Who am I? I don’t recognize her.

I remember raising babies. I was the fun Tia, the one who got to have all the laughs and joy and play with the kiddos and always had the best cuddles and kisses. I cared for babies as their parents worked hard jobs to make ends meet. I was a Bible College student and caregiver. There was a season of my life where I changed diapers for a baby, a toddler, and my 75 yr old father. My diaper season. (Which p.s. I will always miss with my whole heart). I know those days were not easy. I have random flashbacks to those days and how hard the day in day out chores and responsibilities were. I remember wondering when those days would end. I remember the moments where caring for a demented father felt like a punishment. Like an eternal prison sentence. I confess I had the shameful thought (as I know many caregivers do) “when will this end?” Have I mentioned yet that caregiving is hard? Caregiving. Is. Hard. 

I remember that season of life and the moments where putting a child on timeout led to me putting myself on timeout and crying right alongside of them because no amount of discipline resulted in obedience. I remember the hard moments of learning to parent and learning to balance caregiving for my dad and the babies as a “job” then going home to caregive some more for my mom and sister as a second job all while writing papers on The Plagues, and reading Old Testament books with wonder. 

As I contemplate that season, I thank God for it. The hard times and the fun times. It still remains a hard season I would go back to with joy. But parents eventually pass and what feels like prison sentences actually end, and babies soon become little kids and then grow up into actual people who leave us for college [this fall]. 

I guess, no season is ever really easy. Life seems easier when responsibility feels like an option. I suppose that’s just hindsight. Thinking back to High School, I now, as an adult, wonder how my own mother did it. How did she handle the stress of providing financially for six while doing it alone. There’s a weird tension as a single woman, the accomplishment of managing life alone, and the burden of managing life alone. 

When did I go from nice girl to angry girl though? Mature women in the faith, why didn’t you tell us it was like this? Why didn’t you tell me? I need a fairy menopause mother to show me the way. Is this menopause? Am I old enough for that ride, yet? Honestly, what else can I blame before I label my anger and hardness as SIN?

I’m angry. Perhaps it’s just a pity, party of one. Perhaps it’s just denial. Perhaps it’s what John Bunyan would label, “despair.” Whatever it is, it’s hard. Responsibility and the weight of it has hardened me. No, not all of me. Just parts of me. I’ve been caring for everyone but myself my whole life. Not because I am a glutton for punishment but because it’s what’s been expected of me. Much like a single mother, the reality is, “if I don’t, how will it get done? I don’t get to, I have to.” I used to watch women around me yell and raise their voices at others and I’d think to myself, “she must be stressed, or tired,” or worse, “I’m never gonna be like that”. Fast forward to responsibility after responsibility year after year and here I am the grumpy, yelling, tired mess of a woman sinning all over everyone around me! Rasing my voice to be seen and heard because the sin is oozing out of my heart at every turn. It’s not normal to be so grumpy that dropping a pen results in a full fledge tantrum and meltdown loaded with tears and laughter, but mostly tears. And self-hatred, can’t forget the self-hatred. Ever happen to you? When stress and burnout harden one’s heart, the result is ultimately, sickness, and most often, at least in my case, SIN. 

I confess, dear reader, my heart has been hardened. Life is trying. Caregiving is hard. Did I say that already? So here it is. My white flag. I’m done. I surrender. I cannot do it alone. Not now. When I was a kid, I was invincible. I’m an old tard now and I recognize I cannot do it alone. Having been in full time ministry for the past twenty years, I know quite clearly that I’ve never belonged to me. The old nice girl? She was just young. She had little responsibility. Little “have to” lots of “get to”. 

Asking myself who I’ve become is not the best question right now. The better question is who will I be when the Lord calls me home? Will I regret my life decisions to spend my life for others? To bypass marriage for the sake of the gospel that beckons the wounded, disabled and demented? Will I regret sacrificing my own wants and my body [by physical labor] for the sake of someone else’s good? Do single moms look back at their lives and regret their sacrifices? I am sure most do not. As I contemplate this despair (thank you John Bunyan), I realize I’m my own problem. Anyone else with me? I committed then like I commit now, to be and do what my King sends me to do. I’m a barbarian that way (shout out to Erwin Raphael McManus). I recognize that I must put on the truth and wear it like armor to help me fight against the pity and pain that wants to hinder me from serving others and dying to myself. My anger has a root and I’ve been submitting it to the Lord. But friends, it’s hard always being the strong one. I don’t have a fellowship of women trudging the wilderness with me in an attempt to ride my junk into a fiery altar. (How cool would that be, though!!! A pilgrimage to destroy our sin!? Oof!!) I don’t have a Samwise Gamgee to scoop me up and carry me to the end. (How many Lord of the Rings references can I put in here?) What I mean is, I have a tribe of women to glean into. The Church is the greatest resource on earth. Literally. I know I can get life wisdom, overcoming sin wisdom,  hormonal wisdom from women who are smarter and braver than me. I have women who will happily cut my food for me, change diapers for me, and lament the pits of sadness with me. That’s not the issue here though. This anger, (pity, despair) must be trudged alone first. 

