GodSmacked

Yesterday I had a serious medical episode and had to go to the emergency room.  (not our local one)  My husband Monty and I checked in, then waited for about an hour for the doctor to come in.  When he did, he didn’t introduce himself or greet us in any way.  He looked at me and said, “If you’re here to get narcotics, I’m telling you right now that I won’t give you any.”  I just stared at him, completely taken aback.  “It’s in your records,” the doctor explained.  “Drug addiction.”  And I remembered.  Years ago, my medical records had been flagged by a doctor, saying that I was a drug addict and was not to be given any narcotics.  Yet I’ve been clean and sober for seven years.  I wish I’d said that to the doctor yesterday.  I wish I’d told him that the thought of narcotics hadn’t even crossed my mind—that I was there for help, not drugs.  But I doubt he would have believed me or cared.  Once an addict, always an addict.  Right?

During the drive home, all I could hear was that doctor’s voice.  And I listened to it.  I started thinking that no matter how many years I’d been in recovery, I would always be identified as a drug addict.  People would always look at me and wonder if I really was clean and sober—we’ve all heard that the best way to know an addict is lying is if they’re moving their mouth.  The same old accusing words started scrolling across my brain—words I wear like scars.  Broken.  Weak.  Sick.  Empty.  Fragile.  In the midst of these thoughts, I got a Godsmack—which is my way of describing the moment when God gently but sternly rebukes me–when He stops my thoughts from spiraling and brings me back to Him.

Godsmack is also the name of one of my brother’s favorite bands.  He recently introduced me to their song “When Legends Rise,” which begins with these words:

“Legs are tied, these hands are broken
Alone I try with words unspoken
Silent cry, my breath is frozen.”

That’s exactly how I felt when I left the ER.  Later in that song, there’s this whispered line:  “You gonna do something about it or just stand there and bleed?”  Thanks to my own Godsmack moment, when God interrupted my thoughts with His voice, I decided to do something about it—the only thing I can, really.  I decided to write.  And I’m going to write the truth about who I am—not a doctor’s truth, a friend’s truth, or even mine.  I’m listening to God, and this is His truth:

I’m God’s child.  (1 John 3:1)

I’m loved beyond human comprehension.  (Jer. 31:3)

I’m saved by grace and grace alone.  (Eph. 2:5)

I’ve been forgiven for even the worst choices I made.  (Ps. 103:12)

I’ve been redeemed from the pit of hell that I lived in for years.  (Is. 43:1-2)

I’ve been given the gift of abundant life—not just existence, but life, in all its beauty.  (John 10:10)

I’m more than a conqueror.  (Rom. 8:37) I’ve fought the demons of depression and anxiety almost every day of my life.  I’ve lived through an overdose.  I’ve looked death in the face and been frightened by how appealing it seemed.  I have literally crawled from the bathroom floor to my living room floor, found my husband, and told him I was finally ready for recovery.  And I fought the fight of and for my life when I got clean and sober.  Through all this, I’ve been more than a conqueror.  Not because I’m some sort of incredible fighter, but because God loves me enough to fight for me and with me.

I am strongest when I’m at my weakest.  (II Cor. 12:10)  When I have no reserves of strength left, and I think I can’t possibly take another step, I remember my history:  in the moments of my greatest weakness, God has always given me His divine strength.  He has enabled me to live with chronic pain—with pain so fierce that many times, it takes my breath away.  In those moments, when pain threatens to pull me back into a world where all I want is to be numb, God whispers hope to me.  He reminds me to look up.  He gives me the hands of those who love me and enables me to grab a hold of them.  He speaks to me in the darkness and reminds me that He is stronger than my deepest pain.  He carries me through the pain.  Again and again, He carries me.

So in the future, when someone tries to tell me that all I’ll ever be is who I used to be, I will remember this day.  I will remember who I am and Whose I am.  I’ll remember that I’ve traded my weakness for His strength.  My emptiness for His abundance.  My pain for His purpose.  My brokenness for His beauty.  And I’ll refuse to believe the lies that worm their way into my brain and threaten to turn my scars back into fresh blood.  I will do something about it, not just stand there and bleed.