Blog – Page 4 – The Journey to My Father's Kingdom

Hearing God

I sat in the pew feeling proud because my grandma was proud. It was a rite of passage in my family to be confirmed in the church. Just like the expectation to be baptized as an infant. Just like the expectation to take your first communion in second grade. Confirmation was what every good Lutheran kid did when they turned fourteen. After two years of boring dreaded catechism classes, I was finally becoming a member of the church.

The rote prayers and call and response rhythms subsided and the pastor did something unusual. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of the confirmands to deliver the sermon directly to us. However, my mind wandered to a different word of Truth.

The Battle Between Mental Illness and Physical Fitness

They say that exercise is important in maintaining mental health. Therefore, those with mental illness should be diligent about maintaining their physical fitness. As a former competitive runner and a graduate of a bachelor’s degree in physical education, I agree cognitively. However, as someone who has suffered severely from mental illness, I will tell you that being physically fit while mentally ill is a paradox.

In my deepest darkest days of mental illness (I’m talking about the pleading with God to end my life days. I’m talking about the, “I can’t take this anymore, how can I end my life?” days.) telling me to go out and be physically active was like telling me to just brush it off and buck up.

Is She Really A Strong Woman?

From 2017 to 2019 I have been dealt one crisis after another in quick succession. It destroyed me – the final crisis being a major flare up of a mental illness that I didn’t know I had. Now, not only were all of these nightmarish circumstances destroying me; I was destroying myself and my relationships. I wouldn’t wish those three years on my worst enemy.

Throughout each of these crises (and I’m not using “crisis” lightly), people have told me, “Wow, you are so strong!”

I understand why they’re saying it. They wouldn’t wish to be in that hard place. They didn’t know if they could handle it if they were in my place. I was in a hard place but I kept going because I had something to live for. I kept going even when I was completely destroyed. But honestly, my ability to keep going was just my ability to barely keep my nose sticking out of a rough sea so as to catch a breath every once in a while. I spent three years in desperate survival mode. Survival.

The Big Crazy Audacious Prayer

It was my 27th birthday. I had been “talking” with this cute guy from church. He would walk me to my car and we would stand in the parking lot talking for hours.

I had no birthday plans. I was working late and on my dinner break I noticed there was a message on my phone. His quiet soothing voice said, “Hi, Bethany. I wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. Would you be interested in some pasta and salad when you get out of work? I know it will be late and it won’t be anything fancy.”

I called him back immediately.

“Sure, that sounds nice. I probably won’t be there until about 11:00 pm.”

“That’s ok. I will see you then.”

We sat in his basically empty house at a fold out table. Penne pasta with sauce from the jar and salad from a bag. A baguette from the grocery store. We talked about many things. Our hopes and dreams. Our faith. Our families. Then he said something that made my heart fall to the floor.

The Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 3: Fight to Get Home

It finally came, I was discharged.

My nearly month-old son was there. My in-laws were there. My sister-in-law and my brother-in-law-in-law (what I call her husband) had just gotten to town. My youngest sister-in-law was there, too.

I dressed painfully in the outfit I was wearing when I arrived at the hospital. They had washed it.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 2: Intensive Care Unit

The ER entrance seemed like the secret back door of the hospital. Bump. Bump. Moan. Pain. They rolled me straight to triage. The EMTs spouted some sort of medical information to the receiving medical team. Vitals again. Hushed voices again…or maybe they weren’t hushed. But urgent. They were urgent.

“Where’s my husband?”

“He’s on his way, honey,” a stressed voice sounded, “he’s just parking the car.”

I don’t remember him walking into the room, but he was there. Holding my hand. He was there.

As I write. As I remember. I want him here, now. I want that strong hand. That, “It’s going to be ok. The doctors and nurses know what they’re doing.” I finally remember, but it’s painful to go back. To re-engage. To sit with myself in that ambulance, that room, that hallway. Cold. Bright. Sterile.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 1: The Ambulance

I haven’t told my story – the story that continually haunts me. I haven’t told my story. Not to me. Not to anyone. Not completely. Little snippets here and there, but not in its entirety. It took me a long time to gather the memories. Many of them were blacked out.