We’ve [the Church] lost the art of the private wrestle. Stay with me here. We are all too seen and all too loud all the time now. We wear burden [& sometimes sin] like a badge of honor, like an identity. My car broke down, he dumped me, my therapist said this, my diagnosis is, my trauma is, my deconstruction is- and we put it all out there like social media needs one more public wrestle. As I lie here at 4 am blogging, I sure pray this is different. Oh reader, my hope is to point you to the Lord. Always. The Lord. But we’ve lost the art of meeting with the Lord in the secret place. 

Therapy culture has wrecked us and now we all want to “process” every emotion or every wrong at every turn. And I’m not saying any of these things are bad. But when did we stop processing with Jesus first? When did I stop running to Him to be my caregiver? Perhaps I’m angry cause I’ve added more burden to myself by doing all the “have to” things that “I get to” do and losing sight of the goal? Last I remember Jesus told me that His yoke is easy and His burden is light (Matt. 11:30). Last I remember He said He would give me rest. Last I remember the cost of discipleship is my whole being, my very life. Maybe I’m grumpy for right reasons. My boundaries have been crossed without permission or accountability. I’ve been wronged, taken advantage of, hurt and ignored. Maybe I work hard without thanks, appreciation or understanding. But are those things important? Last I remember this life is not my own. I was bought with a price (1 Cor. 6:20). A hefty and precious, expensive price. Therefore, the call is to honor the price paid to give me this insane amount of freedom. And we know freedom is its own burden. We crumble under freedom. It can be used for good. But it can also be used in sinful ways. So I must use it for the Lord’s glory and to do the will of my Father, rather than to use it for my own despair.

I’ll say it again. We’ve lost the prayer closet faith and traded it for empty human processing and status updates in a digital world that values introspection over confession. It is only the King of Kings, the Maker of heaven and earth, the Craftsman who created your heart that can ever truly reveal the truths about your inner self to you (Jer. 17:9-10; Heb. 4:12; John 17:17). We’ve bought the lie that Socrates told us about the unexamined life. We’ve bought that lie that we must look within to find the answers. We’ve lost the art of private wrestling with Jesus in our prayer closets. Let me be super clear about prayer closets! I am not suggesting going to wrestle alone with Jesus and it’s just me and Jesus and I don’t need anyone. That’s a lie from the enemy. Christian, you need the Church. You need to fellowship. You need to be known by others. You need to have people call you out on sin. Community is not optional. The Christian faith is not a solo journey. The prayer closet is for understanding, sober mindedness and to simply calm down. It is to meet with Him one on one before sharing with others. Our suffering is never just for us. We are meant to share it. The trial, the journey, the lessons. We enter the prayer closet to be with God alone to then know ourselves a bit better before we get counsel and wisdom from others. It demonstrates our dependence on Jesus before others. We must first prioritize Jesus’ words and thoughts before anyone else’s. Older generations get this. They know. They suffered and learned life lessons without social media updates and TikTok university. They know. Life is hard. We must press on and not get distracted by shining new ideologies of the world that promise better answers. As a millennial, I’ve seen the grind of the elders who worked hard and have sacrificed. I’ve seen the subtle giving up and entitlement of the younger generation that has been taught helplessness. And in the end, I still don’t have the answers. 

So, this is an angry girl’s confession. This is my white flag. I surrender, O Lord. I don’t have the answers. I, the doctor of counseling, the minister of reconciliation, the baby sister and caregiver, do not have the answers. You’re the only one who can manage the load. You’re the whole fellowship for now until I, like Gondor call out to Rohan (the women of the Church) for reinforcements! (Look!! I had one more LOTR reference!) 

I used to me mine. I used to be nice. I used to think I knew what was best for me. I used to do it all by myself. I used to be strong. But, God. This white flag is my surrender to a more excellent way (1 Cor. 12:31). Saints, keep me accountable. Ask me. Check in. Make me tell you. I need you. 

Friends, I wonder what you’re carrying? I wonder what’s made you angry? I wonder if you’ve talked to Jesus before talking to others about it? I wonder if there’s a burden in your life that is ready to become a white flag?