Boasts of Weakness

Before we jump in, I thought it wise and beneficial to provide an overview- or disclaimer if you will- of this blog. The following is my story in its most vulnerable and honest form. It is open, transparent, straightforward and anything but beat-around-the-bush-y. It is not sugar coated in any way, but covered in prayer, composed with lots of thought and good intentions, and purposed to encourage, provide hope, and testify to the Good News of the Gospel and the power of the Lord’s redemption in my life. Because of the restoration and the Lord’s goodness He has wrought out in my life over the past 10 years, I find no hesitation or reservation in sharing since I have experienced first-hand incredible life change and the grace of God. I praise the Lord that I am no longer who I was, but a new creation who longs to learn from my past and honor and glorify the Lord with my story.

 

So, with that being said: let’s do this.

 

I tried to kill myself in April of 2011. There were lots of circumstantial factors over the course of seven years that built up to that moment and, yes, I can look back now and see that it was a selfish choice, but then I just wanted to die. To most, I was a textbook example of the “good girl” raised in a Christian home who attended church every Sunday and Wednesday, was well plugged in to her community, had lots of friends, loved her family, and loved Jesus. On the flip side of that textbook perfection was a history of sexual and emotional abuse that would eventually manifest itself in an overflow of nasty, ugly sin. After being repeatedly molested by an acquaintance beginning at the age of eight, I had no recognition of my worth or value. The abuse I experienced warped my perception of my sexuality and what a God-given gift it is as I began to give it away fleetingly. My abuse told me I was not worth any more than I was receiving, so I settled for what was given to me. For years I consumed pornography and overly-sexualized media because it felt good. I gave myself physically to guys around me because it felt good. What didn’t feel good was the guilt and shame that came afterward. No matter how much I enjoyed my sin in the moment, agony inevitably followed because I recognized that I was carelessly approaching a line I knew I couldn’t cross. By the grace and the goodness of God, I was reminded of the covenant I made to the Lord to save myself for marriage, hoping to honor the Lord and my future husband by it. Because of those heavy convictions the Lord laid upon my heart, I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but regardless of how hard I fled from it, time and time again I tip-toed dangerously close to that line.  In the midst of my avid church-going, sexual sin, self-hate, anger, bitterness, depression, and anxiety ran rampant in my heart. My duplicitous lifestyle broke me because my desire to live a life of obedience to God was constantly hindered and in direct conflict with my flesh desires for my sin. I couldn’t tell anyone or be open or honest or vulnerable about any of my struggles or shortcomings. Are you kidding me? How could I possibly let anyone around me see that I, Katy Michael, was broken. I was sinful. I was sad, I was hurt, and I was drowning.

 

Add a broken family and an absent father with a history of drugs, alcohol, and infidelity to the mix and satan had the perfect storm. He could easily knock me down and take me out. The shame the enemy enveloped me in screamed things like “you’re disgusting”, “who could ever want you”, “you’ll never get better”, “you’re so unbelievably broken”, “you filthy slut”, and “you deserve to die”. For a fifteen year old girl who shouldered all of her sin, poor choices, and history of abuse without allowing anyone to share in that burden with her, that’s really hard stuff to hear. That kind of stuff is paralyzing as it wreaks havoc through the minds of too many who are broken and hurting. That kind of stuff wrecked me and drove me to tear apart my body physically and mentally. That kind of stuff made me want to die. That kind of stuff almost killed me.

 

Almost.

 

I was admitted inpatient at a psychiatric facility for a week only to be discharged into an outpatient one for the next six. I was pulled from my school, friends, and social life. Really, the only thing I was allowed to do outside of therapy was go to church functions: the church who still had no idea who I was and what I had been going through. Don’t get me wrong, I love my church and the community I am now involved in. It wasn’t my church necessarily that I had felt hurt by, but the stigma in some churches that you have to be perfect and faultless in order to really love Jesus. That kind of warped thinking the enemy fed me made me quiet; it kept me from greatest joy and freedom in my spiritual walk- the realization that, yes, I was broken, yet the Son of God loved me still. He still yearned deeply for my heart and the roughest parts of my soul. He, in His righteous jealousy, still wanted me all to Himself. It wasn’t until I was discharged from outpatient care in the summer of 2011 that I began to taste that joy. That freedom.