I haven’t told my story, but in order to completely heal. In order to move on. In the case that someone else has a similar unique story, I need to tell my story. I need to tell my story. For me. For other women out there who have felt so alone in their postpartum journey.

When The Mountain Will Not Break You

The little train rumbled over the tracks. She was a happy little train. Her cars were filled with toy animals… There were dolls and the funniest little toy clown you ever saw. But that was not all. Some cars were filled with good things for boys and girls to eat – and lollipops for after meal treats. The little train was carrying all these wonderful things to the little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain.

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead.

Who was this man? What brought him from Jerusalem to Jericho?

Homesick Refocused

Lake ripples roll out a lullaby of childhood memories. Full of life, waves sweep me up in their motion. “Shlip, shlip, gulp, shlap” sings the song of my youth. The dinging of the masts in the sleepy marina ring out a melody of memories gone by. Rising and falling softly and gently in my bunk I sneak just one more chapter out of the novel I’ve been glued to before I hear an annoyed, “Beth, turn out the light and go to sleep.”

I wake suddenly to a hard scraping kind of noise, then vruh-shhh-vruh-shhh over my head. Dad wakes early to spray and scrub the bugs sticking to the dewy deck above. Every. Morning.

Rebuilding My Life After Sheer Destruction

For the past couple of years, instead of making a New Year’s Resolution, I have asked God to give me a word. Last year’s word – probably the HARDEST year of my life – was oddly enough, “Joy.” He challenged me to find joy in the hard things. There was plenty of hard to choose from. I’ve talked about the gut wrenching hard on several posts in the past couple of months, so I’d like to take a break from rehashing the gory details.

If you want a taste go here, here, and here. And here. And here.

When 2020 rolled around, the word God gave me was, “Rebuilding.” I had to check and double check because the last 4 years were a build up to the ultimate crisis explosion of 2019. In 2017, I thought that nothing could be worse than almost dying. In 2018, things continued to build upon the healing from nearly dying. In 2019, I reached my breaking point and literally became out of my mind. My world came crashing down into a pile of mess. My family was a mess because of people who had severely wronged us. My family was a mess because I was a manic-depressive mess. It stinks being the reason your family is a mess. It stinks when it really IS your fault. Overall, living in the mess of utter destruction just stinks. It just stinks.

So when God told me that my 2020 word was “Rebuilding,” you can see why I thought it was my flesh wishfully thinking. So, I started to study the word in the Bible. In Hebrew, “shuwb,” “to rebuild,” “to reconstruct ,” “to restore,” and “to return to.” Yes. That’s right. To return to. My study took me to what should be the obvious place, but it caught me by surprise.

Fasting Current Events

Presidential elections, racial injustice, killer virus, and on and on and on. Everywhere you turn, it’s there.

It’s a flyer hanging on your door with someone smiling. Usually a man. Usually white. Many times surrounded by a beautiful wife and two or three darling children in well coordinated clothing. Maybe even matching. Maybe even a dog snuggled into the man’s arms looking excitedly at a toy bouncing around behind the camera. “Vote for me!,” it says. “I will make a difference!,” the slogan reads in a fancy convincing way.

It’s people on social media acting like they have a PhD, an MBA, an JD, etc. arguing until the cows come home about some matter or another. We all know it all because we read it online, now, don’t we? I am not immune.

It’s a face to face comment intended for you to read between the lines about a strong opinion, like they’re testing the waters to see if you agree, disagree, interested in talking about it. You don’t just ask the question, you dance around it like a cat toy on a string to see if you’re interested in playtime.

Continue reading “Fasting Current Events”

Grieving My Scars

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt

Will I ever be beautiful?
Will I ever be sane?
Will I ever be happy?
Will I ever be free?

Free of my cosmetic deformities
Of my mental catastrophes
Of my relational disasters
I want to be free.
And be me.

