Cry like David

Patterns. History makes them so easy to spot. All you have to do is take one step back, then there they are; repeating shapes and colors in a tapestry of life experiences. Actions and reactions. The patterns in my own life are almost painfully obvious. My journals are full of long records of my internal process. Most are quite melancholy, and more than just a few teeter of the border between realistic and melodramatic.

I am an extrovert . . . aren't I? From what I understand, extroverts are characterized largely by their need to process through things verbally with other people. Check. I am a verbal processor. I feel better when I talk to people about how I'm feelings. Introverts are characterized by their reservation. They process life internally, desiring to analyze and dissect their life experience in solitude rather than with another person. I can't do that. My thoughts and conclusions tend to darken the longer I try to process events by myself. I need people to talk to to balance my own self-destructive tendencies. I need truth in the face of all the lies about myself that I buy into.

However, there are times when I need to dig into my heart without anyone else present; times when I need to pull my emotions out and take a good, long look at them. I don't pay enough attention to my emotional health. I often can't even begin to talk to another person about my feelings without first known what my feelings really are. Yes. I bury my feelings. I don't think it's intentional. I don't have any horrible memories that my subconscious needs to repress. I just have a tendency to pay more attention to events and other people more than I pay attention to myself. So the digging is necessary. It's a conscious decision that I need to make from time to time in order to keep myself healthy. And how do I dig? By journaling.

And so, the pattern emerges: Brianna has been doing alright for a while. A few months pass before Brianna notices that she's getting all weird and anxious. Brianna realizes that it's time for her to dig into herself and evaluate her emotions. Brianna stops by her blog to journal about it. The journal entry is a long mess of disjointed thoughts and feelings, bordering melancholy melodrama. Brianna feels better after journaling. Months will pass before she feels the need to journal again. The next entry will be similar to the last. The pattern repeats itself.

I'm not always this dramatic or melancholy. It's just my way of hashing through my thoughts and feelings. I'm growing up, and growing up can be confusing sometimes: so many new thoughts and feelings. My perspective has been slowly, but steadily changing as I grow. God has had His hands in my heart for quite some time. Probably my whole life. This season of spiritual and emotional surgery has been tough. He's taking the rebellion and insecurity out of me, one piece at a time, and replacing them with truth and stability.

Guess what. I've been fighting Him here and there, and He just laughs, waiting for my tantrums to subside. I don't think that He has any intention of taking the fight out of me. He's just redirecting it. I've got to stop trying to fight Him. I will, eventually.

For now, the patterns continue, but I sense a change. A wise old man whom I look up to and deeply respect, once told me to journal the things that have life in them. Life. Maybe there's more life in these old entries that I realize. As melodramatic and melancholy as they can be, they're true; they express and expose the true feeling of my heart. I'm learning that the value of such cries greatly outweigh the value of appearances: they mean more to God than saying or doing the right things.

And so, I stand in awe of a God who loves me, even though I often count myself as a melodramatic fool of a girl. I will never fully understand the wild heart that God has for me–at least, not on this side of heaven.