 

I attended camp with my youth group the summer after my sophomore year of high school. By this time, I was on the mend mentally. The wonderful medical professionals who were involved in all of my rehab had finally found the perfect cocktail of antidepressants and mood stabilizers to level me out emotionally. Rational thinking came easier and sudden mood changes came less frequently. However, my spiritual life and heart were still muddled with shame, guilt, regret, and habitual sin. During one of the evening sessions, the camp speaker presented the idea that all kinds of addictions and sickness can hinder our walk with the Lord, including self-harm, depression, and anxiety. That was the first time I heard anyone in a church setting speak on the topic of mental health. That was huge for me.

 

Later in his talk, the speaker asked all of us in the room to kneel on the floor, put our faces in our chair, and ask the Lord to speak over us how He as our Heavenly Father viewed us. Reluctantly I knelt down and poured my body over my chair, but nothing happened. The fear that everything I believed about myself would be affirmed by God built up walls around my soul and barricaded the voice of the Lord out. What if He told me that I was broken? What if He told me that I was damaged goods? What if He confirmed that all hope was lost, spiritual healing was too far, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel? I was sure I had disappointed Him. Worst of all, I believed that God- the Creator of the universe, the Alpha and Omega, the Savior of the world- was ashamed of me.

 

Before the enemy could plant one more thought in my head, the might of the Lord detonated the walls around my heart. Before the dust and rubble could settle, my Abba poured over my soul the most refreshing of affirmations. He told me how loved I was. He told me He saw my hurt and He hurt because of it, too. He called me His daughter, His beloved, and His prize. He reminded me of my worth because of the Spirit that is indwelt within me. He called me to the foot of the cross to remember that the Son of God saw me as precious, beautiful, lovely, smart, pretty, talented, funny, liked, and loved enough that a man called Jesus would perish upon on a tree to purchase my soul and my eternity from the world so that I could walk in His goodness; all while I was still a sinner (Romans 5:8.) He loved me in the midst of my muck and mire. He raised me from the pit. He rescued me from my self-destruction and bound the enemy, far removing satan from my heart and mind.

 

Freedom, rescue, and redemption. It was all found on the Rock. My Rock.

 

Now that I was both mentally and spiritually on the right track, I traveled to Romania with my church youth group the following summer (2012). There, we worked in a children’s camp, led bible studies, taught silly songs, played games, and clearly delivered the Good News. On the last day of the trip, my heart was heavy. After the kids left the camp, I found a spot to sit by myself and process the week. Sitting in the silence, I could hear the Lord tell me “Katy, this is why I saved you. This is why your suicide attempt failed. You were rescued so that you would go to the nations and make my name great.” Overcome by the Lord’s goodness, I crumbled. I knew the weight of the convictions and the call that were just laid on my life. Pieces of the Lord’s plan became evident to me as I saw the purpose for my suffering and His incredible providence and provisions through it all. After returning to Romania the following summer, the Lord again affirmed my desire and call to international missions when I met a group of crazy, goofy, exuberant, Spirit-led Americans called World Racers. Staying at the same camp as my team, these Racers were in the fifth month of their World Race and openly shared with me what they were doing and how they were doing it. Boom. Just like that, the Lord dropped World Race in my lap and lit my heart on fire.

 

Because I was only 18 at the time, I had to wait out the next 3 years before I could apply. Until the applications opened in January of 2016, the Lord was good to consistently remind my heart and my mind of the life I was called to. Affirmation after affirmation upheld me until I could begin my own application process. After receiving my acceptance in April, everything got real- super real. This was finally happening and I silently panicked. I put off support raising. Actually, I avoided it like the plague. Fear, anxiety, and worry prevented me from making progress towards my launch. The spiritual warfare was thick as the simplest of tasks seemed like monumental projects. Send an email? Unexplainable and sudden anxiety paralyzed me as I would sit in front of my computer, mentally unraveling for hours at a time. It was debilitating. All of sudden, I was reminded of the chemical imbalance in my brain and diagnoses I have been branded with. “My name is Katy and I have an inclination to depression and anxiety with a cute little cherry of bipolar disorder on top” is the banner I chose to hold over my head. The enemy attacked and he attacked hard. I was reminded of where I had been and all of the choices I had made. Load after load of shame and guilt were dumped on my shoulders for things that had happened years ago- things the Lord had already redeemed me from. Quick to forget my Father’s constance, new mercies, unceasing forgiveness, and relentless love, my freedom began to slip away as I bound myself to the belief that I was ill-equipped for the Race.