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt

Will I ever get past the past
That haunts me?
Will I ever evolve to
A time where disaster ends
And my life begins?
Will I ever stand before a
360 degree mirror in
Awe of life’s beauty ?
Will I ever embrace the
scars that remain from
the traumas of physical and
emotional pain?

Embrace my husband
My son
My learnings from
Yearning so long
My Self
Who I am.
Regardless of who I was.

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt

Centering On Peace Amidst Tension

It’s been extremely difficult for me to follow the news and watch the political climate of our country unfold over the past three months. Yes, there have been so many hardships and so we’re all becoming news weary. It’s all been very emotional. Unfortunately, because my mental health has been poor to begin with, I am unable to handle emotions very well. The emotional energy needed to sort through current events and various opinions and viewpoints have worn me down. I know that I’m not the only one.

Hurting People Hurt People: Part 3 – Recovery

My manic-depressive cycles spread my moods all over like a strong wind blows sand in patterned deposits next to a turbulent sea. Except I haven’t figured out the pattern so that I can flow with it, embrace it, and control it.

These cycles, as I describe in the first post of this series, leave myself and others wounded. And tired. In the second post of this series, I describe the people I’m so horribly mean to – the hurt piled on top of hurt. I’m seeking recovery, but the journey is long, arduous, and leaves me parched, longing for stability in soft ever drifting sand.

Hurting People Hurt People: Part 2 – Mean Girl

Receiving a diagnosis of manic-depression in 2019 has flipped my world upside down. Again. If it’s not one crisis, it’s another. My life is a continual cycle of moods rising up into uncontrollable energy, peaking in a fight or flight rampage, and then a hard crash into depression. I explored the layers of this cycle in the first post in this series. Now to address the hurt. The fight or flight impulses. The mean girl.

Hurting People Hurt People: Part 1 – “Cycling”

Hurting people hurt people. It’s a saying I hear a lot and have said as many times when someone has done something hurtful to me or someone else. This is a phrase I have always applied to someone else. I love Jesus and follow him daily. I wouldn’t hurt anyone!

Well, I wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone, but the truth is that I am a hurting person and I do hurt others. Especially lately.

The Enduring Leader

It’s been a rough day and I am not sure I can emotionally handle this phone call. I can’t make excuses. I need to do this. The dial tone begins, “ring, ring.” Ok, no going back, now. Please don’t answer.

“Cody Inglis.”

“Hi! It’s Bethany Marinelli…err, Ferdinand.” Maiden name? Married name? I don’t know. This is awkward.

“Hi! How are you? Thanks so much for calling, Beth!”

Ok. This is right. Relief.

My Journey in Writing…And Why It Matters To Anyone

On a particularly beautiful spring day, at eight years old, I was walking with my family through our small rural neighborhood. The sun was shining, plants were growing and blooming. The snow had melted (finally!) and the air started smelling fresh and clean again. I was especially in awe of God’s creation that day. As soon as I got home I wrote a poem about it. The next day I brought my poem to school and something novel happened for my 8 year old self in 1991 where computers were just something you had a class for about 30 minutes per week. My teacher typed up my poem, put a floral border on it, and there it came through her dot-matrix printer. I was so excited. To see MY words on a piece of PRINTED paper! I took pink, blue, purple and green markers and neatly colored the flowers. I brought my masterpiece home and proudly shared it with my parents.

I saved that paper for as long as I can remember. In college I came across it in my parents basement and thought, “Wow, this is actually pretty decent for a little kid. Very profoundly demonstrates a child’s heart for God.”

And I haven’t seen it since. I rifle through my parent’s basement every time I visit them (which isn’t often these days). Every time I come up empty handed and every time my heart breaks a little more for that lost paper which held my first significant piece of writing in a long journey of growing love for the craft.

The Virtuous Woman Manages Her Life

My life has had so many moving parts lately, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, awake or asleep. Between my marriage, motherhood, our family business, housekeeping, and many other responsibilities, it’s so easy to feel vanquished. “I’m not enough!” is a phrase I often cry out in defeat at the end of the day. After being overwhelmed by this feeling time and again, I was lead to study Proverbs 31 and found that the thematic difference between the Virtuous Woman (whom I’ve named Aretha) and myself is that she knows she’s enough.

