Never give up is what my family's motto has always been. Never give up is what my mom and dad always used to tell me.
When I was in middle school, I remember that I decided to play volleyball. I'm not sure why, because no one in our family was particularly skilled at this sport and I certainly wasn't. All my friends were playing so I decided to as well. One day, my dad was trying to practice "bumping" the ball back and forth and I sucked SO bad. Gosh, I was terrible. My Dad was getting visibly frustrated. I remember thinking, "Oh great. I knew I was bad. I knew it." Coming from a family of 3 brothers who are all exceptionally skilled at baseball, I was so ashamed to be so bad at something that should be easy for me! It has a ball! I have hand-eye coordination! Why wasn't this working!? But my Dad would NOT let me give up. When I started to cry because I felt so terrible, he told me, "Kam, you're going to get better. Keep practicing. Never give up!!"
I was thinking about that today because I have been in a serious funk. It's caused me to have a storm of thoughts and emotions constantly bombarding my mind and making me feel like crap. "Never Give Up!" But what if I want to? What if I feel there are no other options? What if it hurts so much to keep going and to not give up?
There are things that I wish I could talk to my Dad about. I wish he could talk to me about my questions. I wish he was here and could tell me how he got through the pain he went through and the bankruptcy and the heartache. I wish he could tell me to never give up, one more time.
It doesn't haunt me consistently like it used to, to think about my Dad. I picture my mind is like a fortified castle. When a thought penetrates my mind's outer walls about my Dad, I assess the threat. Is it a good thought? A good memory? Will this memory cause me pain? Will I cry and will my heart ache? Most of the time, I don't let the thought get too far. I don't let it really sink in. Because there are 16 other people around me and I can't cry to them and tell them I don't know why my Dad isn't here anymore. I don't know why. But sometimes, I do let the thoughts get through the outer walls and they do crush me for a time. It's okay, I know, but it hurts so badly and I don't like it. I hate that people don't have the words. I understand, but it sucks. I hate that I don't know why my Dad wasn't healed when I asked Jesus persistently.
I don't know how to explain the feelings I feel when I really think about how there are so many things I don't understand. I have asked Jesus . He reminds me that He's good. That it's His character to heal and it's His character to save and it's His character to bind up the wounds. I know that He's still good. I'm so thankful that my Dad showed me a glimpse of the Father heart of God.
Tonight, I imagine my Abba Father. He's holding my hand. He's telling me not to give up. He's telling me that it's okay to have funky seasons that don't feel right. He's telling me to keep going. Patience and waiting are refining me. He's telling me that I'm becoming more beautiful even though I don't think so. Anxiety will not win. Don't give up on the fight. You're not alone.