 

For the first time in 5 years, the temptation to self-harm fueled by a disgust and disdain for who I was crept back into my mind. I haven’t taken any medication for my depression and anxiety in 5 years and felt defenseless to the unraveling of my mental stability. Recognizing the pattern of behavior and way of thinking, I would quickly reach out to those around me for rescue and would temporarily experience solace until I recognized that the rescue I was seeking in people would inevitably fail me because people aren’t my Rock. Only the Rock is everlasting and providing of sustenance that is able to build up and strengthen the broken. Here’s the craziest part: I knew all of that. I knew all of that and was still hesitant to approach my Father for redemption because of my shame and the belief that I deserved to be punished for things God had already forgiven me for was greater than my willingness to accept the gift of grace He was so freely holding out to me. The cycle of worry, fear, anxiety, desperation, finally seeking the Lord, accepting rescue and grace until I felt guilty enough again would continue for months until I went to Training Camp.

 

At Training Camp, I was forced to deal with deep hurts I had shoved down for years. And honestly, it really sucked. It was hard and painful and gritty. I learned that I have absolutely 0% inclination to vulnerability and honesty and have suffered silently for years on end because of my refusal to accept grace once and for all and forgive myself for everything I felt I deserved to be held accountable for. (Here’s the best part.) At Training Camp, surrounded by 44 other people who would be launching with me in January, I finally took hold of the sweetest of truths: Jesus had already been held accountable for all of it. Everything I tried to pin on myself was pinned to Jesus when he was pinned to a cross. Desperate for the freedom to run in the presence of the Lord, I actually closed my eyes and verbally admitted everything I had been hiding to an intimate group of people who would later that week become my support system. Until Training Camp, I honestly forgot about the abuse I experienced as a child. Subconsciously, I had buried it so deeply as a defense mechanism for 13 years until the Lord drug it out and strengthened me to tell somebody about it for the first time. I believe that God, in His infinite wisdom and foresight, only allowed me to process my sexual abuse and promiscuity at Training Camp because I was surrounded by an incredible community He knew would love me through it and I had ample time to work through the most painful facets of my past completely unhindered by a time table or busy schedule. I finally recognized my abuse as a catalyst for my poor choices rather than believing I alone am a horrible person who made horrible decisions because I am horrible. I accepted that my innocence was taken from me without my consent and it wasn’t my fault. I still take responsibility for the choices I have made since then because I know that no temptation can overtake me except what is common to man and God is faithful, always providing a way out (in reference to 1 Corinthians 10:13.) However, I refuse to carry the fault for my abuse. The Lord has shown me His willingness to carry it for me and the life-giving freedom that results from the surrender of heavy, hurtful burdens.

 

Friends, I know I am still broken. I know I am sinful. Though I now choose to walk in freedom, I still fall daily. Praise the Lord He has delivered me from my big, ugly, habitual sins, but the temptations will always be there. I wake up daily with chemical imbalances in my brain that I have no control over, yet still fight to choose joy and new mercies in the morning. I am not perfect, but my Savior is. My God is good. He is loving. He is my Abba, my daddy. He invites me, as He did Hagar, to sit at my own Beer-Lohai-Roi: “the well of the Living One who sees me.” From that well, I must choose to drink daily. I have jumped higher, danced wilder, and sung louder as the blood of the Lamb propels me into His presence. I love my God. I long to serve Him. He saved me from my sin. He set my feet upon the Rock. I no longer fear my own weakness or vulnerability because I know that His power is made perfect in it (2 Corinthians 12:9.) It is my heartcry to run the race and complete the task that the Lord has given to me; the task of testifying to the Gospel of God’s grace (Acts 20:24.) I am launching to Mozambique in 27 days. I will go to the nations. I will forsake all that I have because I consider the prize of Christ as so much greater. Rooted in Philippians 3:7-14 and resting in His peace, I am relinquishing my control into the hands of the Lord so that His name would be renowned. I will sing praises unceasing to my God for He has been so good to me. I believe that by Him, through Him, and to Him are all things (Romans 11:36) and I pray that my life and ministry done on the World Race would be done out of honor and reverence for that; solely so that the Kingdom of Heaven would be advanced and my God would be made greater because of it.