In part one I explored how she prioritizes her life in order to love and serve her husband, children, and community well. Everyone in her life having their place gives her the ability to have everything in a productive order.

Continue reading “The Virtuous Woman Manages Her Life”

The Virtuous Woman Sets Her Priorities

I have succumbed to the classic lie that nearly every woman believes at least once in her existence. I am not enough. Lately I’ve been fighting this lie standing up, laying down, and often with a flailing 1 ½ year old in my arms, for months.

Life has been really hard for a while. Our family business is struggling because of some poor decisions our landlord has made. My husband is more often than not putting out fires at our shop in the after-hours than home with our family. I’m still working on regaining my health from my postpartum complications and learning to except the physical and emotional scars that experience has left. Our marriage has suffered after having to deal with one crisis after another. I’m trying to hold up the physical, emotional, and financial strain of my present life with one hand and trying to care for my son, my husband, and my many other responsibilities with the other. I’m more likely to feel like a failure than a success.

That’s when I started questioning if I’m really putting what energy I have into the right things. There are only 24 hours in a day, after all. What was God calling me to in this onerous season of life? I was led to study Proverbs 31. What does this “Virtuous Woman” have that I don’t have? What is she doing that I am missing? How is she finding success in her many ventures? The answers surprised me a little. Join me as I walk through answering these questions in this two-part series.Continue reading “The Virtuous Woman Sets Her Priorities”

What It’s Like to Have an Anxiety Attack and Still Believe in God

There’s noise all around me. The TV is humming it’s daily tune, ceasing to drown out reality. I’m alone. A sudden wave of fear flutters up inside me. My thoughts plod through my head like a thousand runners vying for the top spot.

Continue reading “What It’s Like to Have an Anxiety Attack and Still Believe in God”

One Year Post-Trauma

Someone recently said to me, “I have no idea what would be like to face the anniversary of the day I almost died.”

“It’s more than just that,” I replied.

Continue reading “One Year Post-Trauma”

My Battle with Body Image After Postpartum Trauma

Body image was not something that I struggled with as a teenager. It’s not like I thought I was gorgeous – I had other insecurities about my looks – but I was athletic with a fast metabolism and clothes fit me well and easily. My insecurities were many (i.e. I’ve battled life-long depression, which went untreated for 26 years), but they had different roots.

After 12 years working in youth ministry with pre-teen and teen girls, I thought I had all the answers for those struggling with body image. “God made you unique,” and “God made you the way you are for a reason,” and “God made you beautiful just the way you are.” I had a host of Bible verses to back up what I told these girls (Psalm 139 and 1 Samuel 16 were my favorite) and never thought twice about it…until I was in their shoes.

The thing is, now that I have my own body image issues at 34 years old, I can’t take my own advice. Continue reading “My Battle with Body Image After Postpartum Trauma”

Giving Thanks For the Hard Things

It’s easy to give thanks for friends and family, for jobs and churches and all the other good stuff going on in our lives. We should be thankful for those things. It’s easy to be thankful for those things. As I look back on the past year I have realized that it’s harder to give thanks for the hurt, the misfortunes, the devastation in our lives.Continue reading “Giving Thanks For the Hard Things”

No Insurance, No Worries

Over the last year I’ve had a big flare up of my depression and anxiety. I gave birth to my first child (a beautiful boy!), almost died, subsequently experienced PTSD and have been through hours and hours of various forms of therapy in my recovery, and resumed my role in our new family business. It’s been extremely overwhelming. I certainly don’t need any more on my plate!

As open enrollment for health insurance has a lot of my friends stressed and in a tizzy, I sit by as cool as a cucumber. Paying my medical bills (nearly $400,000 from my maternity care, to childbirth, to 3 weeks in and out of ICU, and recovery care) has been the least of my concerns over the past year. The reason? I don’t have insurance.
Continue reading “No Insurance, No Worries”